Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show - Craig Nybo The Pan-Galactic Prom Show

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me.”

      Packerhound smiled. He couldn’t help it.

      “Anyway, Packee, I took the time to watch your digital demo package. I gotta say, your boys, the Poison Nickels, seem a little rough around the edges. Seems like you might have lifted that Dave Clark Five joint outright and remixed it yourself. And I’m not sure the Nickels had anything to do with it.”

      The Poison Nickels looked at each other, crestfallen.

      “But, that being said, most rock and roll outfits these days are flying on someone else’s fuel. Even though the fans don’t know it, what they buy isn’t necessarily what they think they’re paying for. So remix or not, faked or not, I like the Nickels’s angle.”

      “Angle?” Chi said, looking crossly at Packerhound.

      “The whole war-tattered planet underdog thing plays well as an opening act. And I think I’m gonna give your boys a shot. If they’re sitting right there with you, Packee, I wanna be the first to say, congratulations, guys. And don’t ever say I didn’t do anything for the downtrodden and weary.” Apparently Slink thought his last sentence was some kind of joke because he spent a good fifteen seconds laughing out loud and slapping himself with more than a few of his tentacles.

      Arrowheart’s mug blinked off and the Collundrome logo flashed back up on the screen. The deep, husky voice began reading another litany of disclaimers. Packerhound turned down the sound. He stood up and faced the Poison Nickels.

      Chi and the others sat like bones on the bridge, their eyes on the enormous logo, not a word passing between them.

      “Well, you got the gig,” Packerhound said. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”

      “I don’t think he understands our cause,” Chi said. “I fear this might go very wrong.”

      Packerhound crossed the floor to where he could stand directly in the middle of the Poison Nickels. “Look, guys, you have chosen to enter the entertainment industry. I hate to break it to you, but the business is full of scabs and Slink Arrowheart is one of the most shifty players in the pit.”

      “Can we trust him?” Chi asked.

      “No, you can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone, not a producer, not an A&R person, nobody. They’re all looking out for number one, if you know what I mean. The only ones you can trust are you.” Packerhound looked at the ground. He looked at his hands. Something came over him, changing his mood, quieting him a bit. He looked back up at Chi. “And there’s me. You can always trust me.”

      “What if they twist our message?” Goorn said. “I don’t want them to misinterpret the meaning behind my songs.”

      Packerhound smiled at Goorn, who had become more and more endearing to him as he had gotten to know her. “They will only twist your words if it’s in their best interest. And you heard the man.” Packerhound gestured toward the big screen with a sweeping gesture. The logo, probably with the disclaimer being rattled off in the background, remained on screen. “He loves your angle.”

      “It’s not an angle; it’s the truth,” Gnasher said, pounding a rake on a metal table in front of him.

      “Truth or not, to Arrowheart it’s an angle. And it works for him. My best advice: ride the wave. Get up there at the Collundrome and tear their hearts out. Become famous. Draw in the emotional investiture of alien races across the universe and bring them to your world with new technology to blow the Voles to the fates, right off from Hull.”

      Everyone sat still, considering Packerhound’s words.

      Chi stood from his augmented chair and took on his full height. “Packerhound is right. We must wade through the swamp to get to the fertile soil. The Poison Nickels will debut their sound and their message at the Pan-Galactic Prom Show in three days, whether or not it falls in line with Mr. Arrowheart’s agenda.”

      “Good show,” Packerhound said, patting Chi on the shell so hard that it emitted a hollow thunking sound.

      “Now back to your quarters for private practice. We will assemble as an ensemble every 12 hours to rehearse the show. We are not going to fake our sound. No matter how the audience feels about our music, one thing will be assured; we will play with integrity,” Chi said.

      The rest of the Poison Nickels nodded almost in unison as they listened to their commander.

      “To your instruments,” Chi said.

      Packerhound’s smile broadened as he watched the Poison Nickels leave the bridge. For the first time since Gaar had forced him into slavery, he had found a purpose. But he knew in the back of his mind that the Prom Show audience was discerning. And when they decided not to like an act, things could get brutal. Not to mention this year’s Prom Show had somehow drawn the attention of Knolar Jex, the most notorious pirate in the known universe. For all their heart and combat experience, the Ice Beetles were naive in many ways. Packerhound would have to act as their guardian.

       1

      Todd Feeney plays bari saxophone in the Funk Toast Band. Read his full biography at the end of this chapter.

      Todd Feeney

      Todd started his career as a genomist. But his early efforts to map the genetic structures of ring-tailed lemurs endemic to the island of Madagascar frustrated him. After ten years of research, he finally threw his hands in the air and said, “What the crap am I doing down here at the butt end of the world?” After losing hope in his purpose, a series of unfortunate occurrences led him to the seedier areas of Eastern Europe. For a period of time, he made a living by illegally trafficking circus performers. When a band of trapeze vigilantes who called themselves the Flying Monguls exposed his crimes to the World Alliance of Justice for Abused Circus Performers--better known as WAJACP--authorities slapped the cuffs on him and threw him into prison, where he learned to whistle. After a long rally and protest by organizations sympathetic to Todd’s cause, he was finally set free.

      Chapter 6

      The Collundrome sat inert in space, a monolithic asteroid and entertainment venue. As the Blood Drive approached, all was dark. But Slink Arrowheart had brought in a team of engineers to outfit the asteroid with millions of credits worth of bling. During shows the whole place lit up, sending laser streams, lights, and sound into space. The engineers had even outfitted the main arena at the heart of the venue with a costly atmospheric generator so the roof could be retracted and spectators could look into space without even a sheet of glass to impair their view. Arrowheart’s improvements had made the venue a hot spot for the best in deep space entertainment.

      The Poison Nickels sat on the bridge as Packerhound worked the Blood Drive’s pulse navigation system.

      “It’s enormous,” Goorn said, unable to take her eyes off the mammoth asteroid space station.

      “It’s a space city,” Packerhound said. “It’s completely self sufficient for at least five years. More than ten thousand beings reside at the Collundrome year round.”

      A well of sudden and unexpected intimidation flowed over Chi. Were they up for this? Maybe they had gotten in deeper than they had anticipated.

      Packerhound noticed Chi’s deference, having learned to read the limited facial expressions of the Ice Beetles. “When it comes down to it,” Packerhound said. “It’s just another stage, just another venue. It’s like playing at Durk’s Freaky Lounge

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