Baby Tee Jimenez strutted down 125th, all six feet of her. The Sassoons she wore were bordering on physically impossible. From the sheer length of leg to every curve, it would have to be said that the jeans weren't so much stitched together as they were dreamed up in a think tank for months and months, long nights spent arguing, time away from the wife or husband to make appeals to the committee. Marriages were dissolving from the man-hours devoted to these architecturally drafted pants.

The bloodstains of numerous attackers washed off of them very well.

Today, Baby Tee was being followed by a mariachi band. They were tailing her in the hopes of being inconspicuous, slowly creeping about a half a block back. However, this wasn't totally working, because they had been following her, horns blazing and guitars strumming to the fullest, their eyebrows arched and grins tightly drawn, faces red and sweaty. Today, she was their tight-pantsed Pied Piper. They couldn't help it, and here's why:

She had made her way to the 42nd street theater. After receiving her orders from Father Tesla, she agreed to wait outside. She'd been inside once, briefly-- although she'd always wanted to see the triple feature extravaganza. It wasn't that she was scared--she just couldn't find a soul brave enough to draw cover fire as she went for popcorn. Not after that last incident. Anyway, she had no time to think of the theater's interior, because as she was approaching, a young man burst out of the fire escape window, clutching a small novel. After a tuck and roll, the fellow stood up, straight as an arrow, as several arrows rained down around him. He gave Tee a nod.

"Busker. This is for you." as he handed her the Jedi Novelization, an arrow pierced the cover, which gave off a slight static shock. The archers moved in formation nearer to the roof's edge.

"They chasin' you?"
Zing.

"They're just playin'. I forgot my stub, nice band you got back there."
Zing-zing.

"Can't shake 'em. Tell your story runnin, papi."

And so they were on the go. A few seconds later, the lead trumpet's sombrero was struck clean thru with a 42nd street special. It only hurt his pride.

Baby Tee inspected the code on the novel. "Okay, you verified. This is some major shit coming, you know. Father tell you what's up?"

"Kinda," shrugged Rommel. "Som'n bout the Cultural Dark Ages, the reversion of the last 400 years of society, all that."

"Yeah. Father Tesla's the man. The Church of Electric Light is his Baby, aright? See like, he believes in the positive energy of the universe. He's been making electric harmony resonators. They bring out the best in us, the Electric Dream Fulfilled. You should come by and see mass sometimes, you know? We got a DJ and everything. It's ill, yo!"

"I like the way you talk."

He passed back the Mr. Freeze bar they had been sharing. Sweet guitar chords filled the air.

She blushed. "Thank you, babe. The thing about it is, is that there's a flipside. Positive potential, Negative potential. You know, we should have beta tested and made a dud for just such an occasion, ahrite? Father is just too trusting. Anyway, Fuck Wall Street."

"Come again?"

"Some freakin' joker took the harmony resonator and is steady fuckin' with it, knaa'mean? Instead of full potential, cats are getting brainwashed. The most stupid, stereotypical things are going down. Hence the band, yo. The Prankster of Wall Street. Everybody's like "ohhh there's no plot against the streets, blah blah blah. It's true! We are actually physically being held down. We're going to the park. Scouts on the street say heavy activity on the basketball court."

Rucker's park. The brightly-colored turf matched the jumpsuits of the ball players. They swayed back and forth, bouncing the balls in rhythm. They were sweating, tense--like the mariachis before them, they couldn't help it. In their warm-up suits, they executed perfect plays, all the picks and setups, all to the rhythm of an unearthly, horrific (yet soulful) drone. The mariachi band played in their least festive, most minor of keys.

All of their eyes begged for freedom.

"See what I am saying, yo? Total reversal of positive energies. The mechanism should be hidden in plain sight--take these glasses and you should see the vibes." Baby Tee handed him the prototype Ray-bans.

"This is some wack shit. You ain't gonna take them down though, are you?"

Rommel listened to it all as he sat perched on the fence in perfect balance.

He never gave a thought to the twin Jerichos he left on the dresser in his room at the Plaza.

"We'll save them." He bounded down the benches towards the court.

The players all turned their heads in a zombie-esque fashion. The Center lurched forward towards Busker and the goal, his basso profundo making the ground shake in time with the ball's thump. Rommel took a defensive stance. The Center lobbed the ball with all his might. Busker got a grip on it, but ended up flying through the air, crashing into the Sabrett stand.

Rommel looked at the cart owner.

"How 'bout you loan me that Dijon, chief." The owner obliged.

Center revved up and began his slow thump again. The ball sped up faster and faster as he ran towards Busker. Rommel took his time, put on his Ray-Bans, and saw the transmitter located above the rim, crackling with bad vibes. The pitch was excellent--the right amount of mustard. Literally.

Right before his second assault, the transmitter took the hit. Center toppled over right below the rim, above Rommel. A big glob of Grey Poupon nearly landed onto Center's immaculate Jheri-curl, but plopped to the hot painted pavement. He blinked in confusion.

"Damn."

The mariachi band in the bleachers ceased their playing, then started playing again.

It was happier. Still, lying on the court, resting on his elbows, Rommel grinned.

"That's about right. Hey, Baby!"

"Yeah, papi?"'

"'S goin' on later tonight?"

"Iunno."

"Wanna go fuck with Wall Street, go see a few movies?"

Baby Tee smiled.

"Bet."

-----

Next: Rommel Busker in: I Thought You'd Be Bigger