Karaoke Night


Notes

The Truck Drivin' Song is by Weird Al, naturally.


"What's my number?" he asks, arriving conveniently late.

"You've got the Truck Drivin' Song," I tell him, and it is when he grins and mutters the title back to himself that I realize he's never heard it before. So much the better. His turn is already up, so he'll just have to sing the lyrics right off the sheet, onstage. I shove them into his hands with the microphone and my co-conspirator (so he calls himself) helps me nudge him onstage.

Keep him disoriented until it's too late, we'd agreed earlier. With the lighting up, he'll never see us flanking him on the sidelines -- until it's too late. I struggle to smile as blandly as Xellos does, to drain enough of the evil from my grin to not give myself away. It's not easy.

Our victim blinks at the lights, the courtesy applause -- he hasn't even had time to remove his trenchcoat, yet -- and frowns when he first hears the music.

"Country-western?" he hisses at me around his shoulder.

"It's a trucking song," I respond in same. "Asphalt cowboys, you know! It's a simple tune, you're perfect for it!"

He straightens up, nearly twice my height, and just before his first lines I see Xellos in the right wings, flashing me the same evil grin I so recently wore.

"I'm drivin' a truck,
Drivin' a big ol' truck,"

His voice is a perfect, deeply resonant bass made for the opera, and his projection could not be better. It takes him a brief moment to find his rhythm.

"Pedal to the metal, hope I don't run out of luck,"

I can see him relaxing into the tune of the song as he grasps the cadence, and the words come to him faster.

"Rollin' down the highway until the break of dawn,"

Xellos beams in proud anticipation, checks the charge gauge on the cattle prod he brought with him.

"Drivin' a truck with my high heels on -- What the hell?!?"

-- he shouts at me, exactly as predicted. I'm not unprepared for it.

"Cowboy boots!" I try to whisper. "Haven't you ever seen cowboy boots? They all have high heels!" I explain. He glares and huffs and finally straightens for the next stanza.

"My diesel rig is northward bound,
It's time to put that hammer down,
Just watchin' as the miles go flyin' by,"

I can see the masculine slang putting him at ease already. Well, nearly. He won't know it's a setup for sure until he sees Xellos on his right.

"But it's sure hard to hold the wheel
While I'm still waiting for my nails to dry."

He makes a strange face at this line, but there is no outburst. This might be a good omen, but it only heightens my delighted anxiety. The audience is buzzing; a few members, those who know the song, are visibly smirking. Many are confused, and they all want to hear more.

"Oh, I always gotta check my lipstick in that rearview mirror,
And my pink angora sweater --
I am NOT singing this!!"

-- he roars at me, suddenly red-faced, and cuts himself off when he sees the .38 I have trained on his hip.

"Just three more lines," I tell him calmly. His eyes get bigger and his face gets redder; he splutters a bit, glowers at the lyric sheet. Then he sizes me up with one sly, hate-filled glance, and I direct his gaze across the stage to my accomplice, who cheerily brandishes his cattle prod. "Just sing and get it over with, whenever you're ready," I remind him quietly. He scowls.

"And my pink angora sweater fits so tight
I'm jammin' gears and haulin' freight
Well, I sure hope my seams are straight;
Lord, don't let my mascara run tonight."

The last line is strained thought his gritted teeth so hard his voice nearly breaks. The audience loves it. A few of them are actually singing along. The more macho chorus is obviously easier for him.

"Because I'm drivin' a truck,
Drivin' a big ol' truck
Smokey's on my tail and my accelerator's stuck
Got these eighteen wheels a-rollin' until the break of dawn,
Drivin' a truck with my
::coughcoughcough::"

Then he jumps a bit when my co-conspirator gives him a taste of the cattle prod.

"No cheating, now," he scolds, with his trademark finger-wag. "They have to hear every word."

Gaav seethes at him. I grin.

"Oh, I don't mind when my crotchless -- ABSOLUTELY NOT!!"

He flings the lyric sheet in the air with his declaration. "I WILL NOT BE -- " His dramatic storming-offstage is cut short when he realizes there is a cattle prod at one end, and a gun at the other. He is furious, pacing like a tiger until I point up, drawing his attention to the rafters above the lighting, where we keep the sixteen-ton weight.

Naturally, it is suspended directly above him.

I can see the sweat standing out on his face as he reconsiders, and I can't help but smirk. His movements are flavored with rage constrained by anxiety as he not-so-meekly picks up the lyrics, and I am just tickled that he's forgotten he can teleport.

"Oh, I don't mind when my crotchless panties creep right up on me,
And my nipple rings don't bother me too much,"

He sings as if delivering a prophecy of the end of all life as we know it, everywhere, forever; as if he's having trouble imagining appropriate torture methods to use on us later.

"But when I hit those big speed bumps,
My darling little rhinestone pumps
Keep slippin' off the mother-lovin' clutch."

His face has reached the ultimate shade of red, and is now turning to stone, frozen in a scowl. The audience is in stitches; they are loving him. He glowers at a few of the more obnoxious members, and one of them actually bursts into flame. Whoops.

Oh well.

"But still I'm drivin' a truck,
Drivin' a big ol' truck
Headin' down the interstate just tryin' to make a buck,"

Now he's standing stiff as a board, his body language drowned out by an anger far beyond the conventional homicidal frenzy, and singing with his jaw clenched tight again.

"Wearin' -- feather boas -- with -- sequins and chiffon,
While I'm drivin' a truck with my high heels on,"

The audience is choking with laughter; Gaav is choking on other things. No doubt he'd like me to choke, too.

"Nearly done," I prompt, and he takes a resolute lungful.

"I'm drivin' a truck,
Drivin' a truck
Got a load to carry and some eyebrows left to pluck,"

The audience is singing the last chorus with him, and there are screams of laughter at that line. Then two more audience members spontaneously combust. Gaav's scowl is utterly black.

"And I'm late for my appointment -- down at the hair salon,
So I'll be drivin' a truck -- with my high heels on."

He gets a standing ovation, but never notices, since no sooner does he get the last words out than he lunges to his left and claps his hands around my throat. My accomplice could not teleport quickly enough to intervene, but I'm ready for him.

I pull the trigger, and his head and shoulders are effectively cocooned in pink spray-string. Xellos shows up at the right moment to completely discharge the cattle prod at the base of Gaav's skull, and the Chaos Dragon Lord is down for the count. Xellos wants to put his hair in curlers before he comes to, but I figure we're in enough trouble already. The audience is begging for an encore, but we hastily drag the reluctant star out the side exit and stuff him back into his limo, instructing the driver to abandon the vehicle before his passenger awoke, for his own personal safety.


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