Edgar Hacienda Goes to God's Birthday Party
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🎧 Click here to listen to this story, as narrated by actor John Rhys-Davies (best known for such iconic roles as Gimli in The Lord of the Rings and Sallah in Indiana Jones).
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I spot a huge billboard with my face on it as we pull up to a private entrance at LoanSherpa Arena. I guess people around here call it "The Big Top" because their hockey team is the Santa Fe Clowns. I don't really know much about hockey or clowns.
On the billboard, I'm wearing a top hat and a tuxedo. A hand in a white glove has its pointer finger pressed against my lips as if to say, "Shhhhhh." Fun fact: it's not my hand! They used a hand model, which I thought was weird since it's in a glove anyway. Under my picture, it says EDGAR HACIENDA: INTO THE MOUTH OF MAGIC.
That's the name of my world tour, by the way. I think I'm generally considered the fifth-biggest pop star on the planet right now.
Worker guys are wheeling around big lights and instruments and pieces of the set as Jennifern and I step out of the car. (Jennifern is my assistant. She's really nice! She sleeps on a cot next to my bed when we’re on tour.)
Pepper, the head of my security team, leads us down a long hallway with lots of doors and echoes. Lou (my manager), Bonnie (Lou's assistant), Donnie (my wig guy), and a couple more bodyguards are waiting for us at the end of the hall. We're walking really fast, making turn after turn, Pepper's telling some story about egg rolls, and I’m starting to feel a little dizzy. Lou is shouting into his phone about egg rolls, too. This place is a maze; I really hope we don't get lost!
Rounding another corner, we're cut off by a portly, middle-aged man clutching a permanent marker and my new album, Yes - I’m Real, on vinyl. He's wearing a tight, black Edgar Hacienda: Into the Mouth of Magic official tour t-shirt over a baggy, plaid button-up.
"Oh my gosh, Edgar. I am such a... fierce fan. Is there any way I could trouble you for an autograph?"
It’s clear he shouldn’t be in this part of the building. My security team's on high alert now, ready to take action if needed, but I wave them off with my ungloved, supposedly unattractive hand.
I step forward with a polite smile. "Sure, no problem." It’s strange how shy I feel with a single fan when I’m usually okay around thousands. I notice the guy is sweating through both of his shirts as I take his record and scribble an autograph.
“I’ll tell ya - when you’re singing all baritone-like, I feel like I’m swimming in chocolate pudding.”
What a bizarre thing to say, I think to myself.
He looks down and tugs at his plaid sleeve. “And, uh...” He suddenly locks eyes with me and grins, revealing a set of abnormally small teeth.
“When you hit those high notes, I swear I get a boner the size of Madagascar.”
That’s when Doodoo steps in with his stun gun and zaps the guy right in the butt. It seems a little unnecessary, but to be fair it's only Doodoo’s first week on the security team.
The pervert man shrieks and Lou bellows (he always bellows), “TASER TO THE TUSH, I LOVE IT!!” I’m embarrassed to say I chuckle a little as the guy starts to hop away.
But then the craziest thing happens, no joke. Somehow, maybe a second or two after the zap, tiny flames break out on the seat of his khakis!
We might’ve kept laughing if it stopped there, but the flames keep spreading until this dude is fully on fire. He’s stopped screaming and is just kind of twitching on the ground by the time a worker lady sprays him with a fire extinguisher and the flames die down. Lou and Pepper rush me away as the lady yells into her walkie-talkie for a medical team.
(Good news, though — that guy survived! I wanted to send him a card, but Lou said he needed to think about the optics first. The police arrested Doodoo and took him to jail, but a little later they let him go due to “insufficient evidence” or something. I think burned guy’s family is suing us. I’m not really sure what’s going on with that.)
Ever since I became Edgar Hacienda the global pop star, it seems like every solution to a problem creates a whole new problem. Lou started giving me anabolic steroids so I could grow six-pack abs, but they caused this really horrible acne. I got on Varity and it took care of the pimples, but that caused homicidal ideation. Simquil got rid of the murder thoughts, but I started having random erections wherever I went, no matter what I was up to. That was super embarrassing! Olympeon fixed most of the penis stuff, but all my eyebrow hair fell out.
Now, my wig master Donnie is a real wizard. They say he's the best in the business. He gave me new eyebrows made out of lynx hair or something. They're insanely lush, rendered in this gorgeous shade of brown Donnie calls “flaxen chestnut.” He says my brows are his masterworks. They seriously look realer than the real thing! But I don’t care. Because I know they’re not real.
After we run away from the charred pervert and get settled in my room backstage, I start warming up my vocal parts. Honestly, I don’t really need to warm up because I only do a little bit of singing. It seems to make Lou and Jennifern happy, though.
A million years ago, I sang a lot! I sang and yelled and screamed and I played guitar, too. We had a band called Them Bones. Our bassist Craig liked to say we were “post-hardcore.” Most people called us “screamo.” I don’t know who was telling the truth, but I loved Them Bones. Everyone had a fun stage name. I was “Eddie Shakes” because I came up with this move where I’d put out my arms like a mummy and start shaking. It just looked kind of spooky, and I liked doing it during an instrumental part or right before a chorus.
We were never very popular. Our biggest concert was this Fourth of July festival at the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri. Fall Out Boy was the headliner, and I got to say hi to them when we were in line to get barbecue pork steaks. They seemed super nice.
Most of our shows were in these tiny rock and roll clubs where people still smoked cigarettes even though it was illegal. They were nothing like the stadiums I perform in now.
We were so excited when Craig’s cousin booked us some dates in Germany. Jeremy’s girlfriend made us posters that said “Them Bones: European Tour.” Jeremy was our drummer. His stage name was “Sticks.” He was really funny.
I still remember the panic I felt when my Hopp driver, Philip T., stopped at a gas station to use the bathroom on my way to the airport. When you gotta go, you gotta go, I guess. But I was feeling the heat! And I was so upset when his van ran out of gas 30 minutes later. At that point, I knew I’d miss our flight to Berlin. It was an honest mistake on the driver’s part, although I still thought it was a little weird that he asked me to give him a 5-star rating in the Hopp app when he dropped me off back at home. But in a way, Philip T. saved my life.
The fellas took off without me, but Craig was able to book me a flight for the next day. After their plane disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, there was really no point in going, though.
That was the end of Them Bones.
(I still can’t believe they never found the plane since planes are so big! You’d think they could look on a satellite or something. Who knows.)
I was really sad and, a couple months later, moved back to my mom's house in Orlando. She got me a job waiting tables at my Uncle Greg's Norwegian restaurant, Billy Goat's Grub. I hated the maroon uniform they made me wear, but it did have a funny goat embroidered on the back.
That's where I met Lou. He would come in for lunch so often, I memorized his order: cheesy potato dumplings, mutton stew, and a side of seasonal vegetables. I must have waited on him a hundred times, and I never saw him touch the vegetables he'd ordered.
Lou would talk a lot about his cryptocurrency exchange, but it was all over my head. He seemed a lot more interested in me after he saw an article on Yahoo! News about Them Bones and all my presumed-dead bandmates.
One day, when I brought out his mutton, Lou bellowed, "LISTEN, EDDIE! I WATCHED THE INTERNET VIDEO OF YOUR OLD BAND. YOU'VE GOT PIPES, LITTLE FRIEND!"
After he explained "pipes" were my vocal parts and he was saying I was a good singer, Lou made his "pitch." He wanted to invest a bunch of his cryptocurrency money and make me "THE BIGGEST GODDAMN POP STAR SINCE MIKE JACKSON."
I told him I didn't know how to moonwalk. Lou thought that was funny. He asked me to think about it, so I went into the back room of the kitchen and peeled some potatoes. That always helped me focus up.
About 12 potatoes in, I made my decision. I didn't really like working at Billy Goat's Grub, and I did like singing, so why not?
I walked back to Lou's table and told him I was in. The bowl with the mutton stew was completely spotless, as if it’d gone through the dishwasher. His seasonal vegetables looked sad and lukewarm.
Lou was really enthusiastic. "ATTA BOY, ED! WE'RE GONNA MAKE SOME REAL MAGIC... AND A LOT OF MONEY," he bellowed as he jumped out of his chair, squeezed my shoulders and started shaking me really hard.
All the shaking made me think back to my days as Eddie Shakes, performing under the St. Louis Arch with Them Bones. The guys drank some Pabst Blue Ribbons and I had a root beer while we watched the fireworks later that night.
I felt a smile creep across my face for the first time in months as this large, loud, old guy manhandled me and shouted something about Ticketmaster.
So, here I am now — Edgar Hacienda, getting ready to step on stage and perform for a sold-out crowd of 21,072 at The Big Top. I smile a lot now, but I still feel kind of sad sometimes.
Like I said, I don't really sing much at my concerts anymore. Lou made me get rid of my guitar because he said the chart-topping days of those Nickelback and Jim Croce guitar bands are long gone. Instead of guitar, he wanted me to dance. “That was the King of Pop’s secret sauce, you know.”
Lou hired this famous choreographer guy who had worked with Madonna and Jason Derulo, plus some TikTok dancing girl his niece was obsessed with. Neither of them wanted to actually teach me how to dance, so he brought on a famous dance instructor lady who had worked with Liza Minnelli and Austin Butler. It took a ton of practice over months and months, but I got pretty good at it.
Now that I’m doing all these crazy dance moves on stage, it’s really hard to go all-out with the singing stuff. During the show, they blast a recording of me singing and I wear a headset with the volume turned low. They crank it up for a couple slower songs like “You Give Me Bird Wings,” at least.
Tonight, we kick off the show with my new single “Get Out of the Rain, Come into my Home.” The fans seem to like it, and Lou says it’s gonna be “the next ‘Billie Jean.’” Everything’s going off without a hitch. They bring a young lady on stage, and I serenade her with “Sincerely, Love.” She cries, but I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears. We close out with “I Have Weird Dreams About You,” and everybody in the crowd sings along.
Backstage is always hectic right after the encore, so I rush back to my dressing room for some Edgar Time.
(A few months ago, I was able to negotiate 7 minutes of Edgar Time after every show. Lou used to send his assistant in to film me talking about the magic in the air and the electricity of the crowd and how they awaken my soul and mend my wounded heart, etc. Sometimes Bonnie would ask me to “say something sexy,” which might have actually made her more uncomfortable than me. Not that I wasn’t uncomfortable. Plus, I never managed come up with something sexy to say on the spot.)
I shut the door, and it’s surprisingly quiet. Love me a well-insulated room! Sweaty, sore, and supremely parched, I shuffle over to the refreshments table and reach for a Pepsi Lime. Or, at least, I try to reach for a Pepsi Lime. This is when I realize my right arm won’t move, like, at all. I try using my left arm, and it’s working fine.
Just then, my right leg gives out. I try to break my fall, but I’d forgotten about the bum arm. Hitting the floor hurts less than expected, but I can immediately feel a warmish liquid pooling around my head — definitely blood. I guess it could be Pepsi Lime if Jennifern somehow forgot to chill the bottles, but she’s always been really good about keeping the PL's cold.
I try to call out for help, but all I can manage is a weird, low-pitched moan. The very same baritone that evoked a pool of chocolate pudding for that scary, small-toothed pervert man who was set ablaze by Doodoo’s stun gun.
I’m dead less than 30 seconds later. A massive stroke, apparently.
It doesn’t take long to figure out I’m a ghost now. Probably because my spectral form is pretty similar to all the ghosts in cartoons — I’m still me, just a little blueish and sort of see-through. After examining my ghost parts for a moment, I turn my attention to the cadaver lying at my ghost feet. The body of Edgar Hacienda. I feel sad, but not too sad. My eyebrows look stunning.
There’s a rap at the door. “THAT'S 7 MINUTES; EDGAR TIME’S UP, BUDDY! WE NEED YOU TO SAY SOMETHING SEXY FOR THE INSTAGRAM,” Lou bellows. He bursts through the door. The sight of my dead body stops him in his tracks, but not for long. Lou rushes over, kneels down, and shakes my corpse violently. “Eddie Shakes,” I whisper to myself.
“COME ON, EDDIE! WHAT DID YOU O.D. ON, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” I take offense to that; I am not a drug user! Besides the steroids for abs and Varity for acne and Simquil for homicidal ideation and Olympeon for sudden, no-reason erections. But Lou knows all that. “WE NEED HELP! SOMEBODY DO MOUTH-TO-MOUTH AND SUCH!”
Jennifern flies into the room like she was shot out of a t-shirt cannon, knocks Lou right on his rump, and starts giving CPR without a second of hesitation. It doesn’t seem to do anything, which makes sense since I’m already a ghost and all. I swear she slips her tongue in my dead body's mouth at one point. And I can't be sure, but it looks like she's wiggling it around all French kiss-like. After a minute, she starts sobbing and hammering her fist down on my chest. Lou is weeping and blubbering something about holograms. Pepper is standing in the doorway biting his fist.
“C’mon, Edgar, don’t leave me in this cruel world without you!” Jennifern cries out between Hulk Smashes to my sternum. It’s heartbreaking, but also kind of nice to see how much she cares about me. I really wish I could tell her “thank you” one last time. Oh, well.
As a pair of EMT guys step into the room and tear Jennifern away from my lifeless husk, the lights seem to dim. All the crying and shouting start to sound faint and muffled. Lou is tomato-red from screaming as he struggles to pull off his cordovan loafers. I know it’s only a matter of time before he’s banging them on the floor, making angry baby sounds, and refusing to get up or put his shoes back on.
Just when my eyes adjust to the dark, they're forced shut by a blinding light. The brilliant, white glow seems to pierce right through my eyelids. I'm legitimately worried this is going to burn my ghost retinas and severely damage my vision. I have no idea if there's such thing as a ghost optometrist, but I'm not holding my breath. I wonder, do ghosts breathe? Do ghosts... dream?
The light finally begins to fade, and I open my tender peepers to assess what remains of my sight.
In this moment, I cannot believe my eyes. Standing before me are three otherworldly figures bathed in a celestial glow. Plus, my vision actually seems pretty okay! The regal spirits approach. I recognize their smiling faces.
Craig Chaos. Johnny the Axe. Sticks.
Them Bones!
"And so we meet again, my winsome brother," Craig says gently. He's draped in a flowing, white robe with a breathtaking sheen, and his signature purple mohawk has been replaced by glorious, golden liberty spikes.
"At long last!" Johnny pronounces joyfully. He's dressed in a three-piece, white-on-white suit like some kind of fancy Southern gentleman. His soul patch has bloomed into an exuberant, silken beard.
"This is so rad... you're finally dead!" Jeremy, my dear Sticks, squawks in his reedy voice. He looks exactly the same — significantly balding, patchy five o'clock shadow, black Underoath tee, jean shorts, tube socks and checkerboard Vans.
I begin to cry, but I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears. "I have so many questions, so many things to say..." I blubber.
Craig's eyes soften. "In due time, friend. There's much to be done."
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. I'd completely forgotten I'm still wearing my bullfighting outfit from the concert. It's a little ostentatious, but surprisingly comfortable.
"Much to be done...?"
Sticks nods. "Yeah dudes, we should get going soon."
"Where are we going?" I ask.
Craig gestures upward. "Beyond the elysian passage to your new home in everlasting paradise, of course."
Sounds pretty cool!
"Specifically, Craig's dad's garage," Johnny adds.
I'm a little lost at this point. "Okay... can I ask why?"
"To practice, of course!" Craig says, beaming.
My eyes light up as the words sink in. Band practice. I can't believe that in death, Them Bones lives!
"Practice for what...?"
Sticks grins. "Get this. Them Bones has been invited to play a set... at God's birthday party."
I am shocked. Stunned. Awestricken. Bowled over, even. This is going to be our biggest show since the BBQ, Brews & Tunes festival on Independence Day in St. Louis.
Johnny nods. "Apparently God's a big fan. Some angel guys said he loves our first EP. Especially 'Femme Fatale' and 'Dead is a Four-Letter Word.'"
"Man. That's hard to believe — like, no one's heard our first EP!"
"Well, he is omniscient and all," Sticks points out.
"Wow... God's birthday party. How old is he?" I wonder aloud.
Sticks shrugs, and Craig clears his throat. "That's enough palaver for now, my treasured compatriots." It seems like dead people talk fancier than alive people. So verbose and grandiloquent!
"God's birthday festivities are only five days and six nights from now. It is time to make haste, my brethren. Let us ascend!"
I feel some butterflies fluttering about in my ghost tummy. Eternal salvation is kind of intimidating.
"How do I, uh, ascend?" I ask.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Craig produces a brilliantly shiny, silver bass guitar. A pearlescent six-string, adorned with ornate filigree, materializes in Johnny's hand. Sticks pulls a pair of old drumsticks from the back pocket of his jorts.
They straddle their musical talismans like witches' broomsticks, and each of them begin to levitate.
(I'm not going to lie — Sticks looks pretty dumb riding around on his little drumsticks. Poor guy.)
"Well, Eddie Shakes — I suppose this might be of use..." Craig says with a knowing smile. A luminescent, maroon guitar appears and floats toward me. I take the majestic axe and rise off the ground.
"THEM BONES! GOD'S BIRTHDAY! LET'S! GOOOOO!" Jeremy cries.
We fly through the ceiling, the rafters, and the roof of the arena — racing across the Santa Fe skyline and up into the clouds.
Heaven is going to rock!