About this ebook
#1 Runner Up, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Eric Hoffer Award 2024 & Grand Prize Shortlist Finalist
"Everything Everywhere All at Once" meets "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"
(...in a 1990s record company!)
Aliens have hatched a rockstar. Brain extractions, falling body parts, and blood-vessel explosions are the norm. Alex's dream job has turned into a nightmare.
What should she do?
It's the 1990s. Alex arrives at Acht Records, her improbable blonde hair streaked stress magenta and anger black. Her first duty is to wipe blood off her boss's walls. It goes downhill from there.
Rock Gods & Messy Monsters is a humorous story about life inside a record company. Yet between the lines of satire and nods to science fiction, the book is a thought-provoking female narrative and social commentary on the corporate world.
Join Alex as she weaves through a comedic cast of characters and down crazed corridors of power, where her boss attempts to thwart her at every turn.
The New York music scene of the 90s never seemed so alien, yet so familiar.
Carol Anderson from the US Review of Books captures its essence perfectly: "The novel is so perverse it causes one to laugh out loud at the deranged storyline and detailed descriptions. This is truly satire at its best."
Scroll up, click, and buy Rock Gods & Messy Monsters today!
"Satirical, zany, hilarious—a gut-punching commentary about the inner workings of the music industry, its power complexes, and power plays." –The BookLife Prize
Select Reviews
"A fast paced, entertaining comic treat." -- Kirkus Discoveries
A sterling example of modern absurdist observation and writing. - Midwest Book Review
Sets out to prove that work sucks with the aplomb and grit of a gladiator. And oh hell does the novel prove it, in more ways and with more reasons than you would expect. - Independent Book Review
"Satirical, zany, hilarious—a gut-punching commentary about the inner workings of the music industry, its power complexes, and power plays." - The BookLife Prize
"It's difficult to really pin down Rock Gods. You could take it at face value and chalk it down as pure abstract surrealism. You could also decode comma and quotation mark for deeply written philosophical wisdom. I think it's a little bit of both." - The Lit Refinery
Accolades!
- #1 Amazon Kindle Hot New Release in Absurdist Fiction, Pop Culture, Pop Culture Music
- 1st Runner Up, Eric Hoffer Award, Science Fiction & Fantasy 2024
- Eric Hoffer Award Grand Prize 2024 (Short List Finalist)
- Da Vinci Eye Award 2024 (Finalist)
- First Horizon Award 2024 (Finalist)
- BookBub New Releases for Less (Sept 2022)
- Indie BRAG Medallion (Winner)
- The International Review of Books 2023 (Starred Review)
- Independent Book Review Top 30 Impressive Books 2022 & Starred Review
- BookBub Most Frequently Wishlisted Book (Dec 2022)
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Book preview
Rock Gods & Messy Monsters - Diane Hatz
One
T
he blood didn’t bother Alex but cleaning it up made her angry.
Damn it,
she cursed aloud as she surveyed the red stained walls and coagulated mounds of Langley ooze around her boss’ corner office.
Alex returned to her desk, her wildly improbable blonde hair already streaked stress magenta and anger black. It was coming to an end; Alex had to get out of her job. But with the worldwide recession and lines of job applicants she saw every day on her way into the building, she was lucky to have a job, especially in a major record company.
Alex put her backpack on the floor and unzipped the side of her head. She reached in and pulled out her brain, placing the throbbing gray matter in the customized, faux crystal cerebrum urn Acht Records had supplied her with her first day at the company. She had fought the procedure at first, refused to sign the Cerebrum Extraction Release form, but with times being as hard as they were, and with the knowledge that she had spent over six months unemployed before being offered this job, Alex knew she had no choice.
And after wandering through the homogenous maze of Acht, up and down forty floors of identical gray hallways and glaring fluorescent lights, she had realized she would be better off if she removed all traces of thought and intelligence before commencing employment at the company. Unfortunately, these days she seemed to be developing the ability to think and feel without a brain in her head. And that couldn’t be good.
Dread and negativity washed over her. Langley was nearing. She looked up and smiled brainlessly as her five foot six, blood encrusted boss stormed past her and into his office.
ALEX!
blew out of Langley’s door and into Alex’s face.
She leapt to attention, her body automatically responding to the tone of his voice, and quickly entered his domain.
Langley glared at her, his short Germanic blonde hair standing straight on end while his standard two cigarettes were both lit and smoking in his battery-operated smokeless ashtray. His brown eyes bulged from their sockets, a precursor to a childish tantrum and possible blood vessel explosion.
Langley pointed to the ooze-stained walls of his corporate executive office, his hand shaking with uncontrollable rage. Why isn’t this mess clean?!
Alex rushed to the oak cabinet end table next to Langley’s brown, calf skin sofa. She opened the door and snapped on her Playtex rubber gloves. She grabbed the sponge and ever-waiting bucket filled with sudsy water and attacked the walls with the vengeance of a professional cleaning woman. She wiped; she washed; she dunked and wrung. Her arms moved with lightning speed as she attempted to return the walls to their original executive office ivory, regulation color.
When the water turned the same deep red as the coagulated floret of blood dangling precariously from Langley’s neck, she knew she had to regroup and prepare herself for the second round of cleaning. Alex hurried out of Langley’s office, the bucket of now-sudsy blood firmly in her grasp yet still sloshing about her. She rushed into the corporate executive supply closet laundry room and emptied the blood water into the industrial-sized sink installed for just such emergencies. She rinsed the sponge as best she could and refilled the bucket with wall cleaner and water.
She returned to Langley’s office and washed once again, trying to remove the magenta hue. When the walls diminished to a light pink tone, Alex realized she could clean no better, so she returned her cleaning equipment to its proper place and returned to her desk.
She sat uncomfortably in her Acht-issued black vinyl chair and fidgeted with the back-support cushion she had to buy after her ergonomically correct, company regulation seat nearly landed her in the hospital with back trauma. The company doctor blamed it on lack of exercise, not on the soft, unsupported, low-back chairs all the secretaries were forced to sit in. Alex turned on her computer and squinted through the glare from the overhead fluorescent lights. She typed in Langley’s revisions to his daily itinerary, reverse alphabetizing the executives who were also joining President DiMachio for lunch at one o’clock.
The shock brought her to her feet. Langley had embedded neurological electric shock chips in Alex’s body when she first started working for him, so with the push of a button, he could get her attention anywhere in the building. The second jolt ripped through Alex’s ankles and nearly toppled her. If she didn’t carry out her duty quickly, he would start shocking her all over.
Alex hobbled around her desk and out of her secretarial suite, limping down the hall toward the vending area and executive kitchen. As she turned the corner, she glanced through the doorway of the neighboring executive office and saw the Senior Vice President of Promotion’s lingerie-exposed secretary sitting contentedly behind her desk, busily preparing herself for another day of doing nothing.
Doing nothing can be a difficult achievement, especially when there was work to do, but Zena excelled. Her brain floated happily through clear cerebrum nutrient juice in the synthetic crystal Acht urn she proudly displayed on her desk. Zena was so proud to display her brain to any passerby she often left what she called her inner self in the urn full time, even at night and on weekends. Sometimes the promotion secretary would even sneak the vessel out of the building, her brain still swimming in nutrient juice, so she could show herself off to friends and family.
When Alex limped past Hellie, the executive helmsman and senior level receptionist, she knew she was nearing her intended destination. Alex had no time to stop and exchange their usual morning hello, but Hellie herself seemed preoccupied as she faced the aquarium stationed on her desk and tapped a light melodic tune on the fish tank glass with her regulation Ticonderoga number two pencil. Inside, twelve mutant sea creatures swam through the water, their tails swishing in time to the beat.
As Alex approached the vending area, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. It was a brief flash, a whirlwind of repressed energy, but she thought she saw a tall, gangly man zipping down the hallway, handing cassettes to people right and left. She turned her head and saw him, head to toe in blue, even his hair and skin. When he whizzed by the snack area, emitting a short, dry cough, he tossed a cassette in Alex’s direction. She caught the tape and looked down at the blue casing, noticing the band’s name was Bleu
. By the time she looked up, he had disappeared around the corner, remaining only a vague memory and a flash of color.
The Roadrunner,
said Alex as she stared into the emptiness left in the man’s wake.
The executive secretary stepped into the snack machine alcove. Langley insisted on a cup of black coffee and a packet of Twinkies every morning, though Alex never quite understood what he did with the twin golden sponge cakes. Every day between eleven and two o’clock, not long after Langley would arrive at work, Alex would enter his executive domain and find crumbs and splotches of white cream scattered about his desk and office. It seemed that more Twinkie fell about the room than into Langley’s mouth.
Alex pressed her face against the glass of all four machines, searching behind the bags and bars of chips, crackers and candy, hoping a packet of the golden sponge cakes had accidentally strayed into another row of junk food. She cringed when she realized the Twinkies were gone. Alex filled a special-ordered Styrofoam cup with steaming black coffee and sighed from an emptiness that overwhelmed her from within.
She pulled out two dollars from the emergency snack fund she had recently begun keeping in her pockets and put them into the vending machine. She pressed the appropriate buttons and pulled out a packet of nacho cheese Doritos and a bag of Whoppers malted milk balls. She returned to her desk, her hands clutching her snacks and her boss’ coffee while her hair flew wild and stress magenta behind her, a flag to her every mood and feeling.
Alex breathlessly entered Langley’s office and placed the cup of coffee on his desk. She rarely looked at him, but when she saw his arm reach out for the cup, and noticed even it was purple with rage, she stepped back and trembled.
Today was not going to be a good day.
Two
V
inny DiMachio turned on his private television surveillance monitor and leaned back in his fur lined gilt trimmed leather throne, a grin slowly sliming its way across his pockmarked, reptilian face. He enjoyed this part of his staff lunches the most, the time when he could secretly observe his executive staff as they gathered in the executive boardroom one floor above him, anxiously awaiting his arrival and not knowing DiMachio could see and hear their every move.
The cameras were mandatory ever since the death threats in the mid-eighties. The guilty party was never found, but rumors ran rampant that the person issuing the threats was a member of his executive staff, so DiMachio had surveillance cameras installed in the corporate executive boardroom, as well as the executive elevators and bathrooms, to discreetly observe his staff for any signs of disloyalty or possible mutiny. He was even considering bugging devices in the executives’ offices.
He couldn’t be too careful; after all, he was President and Ruling Dictator of Acht Records, as well as President of the Domestic Division, President of International, CEO, COO, CFO, Chairman, Czar, and any other combination of letters that made him look important. He had fought for twenty years to get to his current position, and many people had been used as steppingstones and fall guys for his twisted yet always upward moving career path. DiMachio’s vision and driving motivational force behind every move he made was his obsession to become the wealthiest and most powerful person in the music business, at any cost. And with those aspirations, tight security was essential to monitor his wellbeing and keep an eye on any matters of interest.
Next to DiMachio, resting comfortably yet slowly stiffening with interest and anticipation, sat Jeremy Wickett, DiMachio’s most faithful and trusted ally and confidante. DiMachio and Jeremy Wickett had known each other from birth, and each year brought them closer and closer. And because of that inseparable bond, that underlying trust of a blood brother, DiMachio made sure Jeremy was by his side, as an aide or a vice to whatever position DiMachio was in. Jeremy deservedly held the titles of Executive Vice President of the Domestic Division, Executive Vice President of International, Executive Vice CEO, Executive Vice COO, Executive Vice CFO, Executive Vice Chairman, Executive Vice Czar, and Executive Vice of everything else DiMachio decided he wanted to be.
DiMachio and Jeremy rested comfortably in their throne, surrounded by the countless gold and platinum records that hung from the walls of their football-field-sized office, an office that took up the entire thirty sixth floor. DiMachio routinely called executive meetings; he liked keeping his staff alert and on their toes, and he especially enjoyed their company when he conveniently forgot to mention the topic for discussion.
It’s showtime,
said DiMachio as Jiglio entered the boardroom, his blue pinstripe polyester suit as creaseless as a sheet of newly formed ice. Jiglio casually wandered around the massive, handmade mahogany boardroom table and across the plush, blood red carpet toward one of only two standard-sized windows in the corporate monolith recently renamed Acht. He strolled past the priceless oil paintings on the dark, mahogany walls, not even glancing at the Pollock DiMachio’s financial consultant advised would be a good tax write off, and looked through the glass at the city before him.
I don’t know, Jeremy,
said DiMachio as he pushed a button and one of the cameras zoomed in on Jiglio’s face. Something’s different. Nothing serious, but something doesn’t seem right.
DiMachio and Jeremy studied Jiglio’s face for any telltale signs of underhandedness or disloyalty, but the Senior Vice President of Promotion appeared ice calm and as corporately disinterested as ever.
He looks the same,
said DiMachio as he scrutinized the two festering boils on the Senior Vice President’s forehead. He continued looking for several more seconds but couldn’t see anything different. Maybe he’s just up to his usual underhanded promotion schemes.
DiMachio dismissed Jiglio as Weena, the Senior Vice President of Media Relations, rolled her two hundred pound plus, five-foot, two-inch frame through the conference room door.
Oh, my,
was the only noise to escape as Weena found herself face to face with Jiglio.
Do it,
said DiMachio as he leaned closer to the screen and watched his two executives.
In a nervous frenzy, Weena waddled around the thirty-foot long conference room table and deposited herself in a chair as far away from Jiglio as corporately acceptable. Jiglio sat six seats away on the other side of the table, his steely black eyes locking on to Weena.
They all heard the soft thud as Weena’s right ear fell limply on the table. She nervously pulled out the economy size tube of Medical Repair and Reattachment Glue she carried everywhere in the Acht medical bag repair kit the company had supplied her with once the company doctor realized she tended to lose body parts. He had wanted to surgically implant the kit in her hip, but Weena had resisted, promising to carry it in her black canvas shoulder bag briefcase. Weena retrieved the severed body part and unscrewed the tube of glue, expertly dampening the rim of her ear and making sure to use just enough repair ointment for proper adhesion, yet not too much to cause messy glue leakage.
Weena raised her ear toward her head. As her hand reached shoulder level, she accidentally locked eyes with Jiglio. She gasped and involuntarily jumped with fright. They watched in slow motion helplessness as her body part soared upward and then began its downward descent toward the conference room table.
Her ear landed glue-side down with an air of finality, the Medical Repair and Reattachment ointment immediately affixing her body part to the table. Weena grabbed her appendage in horror and desperately tried to peel it off the varnished wood; her fingers rolled, picked and plucked, stretching her ear and nearly tearing it, but the repair glue lived up to its advertising claims and bonded instantly.
DiMachio watched as Jiglio reached into his pocket, pulled out his Swiss army knife, and slid it across the boardroom table. The mere sight of an object owned by Jiglio was enough to make Weena lose three fingers. She clumsily opened the knife with what few fingers she had left and began slicing through the glue. Her attempts were futile, once the glue adhered it was permanent, so she had no choice but to slice through her ear, leaving behind a thin layer of glued flesh. Weena picked up what was left of her body part, collected her missing fingers, and turned her back to Jiglio.
Pathetic,
was all DiMachio said as he watched Weena put herself back together.
Hosannah,
he bellowed to one of his assistants through his speakerphone intercom. When lunch is over, get maintenance to the boardroom with sandpaper. Tell ‘em to remove the flesh from the table.
He paused, then added, And make sure there isn’t a scratch. I’ll be checking.
Yes, Mr. DiMachio.
Damn it,
he said to his faithful aide and sidekick, Jeremy Wickett, as he turned back to the television screen. Only four body parts.
A dissatisfied grunt escaped his lips as he watched Weena reattach the last of her body parts. Jiglio’s got a long way if he expects ten body parts in ten minutes by the end of the year.
Senior Vice President of Sales and Marketing Derby entered the conference room, his ornate silver fork nestled comfortably behind his greasy, sweaty ear. He walked around the table, his overstuffed, basketball-sized belly full of airline food, hotel mini bar treats, and junk food snack fat leading the way. Derby sat two seats away from Weena, brushing his one strand of greasy hair across his almost bald head.
As Derby rebuttoned the two buttons that had popped open at the bulging stomach of his pastel pink, polyester rayon mix shirt, the door flew open of its own accord. A gale force wind swept through the room, announcing the arrival of the tantrum prone and highly explosive Senior Vice President of Business Affairs and Law, and General Counsel, Langley. He stormed into the room, his arms and face strangulated purple, a lit cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth while smoke curled around his nostrils and ears. He walked around the table and sat in his unofficially official seat away from the others, his banishment from the intimacy of their company due to both the cigarette stench that permanently followed him and his tendency to explode and splatter blood over anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.
His eyes darted back and forth, and his legs bounced uncontrollably from the five cups of morning coffee delivered one after the other by his electronically monitored assistant, Alex. He whipped his portable smokeless ashtray out of his pocket and caught the one-inch ash that had just fallen from his cigarette and was heading toward DiMachio’s priceless conference room table. Langley placed the ashtray down and rested his cigarette in it. As soon as the first cigarette was out of Langley’s hands, he immediately lit a second.
Smoke danced throughout the room, slowly spreading its fingers to all corners of the meeting area. Weena coughed and waved her digit restored hand through the air, trying to fan away the growing stench. She reached into her black canvas shoulder bag briefcase and pulled out a miniature, battery operated fan, placing it on the table. She turned the power on high and pointed the battery generated waft of air in Langley’s direction.
Heysannah, better ventilation system in the boardroom.
Yes, Mr. DiMachio.
DiMachio glanced at his watch. Two minutes before one. He turned his attention back to the surveillance monitor and watched as each of the Senior Vice Presidents occupied themselves. Jiglio read Billboard magazine, undoubtedly searching for photos of himself in the weekly music trade publication. Weena thumbed through the calendar in her Filofax, her eyes most likely skimming the blank evenings and unmarked weekends of her life, dates only ever filled with work related events. Derby had pulled a miscellaneous food product out of his pocket and was preoccupied with chewing and spilling crumbs down his shirt and onto the table. Langley was settled at the far end of the table, lighting cigarettes, taking a few drags, then absentmindedly leaving them burning in the ashtray as he lit up another.
The silence was broken as the Senior Vice President of Artists and Repertoire, or A&R, casually opened the door and sauntered into the room, his music player headphones surgically implanted in his ears.
Hey, everyone,
said Skeater through music blaring only in his head.
He bobbed to the beat and waved his right arm in a friendly greeting. His left arm cuddled a mounted stuffed ferret, his once living pet Skat. The other senior vice presidents looked briefly at him, some with disdain, some with indifference, but none acknowledging his greeting. Each executive turned back to whatever distraction had been saving them from casual conversation, something none of them excelled at.
Hosannah, we’re ready,
said DiMachio after each of his executives had glanced at their watch at least once. He and Jeremy knew the later they arrived, the more hectic and important they appeared, thus creating the aura of that much more power and status. And there was an unwritten rule in business that the higher people rose in a corporation, the later they could arrive in meetings.
Hosannah, the Swedish twin assistant, the Doublemint Girl of Rock, entered the President’s office and sat behind the wheel of the Acht presidential transmobile. She