Memorial Day Melody Madness

During holiday touring, ‘have you ever peered into the etched markings on a monument, reading the marble scribble credits? Then ask, “am I a fortunate one or son?”

Fending off heat from the jungle, recording artist Tricky Dick Turntable, an expert on flipping records allowing the criminally challenged to experience second chances, commanded his four-year warranty Ford model pick up, through a haunting green setting, with his side kick Patty Roadie, riding shotgun.

“Are we going to the dam dam to do a dam taping?” She asked not taking her eyes off the deceptive path,

“No,” Tricky Dick answered, “one simple gate is there, if opened water will flow, flooding everything, creating major damage.”

“I thought, that is how you like it,” Patty with a clear-thinking conscience mind commented, “Tricky Dick.”

Not saying a word about the eight track studios built to stimulate electricity, Tricky Dick proceeded on the journey, “we are going to see the Manson family hunkering down inside their mansion.”

“Is his wife Marylin,” Patty paused hoping for a positive meeting, “going to be there?”

Tricky Dick affirmatively responded while adding, “and daughter, Samantha.”

“That is right, they have that daughter,” Patty remembered, “has she bore any kids?”

“No,” Tricky Dick reported, “she is only six years old, but in the future, they want her to have a son, to carry on the family name brand.”

“Right,” Patty concluded, “The Son of Sam.”

This was the first time in a long while, Tricky Dick and Patty ventured into the unknown. Usually, they communicated with C Manson, reading handwritten letters that Patty translated. Recently, rumors circulated, Mr. Orange, C Manson’s agent, accidentally sprayed his talent with an unknown substance, changing the whole image, to the adored entertainment production and one-night, triggered C Manson to enter an angry rage.

“I should have interpreted the bloody writings on the wall,” Tricky Dick mumbled.

“Let it be, Tricky Dick, let it be,” Patty heard the frustration.

“Patty, you don’t understand, this could be a suicide mission,”

“And suicide is painless, Tricky Dick, we just have to recover those in pain, then get out.”

“Easier said than done,” Tricky Dick stated pulling slowly up to the macabre villa.

Both unhooked their security belts before departing the vehicle, then carefully approaching the peaceful archway displaying inspirational sayings the two carefully climbed the delicate diplomatic staircase, “these domestic violence scenes are dangerous, they are civil wars needing police action.”

“I know,” Patty agreed putting her fist on the door, “this is a mistake, coming here, but we have to,”

“You, have to knock three times,” a deepened voice off stage harkened.

Suddenly the wooden blockade revealed two parents, sitting motionless at the kitchen table and the setting presented a colorful luring orange display.

“Mr. And Mrs. Manson,” Tricky Dick introduced.

“Yes, what can we do for you?” The father figure growled.

“Is that baby in the corner?” Patty wanted an answer.

“No,” Marylin stated, “it’s Samantha and we are waiting for her to be old enough to give us a grandson.”

Breaking the tension a German shepherd barked, “we want it to be an heir nicknamed Son of Sam,” C Manson continued as the dog let out another opinion.

“I understand,” Tricky Dick sensitively navigated the conversation.

“We did as you requested,” Marylin reported, “we dressed her up, all so pretty in those tied yellow ribbons, so she can do the song and dance routine to make a child.”

“Mr. Orange, seemed very nice wanting to help us through our problems,” C Manson added, “but soon her voice is going to change and other things.”

Taking a few steps back the invading guests listened offering to be there for them, and for this kind gesture C and Marylin Manson both seemed gratified.

“We will let Agent Orange know your feelings,” Tricky Dick said.

“Mr. Dick,” C Manson spoke up, “um look around everything is orange and our only child you know potato farm is growing very quickly.”

“You may want to look into biological warfare in these parts,” Marilyn suggested.

“We will,” Patty acknowledged the plea.

A few minutes later Tricky Dick and Patty were back inside the American built Ford machine, “what do you want to do now?” Patty requested.

“Well, our day is done, why don’t we go down to Normal Sandra Dee beach and play bingo on a blanket,” Tricky Dick presented.

“We can build sandcastles,”

“And open the gates, let the ocean water flood in,” Tricky Dick smiled, “then kids can learn there’s got to be a morning after, since that is the time when you rebuild after receiving Uncle Sam’s relief resources.”

Decades passed leading to a new century and back at the reflective attraction two children slipped away wanting to know more, “excuse me sir,” the boy petitioned a volunteer information guide.

“Were Tricky Dick and Patty Roadie eliminated by the Manson wild wild west gang?” The sister jumped into the dialogue session.

“No,” the authority figure clarified, “they were killed by a humanoid at party beach.”