Chapter 5 – The Gig (In Which a Star is Born)

It was barely seven thirty. A small crowd was already gathered in Sator Square, and among them strolled the city’s infallible entrepreneur, Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler. Dibbler knew the first rule of business: if there could be a sale, you should be there with merchandise in hand.

“Sausages! Hot sausages! Inna bun! Mustard! Getchore hot sausages inna bun with mustard, right here! How about you, madam? Can I interest you in a sausage?”

The young woman gave Dibbler a look of distaste, then gave his sausages a look that would make even the most enterprising animal part consider a career change. Dibbler recognized the look and piloted his cart away as quickly as decency would allow.

“How about you, sir? Sausage inna bun? Mustard?”

“You gotta wait ‘til I’m more drunk’en this to get me to eat one’na them!” the man replied, waving a half-empty whisky bottle under Dibbler’s nose and tottering away. Dibbler sighed. He was going to have to wait for the big crowd.

“All right, thank you…why don’t you stay for the performance, Captain?”

Or maybe not…

Backstage, things were a mess. Mike was sitting on an upturned crate and tuning his guitar, Peter was testing his various instruments, and Davy was pacing nervously. Micky was nowhere to be found.

“Good gods, look at that crowd,” Davy murmured, twitching the curtain aside, “We’ve barely been here ten minutes.”

Peter peeked around the curtain and blew out a breath. “They’re certainly coming fast.”

“Micky better get here soon before people start gettin’ impatient,” Mike said, “You know what the people in this city are like when they get impatient.”

As if on cue, Micky entered at that point, red in the face. He was huffing and puffing as he dragged something in behind him. He stopped halfway between Davy and Mike and leaned against the thing he had been dragging, trying to catch his breath. The thing was roughly rectangular and had a crude keyboard with a few upright panels in front of it. Various dials and switches occupied the panels. Peter, Mike, and Davy stared.

“What is that thing, man?” Mike managed at last.

“Dunno,” Micky replied, grinning, “I found it in the basement of the University. Oh good, you got a drum set.” He wandered over to the corner where the drums had been set up. It was probably best not to ask where or how the set had been obtained. The fact that it was there was good enough.

“But…what does it do?” Peter asked, poking a few of the dials. Mike caught his wrist.

“Don’t touch that! If it was in the University, then who knows what might happen? It could open up a…a tunnel to the Dungeon Dimensions for all we know!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Micky from the corner, “The Librarian plays around with it sometimes when the organ’s being repaired. So far we haven’t had any nightmarish creatures in the basement, unless you count the time that –”

“Look, why’d you bring it?” Mike demanded. He was starting to feel the pressure from the crowd that was gathering even though there was a curtain between the crowd and the band. That was the problem: it was only a curtain.

“I thought it might lend a new sound to some of our songs,” Micky came away from the drums and sat down in front of the strange machine. He pulled a couple levers and turned a few dials, then pressed a key. When the wail had died away, Mike took his hands away from his ears and looked at the grinning faces of his band mates.

“Definitely,” Peter said. Davy nodded in agreement.

“Groovy. What song?” Micky asked, turning a few more dials and experimentally punching keys.

“How ‘bout ‘Daily Nightly’?” Mike suggested, peering out at the audience again.

“Works for me,” Micky shrugged and got up, producing his drumsticks.

“Hey Mick,” Davy said, “What were you doing in the basement, anyway?”

“Oh, I was looking for clothes,” Micky replied matter-of-factly, playing a short riff to warm up. Then he leaned back and started rolling a cigarette.

“Aw, Micky, don’t do that right before a gig,” Mike complained.

“Sorry Mike, but I’m nervous. And you know wizards smoke,” Micky said accusingly.

“I doubt any of them smoke what you smoke. Holy Io, who’s that?” Mike exclaimed suddenly, pointing to an indistinct figure sitting in a chair at the front of the growing crowd. It appeared to be ooking and throwing peanuts. Peter and Davy both looked out and shrugged. Micky got up and looked over the top of Davy’s head.

“Oh, that’s the Librarian. And look at that, half the University staff!”

“Where?” Peter asked.

“Right there,” Micky pointed to the row behind the Librarian, “See, there’s the Dean, and the Chair of Indefinite Studies, and Ponder Stibbons is more of a student, and the Bursar’s the one with the vague look.”

“And that dopey grin?” Mike inquired.

“That’s the one.”

“Good grief.”

“Good evening, boys!” The sudden greeting caused all four band members to turn. Standing in the shadow of Micky’s University contraption was a small man with a big grin.

“Oh, Mr. Dibbler,” Mike said, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, “Hello.”

“Boys, boys, boys, I saw this crowd and you know what I thought?” Dibbler swept forward and reached up to put an arm around Mike’s shoulders, “I thought, ‘This crowd could be a whole lot bigger!’ And then I thought, who better to help with that than me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a rampaging troll?” Mike remarked, shrugging the arm off. Dibbler ignored him.

“And I thought, I could give you boys the opportunity of a lifetime! You could hit it big, real big, not just in Ankh-Morpork, but in Quirm, in Pseudopolis, in Klatch! So I’m here to offer you my services at a mere fraction of your earnings, and I’m telling you, you won’t regret it!”

Mike sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “Look, Throat, we’ve discussed this. We don’t need a manager, and if we did, it wouldn’t be you. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a show to do.”

Dibbler bristled. If there was one thing he hated, it was people who didn’t recognize his business opportunities, or people who saw right through them. “You’ll regret this!” he exclaimed.

“Actually,” said Peter, turning the tables and draping a friendly arm across Dibbler’s shoulders, “We won’t. Come here, Mr. Dibbler, just stand right there, that’s it, look out at the audience. Do you see that troll back there?”

“Yes…” Dibbler answered slowly.

“Good, and how about the guy standing next to him?”

“Yes…”

“Good. Now you see, Mr. Dibbler, that’s Sergeant Detritus and Captain Carrot. Watch members. And you may be forgetting that I’m also a Watch member,” Peter smiled, “Carrot has got muscles like rocks and Detritus is made of rock. So, basically what I’m saying is you really ought to listen to Mike and get back to selling your sausages.”

Dibbler mouthed wordlessly for a moment, then turned and tried to appeal to Davy.

“David! May I call you David?” he said companionably, attempting to steer Davy over to the corner.

“Why not? Everyone else does,” Davy muttered through clenched teeth.

“David, can’t you see where I’m coming from? I’m a hard-working man myself, and I understand the need to bring in…extra revenue. Do you follow me? So why not tell your misguided friends here how much you need my services, and…”

There was a sudden grunt, then a yell. The next thing Dibbler saw was the inside of his sausage cart, reason being that he’d landed in it headfirst.

Mike dusted his hands off and looked at the wreckage appreciatively. Micky was laughing and Davy was grinning. Peter also seemed mildly amused, but he was looking out at the crowd again and frowning.

“This is probably the strangest audience I’ve ever seen,” he remarked when the others had stopped having their laugh over Dibbler, “I mean, look at that. There’s a whole row of pointy hats, even more than there were before, and then there’s half a row of Watchmen, and that looks like…the Patrician?”

“No way, man, that’s impossible,” Mike looked out, as well. Soon, all four were crowded around the small gap between the curtains, staring out at the assembled audience and gaping.

“I didn’t think he’d actually come,” Davy whispered, sounding uneasy.

“Look at that! The Archchancellor is here, that hypocrite!” Micky exclaimed, pointing emphatically and nearly putting Mike’s eye out.

“Ow,” Mike said, moving Micky’s arm a few inches to the left, “Well, at least there aren’t any Assassins. I think I’d really be in trouble then.”

“We’d better tune and warm up pretty quick,” Peter suggested, “I don’t think these guys can wait until eight.”

Mike nodded in agreement, and the band started the unnerving process of setting everything up with the thought that everything might not make it through the performance intact. The plus was that they weren’t performing in a tavern that night, so there wouldn’t be much of anything for the people (and dwarfs, and trolls) to get drunk on. And it would take Dibbler a little while to reconstruct his sausage-inna-bun business, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

“All right, ready for the curtain to open?” Mike asked about ten minutes later.

“Ready,” Peter, Micky, and Davy chorused.

“Ladies and gentlemen, trolls and dwarfs,” a squeaky voice announced, “Presenting Ankh-Morpork’s own, the one, the only, the Monkees!”

“Wait man, who’s that announcing us?” Davy inquired.

“Oh, an over-eager dwarf was pestering me when I was dragging that keyboard thing in,” Micky replied, “I figured he’d leave me alone if I paid him to do the announcing.”

Davy raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. Just then the curtain opened, and the Monkees launched into their opening song.

Things went well. Very well, by Ankh-Morpork standards. Nobody threw anything, and Micky was beginning to get into the rhythm of the performance when he happened to look out at the audience again. At first he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but it soon became apparent that his eyes were not deceiving him. And when that happened, he nearly had a heart attack. Fortunately he had taken a break from the drums to play the keyboard device or he would have knocked the entire set over.

Standing at the back of the crowd was a tall figure in a black cowl. When the figure saw Micky looking in its direction, it threw back its hood and revealed the grinning skull of Death. As Micky watched, one of the blue lights in Death’s eyes flared. Was Death…winking at him?

Micky shook his head. He couldn’t believe that Death, Death, the Grim Reaper for gods’ sake, had showed up at the gig. He’d invite the Librarian, he’d invite the wizards, but there was no way Micky would have consciously and voluntarily handed an invitation to Death.

The song, “Daily Nightly”, was ending. Suddenly, something dawned on Micky and a cold feeling moved down his spine. He stared at the keyboard device almost as if he hadn’t realized he was sitting behind it. He watched his fingers strike the final notes, then, as if moving in a dream, threw himself sideways just as the thing exploded. The crowd cheered, and the Librarian clapped especially loud. He had never really liked that thing. It didn’t measured up to the character of the University organ.

The rest of the performance was uneventful compared to that. There was one point when Peter struck a chord that made dogs howl, and Davy nearly got flattened by offended trolls when he, once again, attempted sing “Gonna Build a Mountain.” In the end, however, the gig was a success. People were on their feet clapping instead of throwing things, and the Monkees ended up backstage at the end, breathless and laughing.

“Woo! I don’t know when I’ve ever had so much fun!” Mike exclaimed, putting his guitar down and sprawling on a crate.

“That was most definitely one of our best gigs,” Micky laughed, spinning on the stool behind the drums. “We did perform well,” Peter agreed, his grin wide enough to admit a piece of watermelon.

“Vetinari was smiling. Did you see him? Smiling!” Davy kept saying.

The four couldn’t stop talking about the success of their performance and were startled by the sudden entrance of the Patrician. Davy jumped up.

“Er, hello your lordship,” he said awkwardly. Vetinari was smiling a genuine smile.

“I must commend you, all of you, on your performance,” he said, “It was certainly one of the most exciting and non-threatening events that the city has seen in a long time.”

Mike grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

“You must keep me informed of future performances,” Vetinari continued, “I wouldn’t mind attending more.”

“That would be no problem, your lordship,” Davy replied, “We could even print up a schedule in the Times under ‘Events’.” Peter and Micky started nodding at the mention of this idea.

“It was a good performance. Keep it up.” With that, Vetinari left, nearly colliding with a young girl who was followed by a tall, indistinct figure.

“Windy!” Peter exclaimed, “Hi!”

The girl smiled. “Hi, Peter. That was an amazing performance!”

Mike looked from Peter to Windy and back again a few times. “Pete, you…how…why are there suddenly people coming backstage to talk to us?”

“Oh Mike, haven’t you heard the legends?” Davy inquired with a chuckle, “It’s called having fans. It’s when people actually like you instead of throwing their dinner at your head.”

“I know, man, I know. We just…usually keep the fans out there.”

“The ‘fans’ also usually have axes,” Davy pointed out, causing Mike to laugh. Peter was talking to Windy about the performance and the different songs. Micky was staring at the indistinct figure, his eyes wide. He blinked a few times, walked over to the figure, and whispered,

“I didn’t think you were supposed to save people.”

SAVE? Death questioned with a slight grin, although it should be pointed out that he didn’t have much choice in that matter.

“Yeah, save,” Micky snapped, “I never would have jumped clear of that thing if you hadn’t winked at me.” I DID NOT SAVE YOU, Death explained, I DON’T SAVE PEOPLE IN THE SAME WAY I DON’T KILL PEOPLE. I SIMPLY KNEW IT WASN’T YOUR TIME TO GO. IT WOULDN’T HAVE MATTERED EITHER WAY.

Micky looked confused for a moment, then realization dawned and he nodded.

“Ah, the old ‘have fun’ trick.”

THAT’S THE ONE.

“In that case,” said Micky, “I have only one request.”

AND WHAT IS THAT?

“Don’t ever do that to me again!!”

After another wave of fans that consisted of two star-struck dwarfs and several wizards, the four Monkees were able to sit back and have a few moments to themselves before packing up and going home.

“So Pete,” Micky said slyly, having recovered from his encounter with Death, “What’s up with you and that girl?”

“Well, you know,” Peter shifted position, trying to hide his grin, “You help rescue somebody and one thing just leads to another…”

“So you asked her out, then?” Davy inquired.

“Er, she asked me out, actually…” Peter admitted, looking a bit sheepish, but happy. Davy laughed. “And old Dibbler stayed out of our hair,” Mike remarked with a smirk.

“Although, if you notice, he managed to get his business back together in time to sell sausages by the encore,” Micky pointed out.

Mike shrugged. “Hey, he can sell his sausages to anyone he likes just so long as he don’t bother us.”

There was a moment of silence in which each one of the four had his own thoughts. Davy was already starting to write a story about the gig in his head, Micky was wondering if he could somehow get in on Ponder Stibbons’s Hex project, Mike was thinking about what kind of job he could go after now that he was no longer an Assassin, and Peter was anticipating his date with Windy. There was a group sigh.

“You know,” said Davy after a minute, “This really is the life.”

Mike put his feet up on a vacant crate. “It is,” he agreed.

“Where would we be without this band?” Micky wondered.

“Dead,” Mike replied.

“Bored,” Davy added.

“On Night Watch patrol with Corporal Nobbs,” Peter put in, making a face. The others laughed.

“Yeah, I’m glad we do this kind of thing,” Micky said happily.

“Me too. Hey guys,” Peter said suddenly, sitting up, “Promise me something.”

“What’s that?” asked Davy.

“Promise…promise that we’ll keep this up, keep performing, keep being friends, you know? Because we’ve all got pretty weird lives, and I don’t think we could make it without this band.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Mike affirmed, putting out a hand palm-down. The others put their hands on top of it in an age-old sign of camaraderie.

“Friends,” Peter stated.

“Forever,” Davy amended.

“And the band, too,” Micky said.

“Can’t forget the band,” Mike grinned.

And somewhere out in space, where words spoken on any given world disperse and disappear, these four statements floated, past the giant mountain of ice at the Discworld’s Hub, past the small glowing sun, past the eyes of Great A’Tuin the world turtle, and out among the stars. Usually, it would end there. But for these statements, there’s more. Instead of drifting apart, they came together, and where they united a tiny, nearly insignificant little star formed. But, if you’ve ever looked up at the night sky and seen the galaxies spinning away around you, you know that no star is insignificant. This one glowed blue and sparked around the edges.

“Did you feel that, just then?” Micky asked.

“Feel what?” Davy said.

“Never mind,” Micky replied, looking up at the sky.