The Trees That Cried Wolf

The lights blurred into long, streaky lines as Winky Miata, the exuberant lead vocalist and guitarist of local rock group Normal and the Weirds, took a handsome, deep bow. He held this pose, enjoying the brief, subtle high of the blood rushing to his head, and the darkness of staring at the stage floor, a respite from the bright, industrial lights pressing down upon him, and the lustful eyes wantingly piercing his gaze.

The crowd that followed his band were mostly purposeful hipsters, there for image, not music; and local punks who were there for music, and projecting a purposeful image of not caring about image. They mixed like fruit punch. Winky didn’t give a damn about either kind. He was paid to not give a damn about either kind.

Normal/Weird shows were always transcendent. During the roaring encore of Her Hair from Hell, a medium-sized wedge of cheese was almost always set ablaze. It smelled really good and made everyone rock all the harder.

It was one tired, epic stage show after another, until one day, during an unusually short rendition of Hog Heaven, Swine Hell, the uselessly loud guitar stylings of Fire-Steve Hëdd were interrupted without warning.

A booming voice, woody and raspy, but with a depth like an infinite crystal pool, spoke mighty words that filled the weird little music hall to its brim with sonic swells.

“Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”

Clearly, it was something crying, “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”, but what, nobody knew. Fire-Steve’s guitar fell from its strap, hitting the floor with a dissonant, violent crunch, punctuating the pregnant silence that preceded it with an exclamation point of clamor. F-Steve’s guitar blew up completely shortly thereafter, as the drummer’s kit began to melt into a big puddle.

In Winky’s eye, the show was ruined, though the audience all said the special effects were outta sight. Heated rage clouded Winky’s mind, driving him to run full-force through the outer wall of the auditorium, through the parking lot and its chain-link fence, and into the nearest woods nearby. Wink wanted to find the source of the thing that disturbed his stage show and shook him to his very core.

He heard the ominous voice again, “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”

This time it was louder and more southern sounding. A rustling of leaves rustled in a large, stupid-looking birch tree, and the voice again beginning to speak caused Winky to be able to feel his heartbeat in his neck as adrenaline made him extra alive, his vision narrow. He could smell spaghetti a mile away.

“Wolf!”

Could the trees be crying wolf? Mr. Miata’s blood ran cold. But there was no need to worry.

Why, there up in the trees was none other than Winky’s old keyboardist himself, Glenn “Woody” Forest, engaged completely in some crazy-awesome video game about wolves. Totally engrossed in interactive pixelated lupine technology, Mr. Forest couldn’t help but periodically yell “Wolf!” He sounded just like a tree.

Winky and Woody got into the ins and outs and dos and donuts of the whole business, and decided it was best that they both play video games about wolves in the stupid birch tree together. The illustrious music career was dropped, like so many potatoes carelessly gathered by a drunk guy. Truthfully, the tree was exquisitely beautiful, and not in the least way stupid.

Fire-Steve Hëdd and the rest of the band, the Weirds I guess you’d say, had to vamp on one killer riff for a fortnight while Winky and Woody got the whole wolf game thing sorted out.

Once they did and triumphantly returned to the stage, the solos that Winky Miata and Glenn Forest took made everyone say that they wished they had the power to dance forever, without having to stop to eat or pee or sleep or anything ever. That’s a good solo.

Reunited, the band rocked all the harder, and the ghostly, wooden calls of “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!” were never heard again.