The music mogul’s chins flowed onto the vast molten landscape of his bellies that were fighting to escape through his tightly-tied, button-down shirt. He sucked on a Havana cigar like he was seeking sexual gratification.
Through heavy lids he squinted at the young man seated in front of his desk.
‘Hi John,’ his rasping voice, far from welcoming. ‘I have the lyric to your new song.’
‘Which one?’ John replied with faked nonchalance. He had written many but this was the first to get attention.
‘For the Monkees,’ the mogul hesitated, reading from a notepad. ‘Sorry, but I don’t get it.’
‘Daydream Believer? What’s wrong.’
‘This line here… without dollar one to spend. What does that even mean?’
John sat awkwardly, it was like doing show-and-tell in eighth grade. ‘They’ve not got a dollar.’
‘You mean, they’re broke, they have no money? Why don’t you just say so.’
The mogul snorted, ‘What’s this line … blah, blah, blah, and a home coming queen. Queen, John, is this about a homosexual?
‘No. It’s nothing to do with homosexuals. Queen. Homecoming queen, y’know prom queen.’
Are you sure John? I don’t want you sneaking anything faggotty into one of our songs. And who the hell is this sleepy Jean anyway? Sorry John, we’re passing on the song. Have you got something else that would be a hit?’
‘There’s this one that goes. I met her on a Monday and my heart stood still. Da-do-ron-ron, Da-do-ron-ron.’
‘Are you shitting me! Get outa here.’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 