Chapter 4: The Boys are Back In Town

Chapter 4The Boys are Back In Town

The next few weeks of Justino’s life seemed to go by in a flash. Rather life at school went by in a flash. He was largely uninterested in what he was doing there, putting in the bare minimum amount of effort. His energy went instead into making a sickening cacophony of electric instruments with his friend Chuy and whoever was idiotic enough to join them on drums the day they jammed out. Laura paid no mind to it, though was concerned at first. He seemed happier than he’d been in months, and for someone who had no idea how to put a smile back on his face…
”Hey,” said Justino as he strummed his guitar. “What’s your name dude?”
He got no answer from the person he was trying to talk to—the drummer currently playing with him and Chuy.
“Ey! Pendejo!”
Finally fed up, he threw a piece of paper at the drummer and at last the dude answered.
“Shit my bad gang. Wassup?”
“What’s your name, he asked,” said Chuy as he absently noodled on his bass.
“Name’s Marcos. Marcos Velez,” he said finally.
Marcos Velez, age 14, was certainly a character. He was a kid completely different to Justino and Chuy. Whereas Chuy embodied the identity of that one kid in class who swore Soundcloud would be his kingdom one day, and Justino was the quintessential biker “born too late for the 90s” grunge dude, Marcos looked like he was about to two-step at a metalcore show. His hair went over his eye, his lip had a ring, he wore cargo pants, and perhaps most starkly he was wearing a Coheed and Cambria shirt. So perhaps not go two stepping but rather bury his face in the latest issue of Amory Wars. Face rings were nothing Justino was unaccustomed to, though, as he himself had a nose ring. Despite all of this, though, Justino had every intention of asking Marcos this one question.
“Wanna like join our band full time? You kill it on drums, man. Don’t think you messed a single fill up this whole time,” he said.
“Hmmm I’m like in three other bands already but… Eh, they’re dead. Plus they don’t like that I got Tourette’s. Fuckin ableists.”
“We like pirates, fool, ain’t nobody give a shit if you got a broken LEG. You can play and you chill, you can hang with us,” said Chuy.
”Chuy, Tourette’s ain’t… know what never mind,” said Justino. “Hey y’all wanna go cruisin’ or some shit?”
“Sure, why not? I got a truck,” said Marcos.
“Gah DAMN,” said Chuy. “Aight shit, let’s go.”
Off they went to some random ass part of LA, deciding ultimately on San Pedro.
“Ay dawg,” said Justino as they were cruising through little Italy, “watchu doin’ that for?”
“What?”
“You like, see someone boutta cut you off and then make a pop noise and slap the fuckin’ dashboard,” noted Chuy with a pair of ski goggles on. “Tryna get us killed or some shit?”
Marcos sighs.
“That’s how my condition presents itself. Please don’t try to be stressin’ me out unless you REALLY tryna die.”
“‘Nuff said,” concluded Chuy.
“Hey also what’s up with the comic books back here still in they plastic wrap? And all them dinosaurs you got organised and glued to yo dashboard.”
“Do you want a ride or not? I will turn this–I am MOOSE–turn this car around–pop. I…”
He takes a deep breath not wanting to trigger a more severe tic while driving.
As they drove up and down the hills, they noticed a man dressed in a zoot suit pushing a Hammond organ uphill to what was likely a church gig or something. This guy was a giant, easily 6’8” or maybe even 7’. He didn’t seem to be much of an idiot and was visibly frustrated.
“Ey fool,” said Justino as he rolled down his window, “where you goin’?”
“Not your business,” the man said. As one might expect, he had a deep voice smooth like butter.
“I ain’t gonna lie, you look like you could use a lift,” said Justino.
”Ay dafuq? I ain’t say—pop—nothin bout you—moooose—bringin’ no strangers in my car,” said Marcos with indignation, once again slapping the dashboard and then wincing in pain once the tic was complete.
”Shut up man, this guy looks cool as fuck,” said Justino.
The man pushing the Hammond meanwhile seemed to be regretting his life choices, saying something along the lines of “I should never have crashed my car.” Then finally he answered.
“I feel like I’m about to drop this thing. Alright. Sure.”
Chuy pulled over and parked in the lot behind Rafaello’s. Justino got out to help the man load up his massive organ into the truck bed. Marcos, meanwhile, sat in the back shaking his head. Once everything was loaded up, the man got into the truck with them.
”What’s your name boss?” Asks Justino.
”I go by Crowley,” the man says.
”Crowley?” Asks Chuy. “What, you some kinda secret agent type shit? That ain’t no name, man.”
”I go by Crowley,” the man repeated.
”He said his name is Crowley, Chuy,” said Marcos. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
”Ey man this gonna sound real outta pocket but like, you wanna join our band? We’re Navarro & The Shitbirds,” said Chuy.
”Chuy, ¡ya callate guey!” Said Justino.
The man sighed before finally deciding “sure. I’ll join your gaggle of idiots.”
With that, the band was complete. They moved out of Chuy’s strange broken down warehouse into a storage unit Crowley bought off Gaffey. There, they received a massive gear upgrade. Chuy got one of the few well-made Roden basses from the Soviet Union, with the upgrade of having its electronics replaced with modern day G&L electronics. Justino received several guitar pedals, including an MXR phase 95 and a LELL CZ. Both of them received new amps, including a Sovtek MIG-100 and a Bassov Blues Midget, as well as a new microphone. According to Crowley, it had once been used by Fidel Castro himself.
Equipped with better gear, the band rehearsed and came up with what they would eventually call their first album.