CHAPTER 19

Aside from one week that Elke spent in a jail cell for disrupting the peace and trashing the club, the repercussions of Stone’s Throw were nothing but good. Ducking Out of Danger vaulted to 21 on the charts, every self-respecting underground distributor in England leaked a bootleg of Stone’s Throw, and word of the grrls arrived in the States.

            James Carroway advised that they take up a national tour. The rest of Britain wanted to see and hear them. They wanted to share in the infamy of seven grrls who looked like sex goddesses and spoke like army officers,

            Kim wouldn’t agree to a full-out tour until they were given a photo shoot. “We deserve one, after all,” she said to James in his office, her feet up on shi desk. She blew on her drying nail polish, then looked over at him. “Stone’s Throw was a trial by fire.” The bitterness in her voice was lost to him. He hadn’t seen the show that night, so he didn’t know that it really had been sincere, not just another one of her stage games. “We make you money, Carroway. Give us a photographer at any locale I choose to demand, and I’ll talk to Jessie about giving Beggars’ a cut of our tour earnings.”

            James narrowed his eyes. He remembered how insistent Jessie had been that the grrls keep their gig earnings. All their gig earnings. Seeing his look, Kim laughed. “I’ll talk to her about it, Jimmy. She listens to me.”

            “Very well.” He was used to Kim getting her way now. She had bitched her way through the production and release of Torn Horses and its two singles. “Can Beggars’ announce the tour?”

            “Go for it.”

            “can you be out and about by September?”

            “Easily, my dear Carroway. Rather easily.”

***

The words “photo shoot” sent Chatha into a fit of hyper babbles about just who they could get to take the picture, where it would happen, and what they would wear. The hyper saxophonist darted back to her apartment and tore apart her closet, calling out that she needed more pink. Now.

            Chatha came tumbling out of her apartment, right into Jessie, spilling a pile of pink clothes all over the place. “Didja’ hear? Didja’ hear? Photo shoot! We’re famous! We’re gonna’ live on f’rever an’ eve’! Maybe it’ll be Anton Corbjn. Y’think Anton’d take our pics? We’re big enough, roight? Anton Corbjn does the Red Lips Sextet!” She tore through the pile of clothing, picking things up and dropping them again, never satisfied with what she found. “Dress? Skirt? Punk-out? Grunge-out? Whadooah do?”

            With a quick smile, Jessie suggested picking ten outfits and then having the photographer him- (or her-) self say which outfit was best. Chatha loved that idea, and sat out in the middle of the hall, throwing pink items that she decided she didn’t want back into her apartment.

            Jessie knocked softly on Kim’s door. It was slightly ajar, since Kim had just slipped in to escape Chatha’s hyper nature for a few moments. Kim was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, her arms spread out around her. She glanced over at Jessie when the half-American entered, but said nothing.

            “So, a photo shoot.” Jessie sat on a footstool that was a good meter away from Kim. “Chatha likes the idea.”

            “So I’ve seen. I was thinking I’d break the schoolgirl look, just for one shoot. Try something truly punkish. Red bondage plaid trousers, maybe.”

            “Try rephrasing that for someone not quite as enmeshed in your world, Ms. Kissably.”

            “Really tight, dark red plaid pants. At least three metal rings down the seems on both sides, with leather straps connecting the legs. All loose and everything, but it’s a fashion that works with implications.” She sat up carefully, stretching her arms in front of her. “That’d go with either a lace of leather halter. Depending on what I feel like. Depending on what side I want to show.”

            Jessie nodded. “I’d go leather. It’s a harder look, goes with the hard album.”

            “Then I’ll have to tell Elke to back off on the leather, at least for this shoot. Don’t want to leather-bound grrls in front of the same camera. It’d blow some minds.”

            “She can always revert to vinyl.”

            “Yeah. Go, fetish-wear. I swear, her closet is growing by leaps and bounds even as we sit here talking. I didn’t know there was such a market for weirdos out there.”

            “You’re calling your own best friend and lead guitarist a weirdo.”

            “I know. She knows, too. And ‘sides, she proved herself unutterably weird with that spider stunt at Stone’s Throw.” Kim shook her head, then stood up. She stepped around lightly, making sure her feet hadn’t fallen asleep.

            “There were more stunts than just the spiders pulled at Stone’s Throw, Kim.”

            “I don’t think I’d bloody well forget that, Miss America. Subtle reminders or not.” She shot Jessie a playful look, then went back to making sure her feet could still hold her weight. There were pins and needles shooting up her ankles, but she stretched her arms out and pretended she was walking across a tight rope, swaying ever so slightly as she went.

            “No subtle reminder intended. I’m being blatant as all hell.” Jessie was smiling.

            “That I noticed.”

            “So I heard we’re touring.”

            Kim tripped over her half-numb feet and glared up at Jessie from the floor. “Thank you so much. Now I think I’ll just stay here.”

            “Well, Carroway said, Kimmy-dear. I wanted to find out for sure.”

            “Yeah, I was gonna’ talk about the business of it with you today, while Chatha was occupying all the grrls with this photo shoot thing.”

            “That seems to be now.”

            “Exactly. But then my feet had to go and fall asleep, and the damn things don’t seem to want to wake up, so we’ll have to put off all this talking business stuff until later.”

            “Oh, will we?” Jessie slid off the stool, onto the floor. Keeping her eyes on Kim, she crawled over to the singer’s side. “Would your feet wake up if I tickled them?”

            “Bitch!” Kim scrambled back, prepared to fight to the death over such a threat. “Don’t even speak it.”

            “So tell me the deal with the tour.”

            “Beggars’ wants some of the money.”

            “Why?”

            “So we can have our fine photo shoot and keep the grrls happy. Jessie, we’re rolling in the cash. Literally rolling in it. I’ve never imagined this much money before in my bloody life. We can give a little to Beggars’, it won’t matter. They’re a good label. They treat us well. You’re just being so cold about it because you didn’t think they’d respect a bunch of grrls, and you don’t want to admit that they actually do respect us.”

            “What’s there to respect?” Jessie laughed. “We’re all a bunch of fashion-mongering, strong-headed bitches who don’t know which way is up. I think I’d respect Beggars’ more if they respected us less.”

            “Oh, would you, now?”

            “Yes. Quite.”

            “Well, then I’ll tell Carroway to burn any deal that was ever set down with you and have him promptly write up a new one with me. Kim Kissably is hereby the new manager of the Red Lips Sextet!”

            “Oh, the horror!” Jessie ducked away from the slap she’d been expecting. She giggled, regarding Kim with the most serious look she was able to muster on such short notice.

            “Seriously, Jess, let’s just give Carroway a little ground. For a bloke, he’s actually really cool.”

            “I know.”

            “Especially for such an old bloke.”

            They were both laughing when Chatha wandered into the room, apparently having forgotten about the pile of clothes in the hall outside. “Ah ne’er told y’guys, did I?”

            “What?” Kim looked at her.

            “Wha’ ah bought t’day.” She had a CD in her hand, its case reflected back the lights in the room so Kim couldn’t make out what it was.

            “And what’s that?”

            With a quick grin, Chatha jumped in between Kim and Jessie. “I’s a li’l thing called a bootleg! An’ i’s ahl ours!” She dropped it, knowing one of them would catch it, then bounced back to find a place to sit.

            Kim held the CD, turning it over and over. On the front was a scratchy picture of a spider in black, and on the back was a track list she had never seen before. “We Only Need a Few to Fuck,” she read out loud. “Rant. We Only Need a Few. Femi-Nazis ‘R’ Us. Rant. S&M Bay-bay. Rant.” She blinked. “Chatha, this is--”

            “Uh huh. And wanna’ know what’s real great ‘bout i’?” She rubbed her hands together, barely able to wait for one of the grrls before her to respond.

            “What?”

            “I’ was th’ last copy! Th’ last copy! An’ ‘e only le’ m’buy i’ ‘cause ah’m wi’ th’ band an’ I told ‘im I’d sign a whole buncha’ boot shit for’im la’er an’ ahl. It was s’pposed t’be on hold fer someone else. There’s a whole listo’ people oo’ve go’ this on hold, waitin’ for new’uns t’be printed.”

            Kim absently handed the CD to Jessie, not understanding all that Chatha was saying. “What do you mean?”

            “Ah mean,” Chatha drew out the word, looking at Kim with exasperation, “tha’ this here is the best sellin’ bootleg in our city. Maybe e’en the country. Look out, Britain, ‘ere comes Kim an’ her grrls! All set an’ ready to rock th’ world!” Chatha bounced to her feet. “An’ we get a photo shoot to celebrate, too! Ah’ll go get e’eryone, tell ‘em ‘bout it an’ everythin’, then we’re good t’ go.”

            Chatha paused in the doorway. “When is th’ photo shoot?”

            Kim smiled. “A week tomorrow. You’ll be ready?”

            “’Ell bloo’y yes!”

***

It took Chatha the entire week the choose her possibilities in pink. There was the obvious choice of tight pink pants and a pink tank top; that was how she was usually seen on stage. A sequined, slinky pink jazz-club dress had also caught her eye. It clung to her tiny body, proving she was just as much of a grrl as the rest of the crowd. She had just as much assurance and appeal. It just came off of Chatha differently. She didn’t flaunt it, no matter how much she had to flaunt.

            But it was neither the traditional nor the sexy that Chatha went for. To her delight, wandering around a dark, strange-smelling used clothes store, she had run across The Dress. Now, The Dress was quite a force to reckon with. The ultimate in sarcastic statements, it left even Kim’s bitchy social commentary in the dust.

            The Dress was a pale dusty-pink ball gown (it’s very own glass-faceted tiara came for free!). It hung over Chatha’s shoulders with fine straps, scooping low enough at the neck for her to giggle about a draft. The bodice seemed to have been made for her, cloven to her slender body, and the skirt flowed out in waves of pale pink that cascaded down to her feet. There was an open triangle at the back, ending where a massive pink bow started on the waist line. The bow flowed back into a train, dragging delicately behind the pink grrl.

            “Ah’m the princess o’ prom,” Chatha announced to her surprised band mates when she showed up at their dressing room in the amazingly girly yet graceful dress.

            Jessie was the only one who could talk for a moment. “I think that’s Prom Queen.”

            “Eh, all those American things ge’ ahl messed t’gethe’ in m’head. So whaddaya’ think?” She bounced as she stood under their scrutiny, like a little girl playing dress-up. Yet the only part of her that looked like a little girl was the innocent light in her eyes.

            “You realize I’m now going to have to reinvent the meaning of darkness to be able to have my picture taken even relatively near you?” Ebony, looking as dark as she ever had or ever would, shook her head slowly. “Why do I bother associating with you?”

            “You’ve gotta’ ‘ave yer opposite, Eb m’dear.”

            “Then I’ve done well in finding her.” Ebony let a rare smile slip. “Good job, darling Chatha. I was beginning to be worried we wouldn’t all clash properly.”

            “Because clashing is what it’s all about.” Kim, who was just now pulling on the black lace halter top she had chosen to go with, observed her grrls. There was Jessie with her tan slacks and loose blue button-up shirt, her straight brown hair and brown eyes. Her rough-looking yet gentle hands that held her bass more adoringly than Kim thought any human being ever had. And since getting jealous of an instrument wasn’t an option, she diverted her attention elsewhere. Geneveve.

            Pale skin and sunken cheeks, she had more of an air of mystery and tragedy. Her nose and eyebrow were both pierced, and so were her ears; several times over. She was starting to run out of places without holes, in fact.

            The half of her head that had hair was every color of the rainbow, dyed that way with some semblance of order to the idea. (Though only Geneveve herself understood it.) She was wearing heavy black eye-liner and had on a tight-fitting naughty nurse costume. Pure white. This had brought up some issues with Elke, who saw the nurse outfit as infringing on her own fetish territory, but Geneveve had pointed out that she could have bought it in vinyl yet hadn’t. That calmed Elke down.

            Elke herself wasn’t wearing much vinyl to speak of. Her long brown hair, always flowing and outrageous, hid her face and fell over her shoulders, catching the straps on a chain-mail shirt that hung to just below her breasts. In an effort to remain decent (at least moderately so), she had on a red vinyl bra beneath it. The rest of her get-up was leather, including the tight black mini-skirt, knee-high boots, and hat. Kim and Elke had spent hours trying to decide if that hat was cliché for dominatrixes or biker babes (or both) and neither had been able to decide. Chatha, helpful as always, had told them to settle for both.

            Ebony was one of the only three fully clothed grrls. She was wearing a very strict, very formal Victorian dress, buttoned all the way up the stiff collar. The edges were softened by black lace, but nothing could hope to bring warmth to the look. Ebony’s face was white marble, her green eyes flared out from thick black markings. Her long black hair was swept back in a tight fashion, secured with a black comb at the back. To complete her nearly perfect look, she even had on black lacey gloves, and had a black Victorian sun umbrella leaning against the chair beside her.

            Looking from Ebony to Chatha, Kim hid a smile. At least she knew that she wasn’t the only one in the band with a flair for the strange. Nor the only one who cared how she looked. Even Chatha had started dyeing her short hair a medium pink.

            So even though everyone in the group clashed with each other, from punk to girly and back again, there was one who clashed with the entire concept of the rest of the group. Heather Hunter. Lost somewhere behind her filthy hair and baggy sweats, Heather sat off from the rest of the group, sulking. She’d been told by the photographer, a foreign woman named Yvette, that she’d have to have professional makeup put on her or she wouldn’t look right in the photos. She had muttered something about at least looking natural, then drawn away to blow off steam by herself.

            Kim decided that the grungy drummer had had enough alone time, so she went over to harass her. Elke shot Kim a quick look, but once Kim started up on an idea, who could really stop her? “So...” Kim threw herself down in a chair across from Heather. “Photo shoot.” She watched Heather, who only scowle4d at her and pulled back.

            “Come on, Heather Hunter, this is our chance in the spotlight. Your chance to show the world you’re so much better than the rest of us because you don’t believe in hygiene. What do you say?”

            “I say you’re a bitch.”

            “No, see, that goes without saying. Quite sorry, please play again.” Kim leaned forward. “Succumb, Heather. Yvette won’t let you in the picture unless you’re professionally done up. You want the world to see the Red Lips Sextet without their only protesting member? You want the world to think we’re all obsessed with our own godly figures? Obsessed with our never ending image?” Kim stopped, realizing something. “You don’t want them to see... Don’t want them to see you’re the same as us! You’re the same! You spend hours trashing your clothing properly, placing the charcoal smudges, reciting your ideals to yourself in the mirror so you can attack me. You’re the same as all of us, and you’re afraid the fans will see, isn’t that it?”

            Kim, getting more excited as the dark look on Heather’s face proved her right, stood up. “You’re the bloody same! Isn’t this marvelous? Put on the makeup, Heather. Our fans aren’t that smart. They won’t get your dirty little secret. They can’t, because they’ll look at you and see the filth and never think of you again. You aren’t that remarkable. Yes, you play drums so nicely that it hurts, but you’re nothing, heather. Nothing. And it terrifies you.”

            Heather glared at Kim, though she said nothing. Kim stepped closer, not wanting the rest of the band to hear what she said next. “We’re remarkably alike, you and I. Our defiance and contempt that were meant as shields have begun to blind us. I’m nothing, too, Heather. But the camera will make the world think otherwise. I’d rather the world call me a slut, as you must rather a slob, than nothing at all. We’re both hypocrites, Heather dear. And our hypocrisy is going to get us onto the covers of magazines. Why say no?”

            “I still respect myself.”

            “Or, at very least, you’re still obsessed with yourself. Let the camera tell lies for you. You must be getting tired of having to make up stories.”

            “I hate you, you know.”

            “Not everyone can love the danger bitch. It’s better that way. Come on, let’s go say hi to the camera.”

***

The photo shoot led to more media attention. There were magazine articles, mini interviews, even a five-minute television appearance during which Kim would do nothing but preach the evils of things with pricks. James Carroway hadn’t been amazingly impressed, but Kim informed him that if it was that attitude that had brought the fame of Stone’s Throw, it was that attitude that people wanted to hear.

            T-shirts, posters, patches, stickers and flags were being produced. Danger Bitch and Welcome to your Grrl Punk Fairy Tale were written across at least one young body in every crowd that Kim saw from there on in. There were rumors of an international tour, which nobody in the band had agreed to yet, and the plain old national tour kicked off in September of ’91.

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