Chameleon Knights

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All that has changed is my username. Still the same old story.

Chameleon Knights

The reverb of the bass guitar sent ripples of sound through the tempered, bullet proof glass of the picture window set overlooking the club floor. The rim shot staccato of the trap sent rings spiraling from the epicenter of his whiskey sour, forcing circular crests to smash against the barrier of crystal. Whoever was on the set was skilled, not a stutter or dropped beat, he noted watching the water bathing his palms carry the scarlet ribbons of his trade down the drain, sequestered from prying eyes. He had been less careful than usual, his temper having gotten the better of him. The glacial façade that carried such weight in his profession had splintered under the sophomoric antics of his latest “project”. The fool had caused him added stress by trying to skip town… it hadn’t been difficult to find him—the yaro was not bright by any means. Guess that’s what came of sampling product.

“Drop it down now ya’ll,” a sultry willow wisped through his head clear even through the barrier coddling him from the pulsating consciousness below. One had to respect the collective mentality that gave the appearance of dubious respectability keeping him astride of the law. Not that the law couldn’t be bought; not that its messengers couldn’t be dealt with easily they were only mortal after all.

“UMMMMMH, work it down, oh yeah, oh yeah,” the throb of the bass guitar eased at the gusty call of that voice. The low, sobbing whine of the strings hit the basement and struck a chord that had the crystal of his tumbler wailing.

He caught sight of his own eyes in the mirror above the simple bar as he was laving his flesh raw with antibacterial wash. They were strangely chill for such a warm hue, the brown of new tilled earth or fresh coffee beans shielded behind the oval rimmed, silver wire frames. He wondered what that man—that boy had seen in them while he drew his final breath. The kid had died horribly, without honor or dignity. He had wept like the most piteous wretch and offered up his employers as fodder to save his own skin. He stopped off scrubbing long enough to bat a thick plie of burnt sienna hair away from the corner of his eye. His damned hair had a mind of its own no matter how short he cut it.

“Ease it on up…” the bass gave a slow mewling climb, the cymbals rolled and the pulse of the pedal bass quickened, “on up—on up,” the beat grew and swelled under the tending of that throaty falsetto, “Oh hell yeah, NOW!” The cymbal crashed and the bass roared beneath the alto that burst from those deceiving pipes.

Reaching for a towel to dry his hands, he heard the first answering rush from the crowd he knew flooded his establishment each evening. Kouga, the operations manager, had made an interesting choice for their headliner. A band of teens that did nothing but eclectic covers, his manager had claimed he had hired them after just the warm up. Said he knew talent when he saw it and apparently it hadn’t been an idle boast. Strong, tapered hands drew the towel over the exposed skin of his chest, spot cleansing the blood that had soaked through the dark knit of the turtle neck he had worn on the job earlier. It was hard to distinguish life stains from the ink laid beneath his flesh. The sweeping, angular design of the tribal tatts swept from his collar bone down his pectorals, the design cresting his pierced nipples and stroking down his sternum; his arms bore the same patterns capped at the shoulders and flowing to the elbows in crossing, sharp bans of a blue so deep as to be sable. He knew he was handsome in that reticent corporate predator sort of mien. A suit and tie, his smart thin frames and carefully groomed hair were as much a front as his thriving business. Besides, it got him a lot of ass, his versatility and that superior attitude he effected. Knowing he was as close to God as this shit hole of a town got was in his favor as well.

The crescendo of the drums signaled a change in the flavor reaching his ears. A bluesy plucking wafted up to him over the murmuring of the crowd that milled or gyrated like a living fringe on the cusp of the stage. A twangy guitar and a pattering, clack on the trap drove head long into the melody and that voice, softer—sad yet angry fingered his consciousness.

People living their lives for you on TV
They say they're better than you and you agree
He says hold my calls from behind those cold brick walls
Says come here boys, there ain't nothing for free
Another doctor's bill, another lawyer's bill, another cute cheap
thrill
You know you love him if you put him in your will, but ...
Who will save your soul when it comes to the flowers now
Who will save your soul after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your soul if you won't save your own?
La, die da die, die, die…

The voice breathed, murmured and trebled its way through the lyrics, soaring in its inquiry as to the state of his soul. HIS SOUL… he should be remised to have such a thing. They should be worried for their own immortal souls. Who the hell were these people? He dropped the cloth on the edge of his black cherry desk, snagged his tumbler and slunk into the shadows inherent in corners. Butting his shoulder and hip against the frame of his observation window, he surveyed the scene as the next cascade of words struck against his nerves. How had he gotten so rattled, he could still feel the lingering burn of adrenaline licking through his veins and scorching his attempt to regain the lassitude of his public face.

We try to hustle them, try to bustle them, try to cuss them
The cops want someone to bust down on Orleans Avenue
Another day, another dollar, another war, another tower
Went up to where the homeless had their homes
So we pray to as many different gods are there are flowers
But we call religion our friend

The girl husking her borrowed message into the mic was aesthetically appealing. Taller than he liked them, but slender and sparsely proportioned. The ripped leggings and mini-skirt hugged her curves; small feet were bare except for the thick silver anklets that wrapped both bony joints and the electric blue polish on her toes. Her chest rose and trembled with her words, arms crooked beneath small, shapely breasts further flattened by the grey and lavender corset that bared bangled arms tapering to grasping, graceful hands that warbled over the string of her guitar, a tight grip strangling it skillfully at the neck forcing out the chords in low, mournful fits. Her face was obscured by the hank of blue-tipped bangs that were straightened severely over her right eye and the page-boy hat that reclined at a jaunty angle on the crown of her head. She worked the crowd with artless tilts of her chin and muted swaying of thin, boyish hips. Certainly not lovely by any means, but intriguing.

We're so worried about saving our souls
Afraid that God will take His toll that we forget to begin but
Who will save your soul when it comes to the flowers now
Who will save your soul after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your soul if you won't save your own?

The bass took on a deeper tone, plucked from the outskirts of the spotlight that set the singer’s skin aglow with blinding clarity, bleaching it of any color it might possess. The hands holding the black lacquered guitar in front of the girl sent a drawled retort, slowing into a series of winding harmony.

Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill
You got social security, but that don't pay your bills
There are addictions to feed and there are mouths to pay
So you bargain with the Devil, say you're o.k. for today

A bargain… a devil’s deal. That could be interesting. He would consider it a frivolous amusement usually, but he had been meaning to pick up a hobby for a while now. And he had never been one to keep pets.

You say that you love them, take their money and run
Say, it's been swell, sweetheart, but it was just one of those things
Those flings, those strings you've got to cut
So get out on the streets, girls, and bust your butts

The singer’s voice hardened over the lyrics and the twang of her guitar took on a sharper tone, the flavor hot and sour. The closing of that single visible eye allowed the stage lights to catch the jewels positioned beneath her lower lid at even intervals giving the appearance of outraged tears; a clever trick of the light and a testament to the illusions that could be woven to her advantage. She might present some sort of challenge.

Who will save your soul when it comes to the flowers now
Who will save your soul after all the lies that you told, boy
Who will save your soul if you won't save your own?

As the voice trailed off into a quiet buzz of the mic and the instruments backed down to a dull drone, the spot light shifted throwing the second figure into Technicolor reality. The boy was strikingly beautiful, tall, whipcord thin and aristocratic. He moved with an easy, stalking grace that only the truly self-possessed can affect without looking ridiculous. Ash pale locks jabbed out at all angles defying gravity, while longer whispering tendrils hung to frame his ears and neck. The glint of metal lined the right ear from lobe to the inner cartilage closest to his scalp, a fine row of silver circlets bisected by onyx beads. Fine boned, exaggerated features on a long face saved him from being effeminate, but no less gorgeous. His biker boots, leather jeans and mesh shirt screamed Goth as did the thick line of kohl that framed liquid aqua eyes and smeared in wavery lines down his cheeks.

“We welcome you.”

The pronunciation of the “w” as a “v” and the thickness of the words drug a smirk to their observer’s lips. The boy was either a German transplant or he was a talented mimic that thought it would profit him to adopt the accent in this sector of the club district.
“We thank you for joining us this night at the Hollows. We hope to stir your blood, and whet your palate. Help me welcome my band mates: Rin on vocals,” the girl took a sweeping bow removing the hat as part of the effect, straightening she tossed the cap into the air catching it on the top of her head expertly, “Jaz on drums,” a blue tinged light illuminated the final member of the trio caged in behind his expansive set.
The drummer stood, twirling his sticks in a lazy revolution between dexterous fingers. It might have been a trick of the light, but he could swear the boy’s hair was white aside from the streaks of lime green, neon purple and frosty blue that glittered in the light. He was lean and small boned, shorter and slighter than the other two. He was dressed in a sleeveless black top with overlapping text in tall white letters, indistinguishable at this distance. Metal glinted from both ears and all his fingers were heavy with bans, his wrists criss-crossed with black cuffs and chains, his waist girded with thick leather and huge d-rings. Soft boyish features were painted dark, lips smeared with black paint that emphasized the cupids bow even from where he was hidden watching. One slender arm rocketed out sending the sticks into the audience and causing a minute uproar as fans tore at each other for them.

“And I am Trieze. Together we are Chameleon Knights.”

Producing another pair of sticks out of nowhere he could see, the drummer beat a tattoo on the heads, smacking rims in between strokes, colored lights exploded dousing the stage in raging hues, the guitar burbled out a familiar refrain and the bass dropped leveling out several octaves above the basement following the others with guileless ease.

The ashe blonde leaned into the mic he had been using and let out a carefully enunciated verse. One, two, princes kneel before you
(that’s what I said, now) The drummer wailed backup to his bass wielding partner.
Princes, princes who adore you
(just go ahead, now) a bit of challenge crept into the light tenor of Jaz’s voice
One has diamonds in his pockets
(that sounds great, now) the two voices fed easily into one another as the song sped up
This one, said he wants to buy you lockets
(ain’t in his head, now)

The girl’s voice overran the others, clear and agitated… her face clearly reflecting her disapproval. The control and depth of interaction was mesmerizing. The group was obviously close both on and off stage to synchronize as they did. He wondered off handedly just how close.

This one, he got a princely racket
(that’s what I said, now)
Got some big seal upon his jacket
(ain’t in his head, now)

The drummer was the first to rejoin the song, seemingly indulgent of the idea, but not resigned.

Marry him, your father will condone you
(how bout that, now)

The bass player was not so docile, the growling gait of his non-native tongue tripping the words a bit.

Marry me, your father will disown you
(he’ll eat his hat, now)

Crossing the stage to the center spot light, he forced his way in closer to the girl taking a place on the opposite side of the mic to sing directly to her, staring into her face with all the force of a panther psyching out his prey.

Aww, marry him or marry me,
I’m the one that loves you b baby can’t you see?
Ain’t got no future or a family tree,
But I know what a prince and lover ought to be,
I know what a prince and lover ought to be....

The girl expression became coy, impish as her willowy voice slowed, going against the pace her fingers aided in setting.


Said, if you want to call me baby
(just go ahead, now)
An’ if you’d like to tell me maybe
(just go ahead, now)
An if you wanna buy me flowers
(just go ahead, now)
And if you’d like to talk for hours
(just go ahead, now)

The crowd was enthralled, reacting to the visible chemistry on the stage as the two mobile players flitted and flirted with one another, the energy tangible in nimble limbs and rippling muscles, the sly tilt of painted lips and the thick, rumbling purr of a foreign mouth forming rote language. He had seen enough.

Slinking off the wall, he moved to the plush leather chair behind his desk, striking the call button on his phone as he folded himself into the thick cushions. Promptly the intercom mounted in his desktop crackled to life. “What can I do you for, Kort?” Kouga’s tart, leering tenor leaving implication unnecessary.

“You ruin innuendo saying them like that,” he retorted cracking a smile despite his annoyance. The manager had been hinting around, not so subtly, since he had hired him four years prior. Aside from a relief fuck, he had no amorous interest in the man. Kouga was Triad from China, a strange fixture to encounter employed by the German Mafia of New Orleans but essential to the arms trade, or so he had been informed by his Meister. Made little difference to him, the Triad was as useful a tool as any other. However, he was particular about his bed partners.

“Maa, no fun tonight,” the impishness was crystal clear through the connection, “You buzzed?”

“I want to meet with the new band when they finish their sets for the night. I have a proposition to discuss. In the meantime, I want anything you can find on the three of them,” he took a swallow from the glass he had been holding without attending to it.
“I can do that. They’re pretty damned talented like I said, that chick was on the drums during the first part of this set and that silver haired boy took over guitar. He’s not as good as she is, but that chick is a helluva drummer even though she is part Nippon. And the blonde the women are piling on each other to get more of that accent—not fake either in case you’re wondering. That much I made sure of.” Kouga preened, no doubt hoping to win favor. Unfortunately, the boss’ head was elsewhere.

“Interesting. Get me what you can before the finish and bring them to me.” Interesting didn’t quite cover it. Jabbing the intercom off, Kort settled back in his seat, letting the effervescent beat and timber of the music cloud his fruitless thoughts.