Sci-Fi Shorts

Superpalooza

Not for the first time that night, Oscar's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Ah, crap. That's Nickelback."

Shuffling alongside him, a girl turned her glassy eyes in his direction. "Yes. We are indeed fortunate. They are truly the greatest band of all time."

Oscar chuckled and decided to play along. "Oh yeah, Nickelback are definitely the greatest. The greatest steaming pile of rancid aardvark crap, ever. I'd rather listen to gravel in a blender. Am I right?"

The girl stopped shuffling, and slowly, turned her glazed eyes in his direction. She pointed. "An unbeliever!" she shrieked. "This one besmirches Nickelback, the greatest band in the history of the universe!"

Hundreds of heads turned in their direction. Oscar took a step back, as the girl advanced on him. "Kill! Kill the unbeliever!" Eyes now blazing with hatred, she charged.

Wondering how much worse his night could get, Oscar sidestepped her ferocious attack, displaying an agility that—as a major klutz—was remarkably atypical for him. Thwarted, the girl clutched at empty air, slid on the wet ground and face-planted into the mud. His sense of triumph rapidly fading, Oscar bent over to see if she was OK, only to be hit from behind by a ferocious wave of furious festival-goers.

Lying in a muddy field, at the bottom of a pile of enraged Nickelback fans, Oscar realised he was finding out exactly how much worse his night could get. Calling on previously unknown reserves of strength, he burst out from the writhing pile, sending bodies cartwheeling in all directions, and made a break for it. Figures loomed out of the dark, arms reaching for him, but he shoulder charged his way through, sending attackers flying left and right.

We're going off tonight
To kick out every light
Take anything we want
Drink everything in sight
We're going till the world stops turning
While we burn it to the ground tonight
Oh

Finding himself in relatively clear space and marveling at his seemingly newfound super-strength, Oscar turned to face his attackers, fists raised. But with Chad Kroeger really hitting his straps, the crowd had already forgotten about him and were again moving en masse towards the stage. He watched them shuffle past, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"You seem a little confused, young man."

Oscar turned around to find that standing in the shadows behind him was an elderly black man, wearing a suit and a fedora. Despite the darkness, he was also wearing sunglasses.

It was a relief to find somebody who wasn't a homicidal maniac, or even worse, a Nickelback fan. "Confused? I've never met a single person who actually likes Nickelback in my whole life. Now I'm surrounded by them. At a music festival! For people who care about, you know—music. What the hell is going on?"

The old man's teeth flashed white in the darkness, as he grinned. "That, my boy, is a long story. Take a walk with me and I'll explain. The name's George, by the way." They shook hands and Oscar introduced himself.

"Glad meet you, Oscar. I'm happy to see at least one of you young people didn't get brain-fried."

They walked in silence for a few moments. "Do you know what funk is, Oscar?"

Oscar blinked. "Sure. Funk is a type of music. You know—James Brown, Stevie Wonder, George Clin..." He stopped walking, as realisation dawned. "Hang on. I know you. You're George Clinton from Parliament. My dad used to play your records all the time, when I was a kid."

"Guilty son, guilty. Clearly your daddy was a man of good taste. But you're wrong about funk. Sure, music is one of it's manifestations. But it's not what funk is."