Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

“What’s this?” asked Herman.

Chip smiled. “Free money.”

He pulled the top off the box. Inside were stacks of identical records, all of them in a simple black sleeve with that creepy-ass Lords symbol on it: a kind of weird, fucked-up Neanderthal face or whatever.

“Lords promos,” said Chip.

“What for?” said Whitey.

Chip turned to him, gave him a disgusted look. “What for? Are you sure you work in radio? For promotion, obviously. It seems this bunch of musical geniuses is coming to town and we’re the presenting station.”

“We’re standing behind that shit?” asked Herman. “Seriously?”

“Like my impending triple bypass,” said Chip. “So, in other words, the Lords of Salem are now off-limits to your wisecracks. No more jokes about this garbage. You play that record in heavy—and I do mean heavy—rotation and keep your snarky comments to yourself. And give all but one of these records away,” he said. He reached back into the box and pulled out a sheaf of tickets, shook them at Whitey. “And make sure these are all gone by Saturday.”

Whitey gave him a confused look. “What’s Saturday?” he asked.

Chip rolled his eyes. “Again, are you sure you work in radio? What do you think? The concert.”

Whitey, Herman realized, was getting ready to ask What concert? To head off Chip’s imminent explosion, he held out his hand and said, “Hand them over.” When he did and Herman looked at them, he did a double take.

“Um, there’s a mistake here,” he said.

“What do you mean, a mistake?” said Chip.

Herman pointed to the venue listed on the ticket. “The Salem Palladium? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think there’s been a show at that dump since around 1983. Isn’t it abandoned?”

“Was last time I checked,” said Whitey.

Chip shrugged. “Technically, yes, but who am I to argue? If they want to have a show in a rat-infested hellhole, well then, God bless.”

“You sure it’s not just a mistake?” said Herman. “Where did these come from anyway? What did the rep say about them?”

“No rep,” said Chip.

“No rep? How’d you get them then?”

“They just showed up,” said Chip. “Were waiting for me when I got in this morning.”

“Who’s the contact?” said Whitey. “Let’s check with him about the venue.”

Chip ruffled through some of the promotional papers. “No name or number,” he said. “Not very professional.”

“Someone’s taking you for a ride,” said Herman. “It’s a joke.”

Chip shook his head. “No,” he said. “They already paid. Envelope of cash was included with the promos.”

“Doesn’t that seem fucked-up to you, Chip?” asked Herman.

But Chip was ignoring him. He was shuffling his way deeper into the papers. “Palladium, Palladium, Palladium,” he said. “If it’s a mistake, then they’ve made the same mistake the whole way across the board. It’s not our fault. We run with it.”

“That place is huge,” said White Herman. “You’re telling me this band is gonna sell enough tickets to fill it up?”

Chip turned toward him, a look of irritation immediately on his face. “I’m not telling you anything except get rid of these tickets,” he said. “These comps are the only tickets.”

“Weird,” said Whitey, looking at the stack. “That’s not nearly enough to fill the place. It’s going to be super-sparse. Even empty.”

“What the hell do I care?” asked Chip. “If they want to play to an empty hall, then let them.”

“A classic underplay,” said Herman. “Sounds like a big money loser to me.”

Chip pulled a small poster out of the box and unrolled it, showed it to Herman. On it was the same symbol as on the record, but it looked like it had been carved into the flesh between a woman’s breasts, the wound brimming with blood and beginning to drip. Below, it read, in a gothic script, THE LORDS ARE COMING .

“Not a money loser for us,” he said. “We’re being paid just to push it. And money loser or not, the Lords are coming and it’s our job to spread the word.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Herman still was thinking about Heidi with half his mind, wondering if she was okay, wondering if she’d get there. But so far no Heidi. Whitey looked like he wanted to say something or ask about her, but Herman put that don’t-mess-with-me look on his face and Whitey read it loud and clear and swallowed his words. Even when it was time for them to go on the air neither of them said anything about her absence, just gathered their things and went into the studio.

Just as they were getting ready to start, Chip came in. “Where’s the final member of Big H’s holy trinity?” he asked.

Herman thought for a second about what he should say. He could say that he didn’t know, which would just make Chip anxious. Or he could say that she was fucking up again, which would get Chip angry not only at her but also at him. Or he could lie and just pretend like things were okay and then later let the chips fall where they would. The warden would be pissed at him about that last one—she was always telling him that he needed to look out for number one first—but he was built how he was built, and he was going to do what he was going to do.

“She called,” he said. “Said she’s going to be a few minutes late.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Chip. “Is anything wrong?”

“We got it covered,” said Herman. “No worries.”

“If you need me—” Chip started.

“We got it covered,” Herman said, more firmly this time than he felt. It was enough for Chip, who nodded and went out.

Which left him and Whitey alone to get their things together as the commercials wound down.

“I didn’t know she called,” Whitey said.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Herman. “You’re putting me in a bad mood.”

Whitey was silent for about four seconds. “Could have told me she called,” he said.

“She didn’t call,” said Herman. And when Whitey opened his mouth to speak again, he lifted a finger, stopped him. “Focus,” he said. “Show’s starting.”

They stumbled through it for ten or fifteen minutes or so, both of them worried in their own way, but just trying to go forward with the show. And then they relaxed into it and it was okay. As per usual, Whitey offered up one of his various family dramas, fucked-up things from his childhood that were probably all made up but that the listeners seemed to like to hear. Was there a grain of truth in them? Hell if Herman knew. He’d stopped wondering about that about a hundred stories back. It was his job, he knew, to seem incredulous, and then let Whitey make the story wilder and wilder. And then, cut to a commercial or a song.

“I’m sorry, man,” he said, after Whitey had finished his first rendition of the story, “but I don’t believe it. That story sounds like complete b.s.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” asked Whitey. “I’m on a cruise ship with my grandparents, and my grammy gets seasick. So she leans over the side to puke… and pukes out her dentures right into the ocean. No joke.”

“Disgusting,” said Herman.

“Oh, it gets worse,” said Whitey. “Later that night, I walk in on a butt-naked, toothless grammy giving Grandpa a blow job.”

“Butt-naked, eh?” said Herman. “That’s the last thing you want to see.”

“Well, not quite naked. Actually she had a sombrero with the words ‘Aye, Chihuahua’ embroidered on it.”

“Excuse me?” said Herman.

“What, did I forget to mention it was a Mexican cruise?”

Herman just shook his head. They were definitely skirting the edge of what Chip would see as appropriate. Any moment he might pop up at the studio window and give them the signal to tone it down. But still, he couldn’t resist saying, “I guess Grandpa didn’t have to worry about teeth that night.”