That night for the first time, Albert introduced himself to an audience as Prick. The name just felt right. From that moment on, Albert Snowden was dead. It was Prick who stepped off that stage and into a new life.
The name change seemed to work like a lucky talisman. It was during that small L.A. booking that Fuzz Patrol was spotted by a scout from a major record label. That very night they were signed to a multirecord deal.
After that, the sky was the limit. Fuzz Patrol got national exposure on the late-night talk shows. Hit song followed hit song as their albums all went multiplatinum. They became a powerhouse in rock, both in the U.S. and internationally.
Success should have brought great happiness. But like so many people who finally achieved precisely what they set out to, Prick was unsatisfied.
It came as a shock to the rock world when Prick announced he would be leaving Fuzz Patrol. After much soul searching, he had decided that going solo was the only way he could do the sort of music he wanted to. The truth of the matter was, in the few short years they'd been together, Prick had become Fuzz Patrol. Few people outside the music industry even knew the names of the other band members.
"Why split the money three ways when I only have to split it once?" he reasoned privately to his wife at their rural English estate.
"You're so right, luv," his wife had replied. "By the way, have you met my new boyfriend? You've had his wife up for a few weekends here and there." As Prick's wife led the handsome stranger over to their very liberated bed, Prick merely sat and watched. He had important business on his mind. Some had their doubts about a solo Prick. After all, he was neither the brains of nor the talent behind Fuzz Patrol. In truth, he was just a shrieking English teacher whose incredible luck had already defied all odds.
Once more the former Albert Snowden proved his critics wrong. Prick went on to establish a solo career every bit as successful as his time with Fuzz Patrol. For fifteen years he reigned supreme at the top of the adult contemporary charts.
But satisfaction still proved elusive.
He had all the money in the world and the coveted life of a rock star. He had limos, jets, drugs and mansions.
But in a strange way, Prick missed his old life. He missed his days as a schoolmaster, standing in front of a classroom full of eager little dullards hanging on his every word. Like most small men, Prick longed to tell people what to do. That was where his political activism came in. His love of wagging his finger at people as if they were nuisance children thrust him to the front of every cause celebre.
He screamed along with the glitterati of rock on "We Are the World," the theory being that really bad music ends hunger.
He helped Famine Relief send bundles of grain to rot on Ethiopian docks.
He held hands with William Hurt and some smelly stranger with sweaty palms in Hands across America, for what reason he had no idea. He thought it had something to do with homeless red Indians or helping the endangered something-or-other.
In the arena of celebrity do-goodism, Prick was king. He could always be counted on to toe the Russian, Castro or just plain Commie line on all the right issues, provided his stance didn't negatively impact his own personal bankbook.
And above all other causes, Prick loved the rain forest.
The jungle had a primal pull on him. It was distant, huge, tropical and as alien as hell. He could say all kinds of outrageous things about it, and reporters who'd only ever seen pictures would ooh and aah with serious faces. One had to wear a serious face when discussing globally serious issues.
Prick claimed an area of rain forest the size of Alaska was stripped bare every minute of every day. Even though this would have cleared the entire continent of all vegetation in just over eleven minutes, no one challenged him. He insisted the pharmaceutical companies were in league with the lumber companies to systematically obliterate the plant that cured cancer. He decried the forced extinction of species in numbers that had never existed in the entire history of the planet. He carted natives around with him like sideshow freaks, turning their genuine plight into a sanctimonious exercise in self-promotion.
The rallying cry to save the rain forest had been adopted as his mission in life. The rain forest was therefore considered by Prick to be like his Sussex estate. His own personal property.
Like a supreme overlord returned from battle, Prick watched his vast jungle property from the window as his private jet roared up the snaking Amazon toward Macapa, Brazil.
This was a necessary homecoming.
His recent benefit concert for the Primeval Society in New York had been a disaster. The big moment that was supposed to come with But Me No Butz and Glory Whole had turned into a sissy-girl slapfest. The audience had left before Prick's closing number. Even his wife, who so loved the sound of her own voice as emcee that she sometimes continued to drone on while the acts performed, had fled the scene. At the moment she was shacked up in their Manhattan penthouse with a pile of Kleenex. and the least fey member of Glory Whole.
It had been such a bad time back there that Prick was looking forward to this special time in his jungle. He was slated to perform at the Pan Brazil Eco-Fest, a concert organized to raise awareness of rain forest devastation. With no wife and no acts bigger than himself, this was the perfect chance to recharge his precious bruised ego.
Men scurried all around him, searching under seats and in cupboards for the nonexistent rattle Prick insisted he could hear. A flight attendant was taping down bottles and glasses in the bar to keep them from shaking.
The only men not engaged in the vain search were sitting across from Prick.
The two barefoot men carried spears. They were nude except for matching red loincloths and beads of bone around their necks. Their black eyes were flat, their faces impassive as they stared blankly ahead.
Prick had found the natives on one of his many trips to South America.
Rich white men plucking natives from the jungle for their own purposes was by and large frowned upon in the modern age. In fact, America had fought a civil war over this very practice. But it was apparently still okay to do so just as long as the motives of those doing the plucking were judged pure.
Prick had even cut a record with his natives. It was mostly him screeching while they beat on hollow logs. For some reason, it didn't catch on with the listening public.
Prick didn't look at his natives. He was still staring out the window. The lush green jungle spread out like rumpled carpet as far as the eye could see.
Prick's frazzled manager hurried up the aisle, stopping next to his client.
"We're landing in ten minutes," he said.
Prick didn't even raise his eyes to the man. "Did those idiots send the helicopter like they said they would?"
"It's ready and waiting," his manager said.
"It bloody well better be," Prick growled. "I've had enough disasters for the rest of my life. Another screwup like New York, and you're all in the dole queue. You're just lucky I don't have you speared through the head for that."
He waved a thin pale hand at his two natives. "Yes, Prick. Thank you, Prick," said his manager, eyeing the two natives uncomfortably.
The men made the manager nervous. They'd been even creepier ever since their single lost the bullet and their album tanked. A record company exec had vanished at around the same time. No one was speculating out loud what had happened to him, but after the disappearance the manager had seen one of the natives wearing the man's very expensive Rolex as an ankle bracelet. And he swore the natives looked a little fatter.
"What the hell are you staring at?" Prick snapped.
The manager jumped. "Nothing," he said.
"I'm not paying you to do nothing. Leave me the hell alone."
The grateful manager almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to leave.
"And about that rattle," Prick called after him. "It's more like a hum. I want it found and I want it dehummed before we land."
"Yes, Prick," his manager said with a sharp nod. As Prick continued to stare out the window at his jungle, the cabin exploded in a flurry of fresh activity. The crew began searching frantically for a hum that didn't exist.
Chapter 15
Remo called Smith from the airport in Rio de Janeiro. The CURE director had already arranged for a flight on a turboprop to Macapa.
"Who were you talking to?" Amanda demanded once Remo hung up the phone and they were heading across the tarmac to the smaller plane. The air was hot and sticky. She was directing the skycaps who were hauling her luggage. The dainty pink bags were showing signs of wear.
"I've got an idea for a game we can play," Remo said. "It's called none of your business."
"Heh-heh-heh," said the Master of Sinanju as he padded along beside them. "None of your business."
Amanda shot the old man an evil look. "I'm starting to think you're not so nice, either," she accused. To Remo she said, "It was Daddy, wasn't it?"