Wind's Dark Sigh (4. Small, dark fame)

So far the mission was not going as Ronald had planned. He arrived at the parking garage in his pickup truck ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to take place. He waited there for nearly an hour until someone finally showed up. It wasn’t the person he was waiting for, and he was fucking pissed about it, because if there was any hint there would be a chance of running over a pothole in the path he was traveling on, the fragile tire will explode, and the mission would fail. After the exchange was done, he went straight back to the hotel to inspect his newly acquired product. It was in a wrinkled paper lunch bag which did not help his already agitated mood. 

     He got to his room with paper bag in hand, immediately locked the door, closed the curtains, then turned on one of the lamps on the wall over the bedside table. He sat on the bed, reaching inside the wrinkled paper for what was inside of it.

     “Gave it to me in a goddamn lunch bag,” he said aloud. “How fucking plebeian.” 

     He took out what was inside the bag: a Nickel plated .45 semi-automatic. 

     “This is what happens when you do deals with junkies,” he said, “they give you a gun with the safety off, and the clip inside it. And let us see if it’s loaded.” 

     Ronald removed the gun’s magazine and saw the bullets. 

     “Is there a bullet in the chamber?” 

     Turning on the safety, he checked the gun’s chamber and saw a bullet inside. 

     “Fucking goddamn morons!” he yelled inside the hotel room. “Not even a hint of professionalism with these clueless dimwits. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

     He removed the bullet from the gun’s chamber, and then pushed it into the magazine with the others. He looked up and saw his reflection in the room’s mirror on the wall over the dresser. Looking upon the image of himself holding a gun in one hand, and it’s clip in the other, he remained motionless. This was the first time he had ever held a gun. It occurred to him how well he knew how to handle his first gun, the way he checked it, removed it’s magazine, and especially how he took out the bullet from the chamber. Never once was he taught to do such a thing with a weapon. Maybe people were right about movies and the way they portrayed gun violence. 

     “I am not a bad person for being so knowledgable,” Ronald said to his reflection. “It’s not my fault that I pay attention.” 

     He put the gun and its magazine back inside the paper lunch bag, then put it into his suitcase in between his cloths. 

     To put his mind at ease, Ronald got out his cellphone from his pocket to watch Rolanda’s Snapchats for that day. There weren’t any new ones. He guessed she got too drunk the night before to wake up before noon. Such is the life of a Social Media Celebrity. He was hungry, and decided to go to a fast-food restaurant to chill while he waited for her first Snapchat of the day. If she went out for a job, he’d go for a drive to see her for the first time in the flesh. He would not stop his pickup truck to meet her face to face, no, that was not part of the mission. 

     Before leaving the hotel room he made sure he put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob; could not take the chance of a maid finding the gun. His paranoia went up one notch that day when some stranger knocked on his truck’s door window, holding that damn wrinkled paper lunch bag. He planned on calling the person he was actually suppose to meet, and deliver an earful, one long, hardcore lecture. There was no fucking around.

     Later he sat inside the fast-food restaurant, slowly eating a chicken burger and french-fries, sipping on a lemonade, and staring down at his cellphone, patiently waiting for a notification that indicated Rolanda had posted a Snap. 

     It nearly noon when she finally posted something. He tapped his finger on the phone’s screen to watch and listen to her say: 

     Hey guys, I got some good news. Got booked to do a show here in LA tomorrow night. I’ll look more excited as soon as my hangover is gone, but inside I’m ecstatic, I assure you.

     Ronald hastily finished eating his meal, and then drove out of the fast-food restaurant’s parking lot. Rolanda was definitely going to go for a jog. 

     With his heart beating fast with nervous anticipation, Ronald drove through the Los Angeles streets in a much better mood than he was after getting the handgun from the stranger. He didn’t have to drive too far, because he already knew where she lived. 

     Nearly an hour later he was sitting in his pickup truck parked a few blocks away from where Rolanda’s apartment was located on Overland Avenue, watching the Snapchat vids she had posted in the past twenty-four hours — the lifespan of all videos uploaded onto Snapchat. The great thing Rolanda Maze would do — one of the many things which made her popular on YouTube — was edit all the videos together for one ten to fifteen minute upload on her channel. It was something she consistently did every week without yield. Ronald hardly watched those videos on her YouTube channel due to the fact he’d watch her Snapchat videos incessantly everyday, mostly more than once because it pleased him so. 

     He watched her as she jammed with her bandmates, rehearsing songs, smoked marijuana, drank beers, then going out to a bar to drink shots. At one point she was speaking to her followers on Snapchat incoherently, babbling on about the election, then ranting about how tomatoes were one of the greatest foods on the planet, and didn’t know why people would hate to eat it. He got to the last video where she said she hoped the venue she was to perform at the next day would have a big crowd, and not just a few half passed out drunks stumbling around. 

     Watching her speak, Ronald noticed by what he saw in the background that Rolanda was on her way back to her apartment, and he got excited. He was going to see her in real life, in the flesh, and not through a screen on a cellphone from a thousand miles away in another state; this time, for the first time, he was just going to be a few yards away, on the same street. He sat in his truck, looking down the street, waiting in anticipation like that of an adolescent boy about to meet one of his idols. About a minute later he saw her jogging on the sidewalk, holding her cellphone up to her face. 

     According to a national statistic, one in every six woman may experience being stalked in their lifetime. This statistic is in regards to the typical, everyday female civilian. In the case with high profile celebrities, such as mainstream actresses, musicians, artists, or a popular news anchor, the chances of them being the victim of stalking is significantly lower. This is mainly due to the fact they can hire personal security to keep them safe, making it more likely a stalker would not take the chance of being caught, and having their mugshot in newspapers, magazines, websites, and on television, giving them fifteen seconds of fame. Though a female celebrity being stalked is talked about more on media outlets, it’s actually a rare occurrence, because their stalkers — if the manage to get one —  are psychotic, and stupid enough to go after someone who has cameras on them nearly twenty-four hours a day, because of the so called “legal” stalkers: Paparazzi. 

     Now even though a Social Media Celebrity’s fame is a smidgen in comparison to that of a mainstream celebrity, the chances of a female — or even a male — being the victim of a stalker is significantly higher than that of a high profile celebrity. The thing is these Social Media Stars, using YouTube, and various other social media outlets for exposure, make enough money to pay rent, buy food, and sometimes may receive free things such as an invite to a red carpet premiere, or get paid to go on a trip to some resort simply to promote it to their followers, but one thing most cannot afford is private security. It’s very rare for one to acquire enough income to afford even one bodyguard. They do not come cheap. The thing about Social Media Celebrities is they are simply private citizens who have convinced a shitload of other private citizens to click their computer’s mouse, or tap their smartphone’s screen to subscribe, or to follow. 

     When one is in public, many of their fans come up to them, asking them for a hug, autograph, or a picture with them. Most of the Social Media Celebs are grateful, and happy to have made it so far, but the thing is it comes with a price. There have been instances where their homes have been broken into while they were out — in come cases they were home — robbed at gunpoint, attacked in public, or stalked by an obsessed fan, or someone who simply didn’t like them. Whether they are female, or male, there was a chance they would pay the ultimate price, and that is killed. 

     Watching Rolanda, also known as Rollie Maze, running in his direction on the other side of the street, Ronald gazed at her image, fixated by the way her ponytail bounced on the back of her head from side to side, how her arm not holding the smartphone was bent and slightly swung back and forth as she made each stride on her jog, the sweat gleaming off the surface of her skin as it rolled down, and the way her legs flexed. As she was getting closer, he had a bout of nostalgia, thinking about someone in his past, the closest thing to deja vu without actually experiencing it. The memory started to make him cry. Tears ran down his cheeks, and immediately he wanted to remedy his sadness by doing something that may ruin his mission. 

     “Fuck it,” Ronald said aloud, wiping away his tears with the sleeve of his hoodie sweater. “I’m in a funk and need to get out of it. How else will I feel alive? There can’t be anything negative to come out of it. No, can’t be.” 

     He started up his pickup truck and began driving down Overland Avenue in the opposite direction of where Rolanda was going. Without hesitation or inhibition, he gave her a cat call whistle as he drove by. In response, still staring into her smartphone, she gave him the finger, and continued on jogging down the sidewalk to her apartment. 

     Seeing her middle finger made him give out a cackling laugh which surprised him. He never knew he could sound like the Joker from the Batman movies. This pleased him so much he forgot he was crying moments earlier. He was laughing so hard he had to park his truck on the side of the road because he was afraid he’d lose control, hit someone, or crash into a parked vehicle. He then picked up his smartphone from off the seat beside him, and waited to see what Rolanda uploaded in response to his cat call whistle the encounter. 

     Moments later, after watching her new Snaps she uploaded for her followers, Ronald was totally elated, slapping his hands on the sides of his head as his phone fell onto his thigh, then slid down his leg to the floor. 

     “I can’t believe it,” he said aloud inside the truck. “I directly influenced her Snapchat. Fuck, this is fucking awesome. I’ve done something with my life.”

     He removed his hands away from the sides of his head, making them into fists, pumping them in the air, his face contorting as he said, “Yes,” a few times over and over again. 

     “That was great,” he said. “Fucking better than sex, man. The ultimate orgasm.” 

     Later that day he walked over to The Wellesbourne from the hotel like he did the previous night. 

     “You’re turning into one of our regulars, aren’t you now?” the bartender said. 

     “Well, I am but only a tourist,” Ronald admitted, “but if I lived in this town, this place would be one of my regular chill spots.” 

     “Wow, you’re a tourist, and this is the second night in a row you’ve come here. Thank you so much, sir. The first round is on me.” The bartender reached out his hand to shake Ronald’s. 

     Ronald graciously shook the man’s hand.

     “The name’s Ronald,” he said. 

     “Mine’s Bob. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Your first round is on me. Want what you had last night? Raging Bitch, and shot of Patron?”

     “Instead of the Patron, make it a Wild Turkey,” Ronald said. “I feel wild tonight.”

     “A Raging Bitch, and shot of Wild Turkey coming right up, Ronald.” Bob, the bartender then walked away to get the drinks. 

     That was the last night Ronald went to The Wellesbourne for the rest of his time in Los Angeles, he’d be too busy to go back there as he followed the Social Media Celebrity, Rollie Maze, around the city. 

Wind's Dark Sigh (3. Her own way)

Waking up with a hefty hangover at around eleven in the morning, Rolanda ate pancakes and two eggs sunny-side up for breakfast, and decided to shoot a short video for an Instagram post of her playing the opening of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the electric piano keyboard with her smartphone. 

     When the recording started, she was sitting at the electric piano with a forlorn expression on her face before she began playing. She pressed the first key to begin, and realized the sound emitting from the speakers was the wrong one; she forgot to change the setting to the traditional sound of a real string piano.

     “Fuck,” she uttered. She looked into the camera on her phone, “Maybe I shouldn’t play Beethoven hungover. Oh to hell with it, I’ll play it with the jazz piano sound. Nothing wrong with change.” 

     She then hastily played the opening to Moonlight Sonata in the jazz style, and when she was finished, she looked into the camera with a bright happy smile, giggling a little as she reached over, and stopped the recording. 

     Right after uploading the short video to her Instagram, she got a phone call. 

     “Rolanda here,” she answered. 

     “Rollie Maze, how you doing?” the man on the other line greeted. “The name’s Charlie Vega. I own Band Wagon Bar and Grill on Olympic Boulevard.”

     “Hello, Mr. Vega,” Rolanda said. “What can I do you for?” 

     “A friend of yours, Abby, gave me your contact information, and told me I should get you booked to do a show at my place. I went online and listened to a few of your songs, and am really impressed.”

     “Thank you, sir, I do my best.” 

     “So I’m interested in you performing at my place. What do you think? You interested?” 

     “Yes,” she said with a sigh of relief. “It’s been getting hard for me to do live shows these days since I haven’t gotten a booking agent yet.”

     “These days word of mouth is the best most musicians can get,” Charlie said, chuckling. 

     “So when do you think I’ll do a show their?” 

     “Well, I know this is bit of short notice, but is there any chance you could perform tomorrow night?”

     “I hope so,” Rolanda said, a little perturbed. “I’ll have to check with my bandmates to see if they’re available. Can I call you back by two o’clock, and let you know?” 

     “Yes, of course,” Charlie assured. 

     “Thank you so much for your patience, sir.” 

     “No problem, Rollie.”

     As soon as the phone conversation was over, Rolanda sent a group text to all her bandmates: Cal, on the bass; Faye, on drums; and Max, on rhythm guitar. 

     Cal text right away: For sure, Rollie. Got nothing better to do other than smoke and watch Big Lebowski for the zillionth time. 

     Faye, who missed a few shows in the past, sent: Yes. Affirmative.

     Max text nothing for nearly an hour. 

     “This fucking guy,” Rolanda said, impatient, and a little on the edge. “He’s either fucking his woman, or sleeping.” 

     She called him, and let it ring until it went to voicemail. 

     “Max, you just sit on your ass in front of a camera, review the shitty movies coming out of Hollywood, making a living out of it. So that means you have the fucking time to answer my goddamn text, or answer your fucking phone. So, after I’m done leaving you this voicemail, I’m going to blow up your phone until you answer. This is important.” 

     She hung up, then called again. She called his phone six times until he finally answered. 

     “What, woman?” Max said, half asleep. 

     “We got an offer to do a show at the Band Wagon Bar and Grill on Olympic Boulevard tomorrow night,” Rolanda hastily said. “Can you make it?” 

     “Uh,” Max muttered on the other line. “Um.” 

     “Yes, or no, shithead,” Rolanda snapped. 

     “Rollie, why do you have to be so mean? I went to Harvard, dammit. I deserve—.”

     “Can you make the goddamn show, or not?” Rolanda said, more demanding. “I need to know now.”

     “Yes, ma’am, I can make it,” Max answered. “I’m available.” 

     “Good, thank you, bye.” Rolanda hung up.

     Without hesitation she called back Charlie Vega. 

     “Hey, Mr. Vega, it’s Rollie Maze. It’s all a go. I can do the show.”

     “Awesome,” Mr. Vega said. “Please, call me ‘Charlie.’” 

     “Okay, Charlie, see you tomorrow.”

     “I look forward to it. Bye, bye.” 

     After hanging up the phone, Rolanda hopped into the air, and after landing onto her feet, she felt her headache get worse. Her hand went to her forehead. 

     “Fucking hangover,” she said aloud. 

     She did a Snapchat vid, saying, “Hey guys, I got some good news. Got booked to do a show here in LA tomorrow night. I’ll look more excited as soon as my hangover is gone, but inside I’m ecstatic, I assure you.” End of Snap. 

     A half-hour later she went out for a jog. In the middle of her run she did another Snapchat. 

     She said, “God, I hope there is a big crowd there tomorrow night. I’ve been to the place only once, and it can get pretty crowded. But you never know, there could be just a couple of drunks and winos half passed out, stumbling around as we perform. That’s happened before.”

     Later, as she was running back to her apartment, she said in a Snapchat, “You know, even if you’re a musician with over a million followers on social media, you can still find yourself performing in an empty venue. Hey, it’s not nothing after all, at least it’s doing some—.” 

     She was interrupted when a Ford pickup truck drove by from ahead of her, the driver inside gave her a cat call whistle. Not bothering to look at him, she simply held up a middle finger in his general direction. She simply heard a cackling laugh from whoever whistled.

     In the next Snapchat, she said to her followers, “Look, I know I am a young, strikingly attractive woman, but, come on, men, there’s no need to remind me of it every fucking time I’m out in public. Yes, I know I’m wearing jogging attire which exemplifies my figure, but I’m just jogging, not performing on a stripper pole for the lonely, ogling, horny men for tips.” 

     As she walked up the flight of stairs leading to her apartment door, recording another vid, she stated, “I know men want it from women all the time, and honestly women want it just the same, but both sides must remain patient until the mutual desires are clarified, so there’d be no confusion in either parties involved. End of rant, and fuck that guy who catcall whistled. He should know better.” 

     Later that day, sitting on the couch in the living room with her laptop computer on her lap, wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, she began typing up a setlist for the show at Band Wagon Bar and Grill. The first three songs were going to be covers, the middle part of the list — the main bulk — were original songs written by her, then finishing with four songs that had lyrics written by followers she wrote music to. 

     Performing those songs gave Rolanda a certain satisfaction that made her feel accomplished, because it made the ones who wrote the words even more pleased than herself. After she’d email them a downloadable file of the song, basically all would send her a reply, thanking her, and giving her praise for not only the song made just for them, but all that she has done so far as a Social Media Star. She planned to one day take the songs she felt were the best, and compile them into a two-disc album. The problem was she would have to share royalties with all those who had written the lyrics. Many would see it as saintly, but she saw it as costly. 

     Like any other musician who wanted to make it big, Rolanda wanted to achieve success all on her own, with only the music she created herself, especially with words from her own imagination, her own mind. For her it was not about full financial gain — which wasn’t the point — it was about artistic pride, and personal integrity. An achievement that was rightfully her own without the aide of anyone else. 

     The front door of her apartment opened, and her roommate, Harriet, entered, carrying her portfolio case, and dressed in a black belted pants suit. She walked over to the kitchen counter, dropped her keys on it, removed the strap of her portfolio case from over her shoulder, then placed it on the counter, next to the keys. 

     To Rolanda’s perspective, her roommate looked visibly exhausted. 

     “You’re home early,” Rolanda commented. 

     “Yes,” Harriet said with a sigh of relief. “I started early this morning, and they said I could leave early. An intern’s wet dream. Probably will be the first, and last time it will ever happen.” 

     “So other than that, was it an all-around good day?” Rolanda asked. 

     “It was the usual day of me doing all the Bitch work,” Harriet admitted. “So getting away from there sooner rather than later was the best gift I’ve received all year.” She clapped her hands together once and held them in front of her. “I’m in a good mood for once, and I feel like making us an early dinner. Have you ate recently?” 

     “No,” Rolanda replied. “Haven’t had anything since breakfast.” 

     “How does organic spaghetti sound?” Harriet inquired, somewhat gleeful. 

     “Sounds like California Dreamin’,” Rolanda said in the song’s tune. 

     “Cool. I’m gonna take a quick shower, then get on cooking.” 

     Harriet’s cellphone began ringing in her jacket’s pocket. She got it out, and looked at the screen to see who it was. 

     She looked back at Roland, and said, “Shit, it’s my fucking cousin. Sorry if I get a little loud.” 

     “It’s quite all right, Harriet. I understand. Is it cool if I Skype with my bandmates here in the living room? We got to talk about a show we’re doing tomorrow.”

     “That’s awesome. Yeah, sure, of course.” Harriet then answered her cellphone, and greeted her cousin with, “What the fuck do you want?” 

     Harriet walked down the hallway to her bedroom. 

     Before passing through the threshold of her bedroom door, she stopped, listened for a moment, then yelled, “Things change, you fucking asshole! And stop calling me a goddamn Nazi!” She then entered her room, slamming the door behind her. 

     To Rolanda, that particular phone conversation was not what was unusual — the girl yelled at people a lot on the phone — it was Harriet’s good mood, and the fact she was going to make dinner for the both of them. It was a rare occurrence. In the span of a year, it would be the second time Harriet has cooked dinner. Rolanda had done it for her hardworking roommate any chance she could get when time was afforded to her. She could only imagine what Harriet would be like when her internship was over, and she became a full on, professional architect. 

     After she heard Harriet turn on the shower, Rolanda sent a group text to her bandmates, telling them to get on Skype as soon as possible. She then opened the video chat service on her laptop, and waited for them to join, for their faces to appear. 

     The first one to appear was Faye, the drummer. 

     “Hey, Rollie, what’s up?” Faye greeted. “Happy to hear we got a booking. Hope there’s a good crowd. If not, still great to perform.” 

     “Always the optimist, aren’t you, Faye?” Rolanda stated more than asked. 

     Faye replied by tilting her head, raising one eyebrow, and shrugging one shoulder. This would be the extent of her verbal input; she was the type who did not say much after the initial greeting. 

     Next to appear on the computer screen was Cal, the bassist.

     “What’s happening, y’all?” Cal said right away. “About damn time we get a booking. How long has it been, like four months?” 

     “It’s been two months,” Rolanda corrected. “Well, just over two months, since the show we did in Denver.” 

     “That was a good time, but let’s face it, a waste of time,” Cal said, eating chips. 

     “How could you say it like that?” Rolanda asked. “I know we spent more money getting there than we did for the actual gig, but it was a great fucking crowd, people knew me, people got to find out about me. Where’s your optimism, Cal?” 

     “I spent it on rent, which I could barely pay,” Cal said, then chomped on a chip making an audible crunching sound that filled Rolanda’s earphones.

     “But you paid it. It’s not like you didn’t pay it.” 

     “These chips are my dinner,” Cal informed. “Where’s Max?” 

     “Fucking bearded freak is always fucking late,” Rolanda blurted in frustration. “Faye, have you heard from him today, at all?” 

     Faye answered Rolanda’s query by shaking her head, raising her hands hands, palms up, in view of her webcam, and twisting her lip. The gesture obviously was stating: Haven’t seen him today, and I don’t know why he’s late. How the fuck to expect me to know what goes on in his life, Rolanda?

     “Technically Max isn’t late, Rolanda,” Cal said. “This meeting is last minute, after all. It’s not like it was scheduled a week in advance. He’s probably busy doing something right now. Either he’s filming a movie review for his YouTube channel, or he’s with his girl.” 

     “Cal, though Max makes some money off Adsense, we all know his lady is the breadwinner of their relationship,” Rolanda informed. “And I know for a fact she’s at work right now, and I know he’s already done a movie review for this week. Right now he’s in the middle of his free time, and all he does in his free time is smoke weed, sit on his couch, and watch movies all day, chomping on munchies.” 

     “The man’s got to change his eating habits by going organic,” Cal said. “I’d do the same if I could afford it. Not everyone’s making money from Adsense like you and Max, Rollie.” 

     “We’re at least making some good chunk of change off the music I’ve put on iTunes,” Rolanda said, attempting to alleviate the conversation. 

     “Most of the chunk of change is made even smaller due to the fact the most popular songs have lyrics written by your followers who get their share,” Cal countered. “Yes, it’s a great thing you’re doing, but damn.”

     “Why do you have to be such a Debbie Downer? Or in your case a Donald Downer.” 

     “Sorry, Rollie,” Cal said. “Just had to get it off my chest. Let’s move on. So, what’s gonna be the setlist for tomorrow night’s show?” 

     “Well, I want to wait for Max, but he hasn’t replied to the group text.” Rolanda looked at her phone. “I’ll just tell him what’s up tomorrow night at the —.”

     She was interrupted when Max’s face popped up on screen. He was finishing off a Red Bull, then tossed the can behind him when he was finished. 

     “I’m here,” Max said, wiping his lips and beard with the back of his hand. He burped before saying, “Hope you guys didn’t start yet. If you did, hope I didn’t miss much. Sorry I’m late, once again. I got Rollie’s text message when I was asleep.”

     “You’re in luck this time, Max,” Rolanda said. “You arrived just we were about to start.” 

     “Awesome. Let’s do this, girl.”

     Max was a cool, funny, and energetic person to have around, but to Rolanda, sometimes the dude could be like a rash you somehow couldn’t reach to scratch. At that moment as he waited for her to speak, he had a wide smile, baring his white teeth. For a second, Rolanda wondered how he kept them from getting yellow, even though he ate nothing but chunk food. She thought his teeth should be considered by the scientific community as one of the many anomalies that will never be explained, just like how Ozzy Osbourne is still alive after forty years of doing hardcore drugs.  

     “First off,” Rolanda began, “I’d like to announce that the venue for tomorrow night’s performance will be Band Wagon Bar and Grill. It’s thanks to my friend Abbey for telling the owner about me. I know it’s last minute. The owner, Charlie Vega, called me just this morning to give me the offer. I guess he was a bit desperate. Maybe another band canceled at the last minute, I don’t know. Their loss.”

     “Maybe they got a better deal from some other place,” Cal commented. 

     Rolanda ignored him, continuing on, “I’m happy you guys will be available. It’ll be great, it’ll be fun, like always. Since this show is last minute, we won’t have sufficient time for a rehearsal, so I want the setlist to be the same as the previous performance we did in Denver. There’s only going to be one change. I want to open with the Electric Wizard cover we did when we jammed yesterday, the rest of the list will remain unchanged.” 

     “Don’t you think that song is rather dark to open with?” Cal asked. “Your whole image with your music so far is lighthearted, a kind of party spectacle of fun. Are you sure you want to ad that kind of shade?” 

     “Yes,” Rolanda responded. “I want perform a diverse range of sounds before I find my true voice. I don’t think I’m at a point to be picky with whatever I choose to play.” 

     “What’s this about finding your ‘true voice?’ Haven’t you already done that? Your fanbase has basically been established. You may loose some listeners if you change up what you’re already doing.” 

     “Look, Cal, the thing is I’m still young, and I don’t want to get trapped in a niche I feel I am trapped in.”

     “Okay, I understand how you feel. I just wanted to put in my two cents. I’ll won’t touch on the subject again.” 

     “Thank you, Cal.” 

     “Is it cool if I put in a request?” Max asked. 

     Rolanda’s eyes narrowed on Max’s face inside the little square screen below the image of her face on Skype. She was ready to scratch the itch he was about to bring onto her. 

     She said, “Yes, Max, by all means. What is it?” 

     “I’ve been wanting this since we finished putting the song together to where we can perform it. Can we do it tomorrow, the song I wrote?”

     “What song is that?” Rolanda inquired, pretending not to remember it. 

     “‘Dab the hour,’ the one we rehearsed the last time we were at Cal’s. It was basically finalized. I mean, it’s good enough to perform in front of a crowd. I feel it’s a crowd pleaser.” 

     “I second that,” Cal put in. “That’s a fun one. I tip my imaginary hat to Max there.” 

     “I don’t remember the lyrics,” Rolanda lied. 

     “That’s fine, I’ll sing it,” Max said, gesturing to himself in front of his webcam. 

     “You can’t sing, motherfucker,” Rolanda said, blatant with her criticism. 

     “That doesn’t fucking matter, Rollie, the song isn’t about perfection,” Max assured. “That’s the whole theme of the song. Come on, girl. Let me be your Daron Malakian for this one. I think it’d be fucking hilarious. We can do it near the end, before we do your follower’s songs. The crowd will be like, ‘We were just listening to this girl sing with her beautiful voice, now this fat pot head is screaming in a pathetic attempt at sounding baritone. This is awesome!’ What do you think, Rollie? The majority of our fanbase are pot heads anyways. They, like, can relate.”

     “I’m in total agreement with Max,” Cal said. “How about you, Faye?”

     Faye slightly tilted her head, raised one eyebrow, and nodded.

     “That’s three ‘yes’ votes,” Cal said. “Now for the final one.” 

     All three were silent for a few seconds as they waited for Rolanda’s answer. 

     “No,” she said. 

     “Oh, come on, Rollie,” Max said, visibly disappointed. “It’s just one damn song. It’s not like I’m changing the whole goddamn list.” 

     “He’s right, Rollie, it’s only one song,” Cal put in. 

     “It’s my band, and I say, ‘No,’” Rolanda said. “The decision is final. The gavel has been struck. No ‘Dab the hour.’” She pretended to slam down a gavel in the air in view of her webcam, so they’d all see it. 

     “Rollie, making music is all about collaboration,” Cal said. “If you don’t let us help you —  which Max is willing to do of all people — you won’t be able to find the ‘true voice’ you say you’re looking for sooner. You don’t want to find that ‘voice’ too late. Like Bukowski wrote, ‘There’s nothing worse than too late.’”

     “I conquer with Cal,” Max said, adamantly nodding his head. 

     “It’s fucking ‘concur,’ you idiot,” Rolanda corrected. 

     “You know what I mean, then.”

     “Guys, I’m taking what you have just said into consideration,” Rolanda informed. “We will save this discussion for after our show tomorrow night. Okay?” 

     “Okay, fine, fine,” Cal said, crossing his arms. 

     “All right,” Max said. 

     Faye gave Rolanda the peace sign. She was Rolanda’s favorite at that moment. 

     “This meeting is adjourned,” Rolanda announced. “I’m hungry, and need some dinner in my belly. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow morning.” 

     She then ended the Skype session, and closed the laptop. 

     “Didn’t sound like a good band meeting,” Harriet said. 

     Rolanda looked up to see Harriet walking into the kitchen, her hair damp, and wearing black sweatpants and blue t-shirt. 

     “I think I’m turning into a control freak,” Rolanda said. “The thing is my band’s called Band Rollie, not something named after some poem, or Shakespeare quote, it’s my name, it’s me. And these two guys want to tell me what to do. I have a vision to uphold.” 

     “Maybe they just want to help,” Harriet said, as she was getting things ready in the kitchen to make spaghetti. 

     “If I ever make it, they can move on to something else,” Rolanda said, sitting back against the couch’s cushion, placing her right forearm over her forehead. “But there will always be Band Rollie.”

Wind's Dark Sigh (2. He hate L.A.)

“I fucking hate this town,” Ronald said to himself. “It’s the middle of the fucking day, and there’s bumper to fucking bumper traffic. Don’t you people have fucking jobs, or is your job to drive all fucking day to keep Los Angeles polluted. Shit-stain cocksuckers. Hunter Thompson was right, LA is just one big cemetery, and everyone walking in it are the ones that inspired George Romero to create the Zombie genre. Money-fucking bastards.” 

     Usually Ronald Mungus was never this angry, it was just that he had arrived into Los Angeles traffic after nearly a fifteen hour drive from Eugene, Oregon. His ass hurt, he was hungry, and it was the first time he was craving a cigarette since he quit smoking three years before. 

     “This is why I never wanted to visit this fucking city,” he said aloud. “It’s going to take me longer to get to the hotel than it did fucking driving here. Look what this place has done to me, I’m talking to myself in my goddamn pickup truck. Fucking shit. No wonder people in this town are fucking crazy, they all turn into a goddamn schizo.”

     When he realized the raging was futile, and it made him tired, he calmed himself, and accepted the stress that the city of Los Angeles brought to the tourists. So he sat back and relaxed, left one hand on the steering wheel, and turned up the stereo.

     He noticed his phone light up. Picking it up from the middle seat beside him, he read the text message he received. It said: Where are you?

     He replied: I am busy. Leave me alone. I will talk to you when I want to. Bye for now.

     He then dropped the cellphone back onto the middle seat, and went back to sitting in LA traffic. 

     “This city is like high cholesterol,” he said, propping his elbow on the door’s window sill, and cupping a hand under his chin. 

     He hoped he wouldn’t fall asleep before getting to the hotel, or else it might hurt his chance at achieving his goal — the sole reason for this trip to LA. A Hell hole, as far as he knew. 

     After parking his truck at the Best Western Hotel, Ronald immediately got out to stretch his stiff legs. He was relieved, and had a small urge to kiss the ground, but obviously he wasn’t going to. He bent down in an attempt to touch his toes, and like always, he couldn’t reach them.

     He entered the lobby to check in. 

     “Hello there, sir,” the female clerk greeted. “How are you today?” 

     “I’m doing better now that I’m here, thank you very much,” Ronald responded, appearing a bit weary. “I can’t wait to take a nap. How are you doin’?” 

     “Just fine, sir.”

     “Good to hear. I have a reservation. The name’s ‘Ronald Mungus.’”

     The clerk giggled as she looked up the reservation on the computer. 

     She said, “You know, we get a lot of customer’s who check in under alias’, and this is by far the funniest.”

     Ronald smiled, shaking his head, and then informed, “No, ma’am. Sorry to tell you, that’s my actual name.”

     Her hand covered her mouth in embarrassment. 

     “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand still over her mouth. “I just assumed — damn, I’m so dumb.” 

     “I’m just kidding,” Ronald said, digging into the front pocket of his blue jean shorts for his wallet. “It really is an alias. I work for the FBI. Here’s a credit card, with my Identification.” 

     He took out his driver’s license, and his MasterCard, putting them on the counter for the clerk. 

     She picked them up, and read his name to make sure they matched. 

     “You darn prankster,” she said, looking back at him. “Mungus is your actual name. Why do you got to embarrass me twice?” 

     “As W. Bush once said,” Ronald began to say, “‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…uh, you get fooled you can’t get fooled again.’” He then cackled for a moment. 

     The clerk sighed, and shook her head as she continued the check-in process. 

     “Whoo, that really made my day,” Ronald said, in a better mood than he was before entering the lobby. “The drive was long, and the traffic here just sucks. How could it be this bad in the middle of the day?” 

     “So it’s your first time in Los Angeles?” the clerk said more than asked, not looking at him. 

     “Yes, yes indeed,” Ronald said. “It’s only the second time I’ve went on a trip to another state. I’m not really the kind of guy who likes to go on vacations that requires long air or road travel. Maybe one day when my hair turns gray, and my skin starts wrinkling, I’ll get the urge to do such things, but right now I’d prefer to be near home at all costs, if it were possible.”

     “What was it that caused you to leave Oregon, and drive all the way down here to sunny LA?” the clerk asked, placing his room key on the counter.

     “How did you know I’m from Oregon?” Ronald asked with an accusing and curious expression, as if she weren’t suppose to know such a fact.

     “You’re driver’s license,” the clerk informed, holding up the license and credit card for him to take back. 

     “Oh, yeah, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes, and sticking his tongue out to indicate his momentary shortcoming. “But of course you’d know.” He then took the cards out of the clerk’s hand, and put them back into his wallet. He said, “I guess what brought me down to LA from Eugene, Oregon has something to do with business with lots of fun mixed in with it.” 

     “The best ingredients for a good time in this magnificent city,” the clerk said with a bright smile. 

     “You never know, I may be convinced to live here for good, but time will tell.” Ronald picked up his room key off the counter. 

     “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mungus?” 

     “Um,” he uttered, thinking. “Is there a bar around here that is not too bad of a walking distance?”

     “There’s a place called ‘The Wellesbourne,’ but it doesn’t open until five.” 

     “Nah, that’s cool,” Ronald said, turning around to leave, “I’m gonna take a nap for a few hours, then head over there. I’ll use my phone to find the place. Oh—.” He spun around, pointing a finger at her, and asked, “What’s my room number?” 

     “Sorry I forgot,” she said. “Two-seventeen.” 

     “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be seeing you.” He opened the glass door, and headed out. 

     “The name’s ‘Sandra’ if you need anything,” the clerk said as the door slowly closed. 

     He heard her say something, but didn’t care to find out what it was; he desperately wanted to sleep, just for a while. 

     After moving his pickup truck to a parking spot closer to where his room was located, he walked up a flight of stairs, quietly cursing to himself with each step he took. As soon as the hotel room door closed, he let go of his suitcase, letting it stand on the carpet, moved to the bed, and fell face first onto it, bouncing a little before laying comfortably on his stomach. He fell asleep. 

     Almost four hours later he woke up on his back. He saw through the partially opened curtains that dusk was beginning. He took out his cellphone from his pocket to see what time it was, and if he had any missed calls or text messages. There was one missed call from his mother, and text message asking him how he was doing. He wasn’t in the mood to answer her query, nor bother giving her a callback. Other than his mother’s there was another text. 

     It said: Are you done being busy, ass?

     Unlike calling back his mother, Ronald did call back this person. 

     The line rang two times before being answered. 

     “Hey, it’s me,” Ronald said into the phone. “No time for conversation. Let’s just keep this short so there’ll be no chance of us getting caught.” A pause as he listen to the person speak. “No fucking duh I’m here in town, dude. I needed some sleep. It was a long goddamn fucking drive, and the traffic in this goddamn city is un-fucking-bearable. Now we’re communicating, but we gotta make things snappy. Where can I make the pickup?” Another pause. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bossy, dude. I’m just being cautious, just being well prepared, okay.” A long pause. Ronald listened intently. He stood up off the bed, and began pacing around the room as he listened. Finally he said, “So you got it. Good. When and where will the handoff be made?” A pause as his question was answered. “Cool. So let me repeat it so we’re on the same page here, word for word. We’re meeting tomorrow at around six in the morning before you got to work, and the location is a parking garage near where you work. Good. That’s awesome.” Pause. “I can find it. I told you I finally joined the twenty-first century by upgrading my ass to a smartphone, remember?” Pause. “Yeah, I fucking love you too, man.” 

     He hung up his cellphone, saying to himself, “That fucking dick never changes. Always a fucking asshole.”

     He stood in the room for a moment thinking about what to do with the free time available to him until things kicked into high gear, when the reason for him coming the Los Angeles commenced, the project he was going to perform, a mission he felt confident he was going to accomplish. The thought about what he was planning to do in two days after coming to Los Angeles caused him to remember he had not watched Rollie Maze’s Snapchat since the night before. He sat down in the middle of the bed, crossed his legs indian style, and opened the Snapchat app on his phone. There they were in the ‘All Stories’ section, right at the top, all the short vids Rolanda Maze made the last twenty-four hours. 

     Ronald would watch them with a certain kind of reverence as if it were the only ritual with which he’d adhere to without restraint. Rolanda Maze was the only Social Media celeb he enjoyed, and the only one to really have any real, actual talent, who deserved more praise and attention from the world than she was currently receiving — and, of course, he had a crush on her. It wasn’t the kind of lustful crush the usual horny pig-man had on a woman with a perfect body, it was more like he had a certain kind of respect for her because she respected her own integrity. To him, she didn’t seem the type to end up shaking her ass in front of a crowd while wearing a thong just so she could sell soda to kids. 

     The only criticism Ronald had toward Rolanda was her stage name: Rollie. He didn’t like it. She was a big weed smoker, and the way she identified herself by using the term ‘Rollie’ simply made her popular with the millennial crowd. Ronald was not against weed, but he didn’t like the fact she’d use such a lifestyle to her advantage, she didn’t need to; her music could do that on it’s own. But he learned to accept it, and saw the marijuana scene permissible since the shit would be legalized in all fifty states by the mid twenty-twenties. Rolanda(Rollie) Maze may be a major advocate for the legalization of pot, which would really impress Ronald even more. She was the sassy type, after all. 

     He tapped the phone’s screen to play Rollie’s Snapchat vids. 

     Her beautiful face appeared on his phone’s screen. She was riding her bicycle with no hands on the handlebars down a busy street in Los Angeles, she said:

     

     1) Hey, guys, Rollie here. I had a good day at the UFC gym today. It was tough, but altogether good. Endlessly punched the bag in the beginning after warmup. Then the trainer showed me how to do some submission moves on an opponent. 

     2) You know, the thing about submission moves is they remind about the time I was once a submissive. Get it? S n’ M. I wonder if any of my followers read books. I bet you guys just saw the movie: ‘Should’ve Been Fifty Lashings on her Ass.’ That bitch was a pussy. That movie sucked, don’t watch it. 

     3) After I get home, and take a shower, I’m gonna get picked up by Cal, and we’re gonna go to his house and have a jam session after we all smoke a bluuuunt. Good times, and good music.

     As Ronald watched the Snapchat vids, he said, over and over again as if it were a mantra, “Rollie Rolanda, I’m gonna get ye.” He stopped saying the phrase when there were no more Snapchat vids at that moment. 

     Before heading to the bar the clerk suggestion, he took a shower, and masturbated as the water rained down on him, fantasizing about being with Rolanda in her bedroom — slash — amateur music studio, her sitting on his lap as she played a song on her electric keyboard, a nice, calm, soothing, and sensual tune. 

     When he was all done and clean, he got dressed and walked to The Wellesbourne. On his way to the bar he watched a couple more Snapchats Rolanda had posted while he showered. 

     In one she was leaving Cal’s house after a jam session. She said something about a song they performed for fun by a band called Electric Wizard. In the second Snap she was at her apartment with a few of her friends, wearing a different set of cloths, and had makeup on her face, pregaming before heading to a bar where Zilla, her friend, and fellow YouTuber, was performing at with her band. Zilla was on lead guitar. 

     Ronald put his phone back into his pocket as he arrived to the bar. His legs felt normal again after walking those long LA blocks, and couldn’t wait to get an IPA beer in his belly. Soon as he passed the threshold of the entrance to The Wellesbourne he was shocked to see how it was more luxurious than he expected. The decor made him feel comfortable, and cozy. There were couches, and even a real fireplace. In the corner, a jazz band played soothing music.

     He moved to the bar, still looking around at the place, fascinated, and feeling lucky to be in such a place — not some rundown, old hole in the wall. 

     “What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked. 

     Ronald turned his head to see a man with a beard that covered his neck, and a handlebar mustache. 

     “Hello there,” Ronald said. “You know, this place is really nice. Has a nice homey feel to it.” 

     “Yeah, thanks, man,” the bartender responded. “Now, what can I get you, friend?” 

     “I’d love a shot of Patron. What IPA’s do you have?”

     “Lagunitas, Racer Five, Eye of the Hawk, and we got a special one this week, Raging Bitch.” 

     Ronald pointed right at the bartender, a grin on his face. He said, “Now because of those last two words, not only do I love this bar, I love you as well. A Raging Bitch, please.”

     “Raging Bitch it is with a shot of Patron,” the bartender said, knocking on the bar once, then moved to get Ronald his drinks. 

     Ronald said quietly to himself, “Raging Bitch. How appropriate.” 

Wind's Dark Sigh (1. Pause before pie)

   "Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously near to wanting nothing." -- Sylvia Plath


This story begins with Rolanda Maze setting up a voting poll on her Twitter page. She gave her followers three options on how she would celebrate her achievement of reaching one hundred thousand subscribers on her YouTube channel. What she was definitely going to do was perform a song on her new SG CM black Gibson guitar her brother Michael had given to her on her birthday, but her followers were going to choose what was going to be done to her as she sang. 

     The three options they were voting on were: A) Maced in the face after the first verse; B) Pied in the face fifteen times the entire duration of the song; and C) Be randomly shocked by muscle stimulators connected to her cheeks. 

     For three days Rolanda had the poll up on her Twitter page, and a few thousand of her followers voted. At the end of the three days the results were in, and Rolanda saw that most of the followers who voted wanted her maced in the face. The thing was she was the only one to see that option to be the winner. She knew it was going to be either that stunt, or the muscle stimulators, so she got one of her computer savvy friends to rig the voting poll, setting it up so if people voted for option A, or option C, their votes were going to option B, pied in the face, the least painful, and the votes for getting pied in the face were to be split in half and spread evenly to A and C. 

     Yes, Rolanda had rigged the voting process. Even though she believed in fair elections when it came to politics, this Twitter voting poll was just for fun, and there was no fucking way she was going to be like those other YouTube idiots by getting maced, or electro shocked while she was doing something she wanted to do for the rest of her life after her time with being a Social Media Celebrity was over. 

     She filmed the video in the living room of her apartment in Los Angeles with her friend — another YouTuber — Zilla, while her roommate, Harriet, was at work. She usually never filmed a video outside her amateur studio, which was also her room, but she felt for this celebration it was more fitting aesthetically to film it with the living room’s big window in the background; it had this nice view of tree tops she loved to look at every morning as the sun rose. 

     Harriet never liked it when Rolanda filmed the apartment outside her room, even with her SnapChat, or taking pictures for her Instagram. She said to Rolanda that it was cool she do it in the kitchen, but not anywhere else in the apartment, especially her own room, or anywhere close to it, where she had this nice set up for her own job. She wanted nothing to do with the Social Media scene. She led a generic life, working as an intern architect for some big company in Downtown Los Angeles. 

     “Does Harriet watch your videos?” Zilla asked Rolanda as she mounted the camera on the tripod. 

     “No,” Rolanda replied. “Sometimes she’ll listen to one of my albums while she works in her room, but everything else I do she has no interest in.” 

     “If she sees what we’re about to film, you think she’ll flip out and kick out of the apartment?” Zilla had already hit the record button on the camera. 

     “I don’t fucking care,” Rolanda said. She plugged her Gibson into the Marshall amplifier. “She’s my friend and all, and sometimes we go out to the bar and have a good time, but she is one picky bitch. She acts like she’s the goddamn landlord.” 

     “But the pies,” Zilla said, “she won’t like the fact about pies being thrown in the living room.” 

     “What’s she gonna do, spank me? Look, we moved the furniture up against the walls, and I put plastic over the fucking carpet.” Rolanda tapped her bare feet on the plastic. 

     Zilla gestured to the plastic covering, saying, “You should’ve gotten a bigger one, it doesn’t cover the entire carpet, and the furniture isn’t covered with plastic.” 

     “And your point is?” Rolanda asked with attitude, one hand going to her hip. 

     “My point is when the pies hit you in the face they will splatter their ingredients all over the place, getting on the carpet, the couch, the table, the goddamn chair, and maybe on the wall there, it’s close enough. These aren’t whip cream pies I’m going to throw into your face, they’re a diverse variety with cherry, chocolate, egg, peach, raspberry, flan —.”

     “Oh, my God, shut up,” Rolanda interrupted, “you’re fucking boring me. All I care to know at this moment is do I look good in this two-piece swimsuit.”

     “Yes, you look good,” Zilla commented. “Why are you wearing a black two-piece swimsuit?”

     “Because I don’t want to stain any of my clothes,” Rolanda said, strumming the guitar with a nice distorted riff, and turning around to shake her booty for the camera. 

     “And you still don’t mind if the carpet, or furniture gets stained?” 

     “We’ll clean it up before momma gets home, Zilla. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.” 

     “I hope the song is short, because the sooner we clean it, the better. If Harriet comes home, and notices a small fucking stain, remember, I was not here. This was all your doing. You will suffer the wrath of Harriet.”

     Still shaking her booty for the camera, and doing a short solo on the guitar, Rolanda said, “Are you ready to do this?”

     “There’s just no reasoning with you, is there, Rolanda?” Zilla said with a sigh, finally relenting on the subject. 

     “This is a celebration, girl,” Rolanda said, “I hear nothing but the cheers of one hundred thousand people. Well, really the sound of mouses clicking on the link to my videos, but one day I’ll be standing on a stage in front of what feels like a crowd of a hundred thousand, all cheering my name. I don’t really care for a stain on a goddamn carpet. I must remain focused, more so than Harriet when she’s designing some new goddamn building.” 

     “Okay, fine, ready to start whenever you like,” Zilla announced. 

     “You ready to throw the first pie?” Rolanda inquired. 

     Zilla turned around to the fifteen pies covering the top of the kitchen table — there were a couple on the chairs — and picked up the first one to be thrown at Rolanda as soon as she began performing an original song she wrote just for this particular YouTube video. 

     “Poised, and ready, Rollie,” Zilla said, holding up the first pie over her head. 

     Rolanda hopped, doing a one-eighty turn to face the camera. 

     “Rollie Maze here,” she announced, pointing a finger directly into the camera lens. “I’ve just hit one hundred thousand subscribers on my channel, and I want to give you all a gift. An original song just for this occasion which I will perform for all of my dedicated fans. And the votes are all in. I’m going to perform it while getting pied in the face. Here we go.” 

     She strummed the first distorted riff with the guitar pick. That’s when Zilla threw the first pie, an American Caramel tart, right into Rolanda’s face. 

     Fame is the name of the game

     I’m workin’ hard to get that free cocaine

     So I’m singing a song while gettin’ pied in the face

     [Cheese pie]

     Thank God it wasn’t me gettin’ maced

     Or electrocuted in the face

     [Cherry pie]

     One day I’ll be like Lemmy

     Be up for three weeks after an ounce of speed

     [Big Egg tart]

     These pies taste so damn good

     If I didn’t work out, this’d be my only food

     [Flan]

     Fame is the name of the game

     Anything else is considered too lame

     [Flapper pie]

     They should make a pie laced with cocaine

     Rolanda continued — sometimes pausing for a moment to taste chunks of pie collecting in her cleavage — until she finished by turning around, bending over, showing off her booty to the camera, and getting the last pie thrown right onto her ass. The song was over, and she laughed and cheered, raising her arms into the air. 

     She looked into the camera, and said, “Thank you everyone for your praise and support. I will keep doing what I do best as long as you keep watching and clicking like. Tell your friends to subscribe. Now I got to clean all this up, or I’ll get stabbed by my roommate.” 

     End of video. Zilla pressed the button on the camera to stop it from recording anymore. 

     “Well, I hope all this shit was worth it,” Zilla said, surveying the mess.

     As she expected, there were splatter marks not only on the carpet, but also on the furniture, and the walls.

     Rolanda didn’t respond, she simply walked over to the counter in the kitchen where her cellphone was, picked it up, and began a SnapChat video. 

     Holding up the phone so it’s camera could get a nice view of her with the mess in the living room in the background, she said, “Here’s the aftermath of my one hundred thousand subscribers video celebration which I’ll upload on Wednesday. First, I got to clean all this pie shit up before my roommate gets off work. Are you ready, Zilla?” 

     “Fuck you, Rollie,” Zilla said. 

     “I love you too,” Rolanda said, still looking into the camera on her cellphone. 

     End of that SnapChat vid. 

     A few days after Rolanda uploaded the video to her channel, she announced on her Twitter she would respond to comments for an hour. Usually she would spend half that time responding to the YouTube comments on her other videos, but since this was an auspicious occasion, she felt should give her fans a special extra treat. They deserved it, and she, in a way, deserved to read some praise. Of course she knew there were going to be some trollers bashing her, but that was part of the internet people like her had to deal with on a daily basis. Things like that had to be taken with a grain of useless salt. 

     Scrolling through the comments, she responded to as many as she could. 

     

     One said: You’re fucking awesome, girl. I showed all my friends. 

     Her reply: Thank you so much. You make me so grateful to be a musician.

     Another said: Cool fucking song. I especially love the line about Lemmy.

     Her reply: R.I.P. Lemmy. He’s entertaining the cosmos as we speak. 

     Then she came to a comment she didn’t like. It was the kind she’d expect a troller account to make. If it was a troll account that didn’t have a face to one of the many weird names trollers came up with, she would’ve disregarded it, and moved on, but in this case, not only did the account have a real name, it had a picture as well. The person was real, and the person was one of her subscribers. She even recognized him. 

     Ronald Mungus: I don’t care much for the song. I basically pause it at exactly 2:46, because I’m a straight, white male. DON’T JUDGE ME! LOL.

     What made Rolanda so popular on Social Media was not based solely on her impressive talent as a musician, or the comedic videos she made for her YouTube channel, it was the fact she created music based off lyrics and poems written by her followers for free, and then upload a video on her channel performing the song. All they would have to do was e-mail their words through her website, and wait until Rolanda sent them a reply stating she’d created the song, and when she’d upload the performance. She started doing this five years ago. 

     At first the wait list was two weeks until the video was uploaded, then it turned into a month, then eventually got to six months. At that point, after reaching one hundred subscribers on her YouTube channel, and gaining a quarter of a million followers on Twitter, the wait list was over a year. To get people pushed forward in line, Rolanda setup a PayPal donation where the more a person donated to the song writing project, the sooner she’d create the song.

     She remembered this Ronald Mungus was one of them. He had e-mailed her a poem, saying it was written for someone he loved, and wanted it turned into a song. He praised her on how impressed he was with what she was doing with people’s words, how amazing and inspirational it was, and if only more people knew about what she was doing, she’d go far, to the top. He even donated a good chunk of money so he could here the song as soon as possible. 

     After reading his comment she realized this dude was full of shit. 

     She replied to Ronald Mungus. It was the longest reply she had ever written in the comment section of any of her videos. 

     Rollie Maze: Hey, Ronald, I remember you. I remember reading the poem you sent me to turn into a song, and I thought, ‘Here’s a guy that understands how a man should love a woman.’ I realize now that wasn’t the truth. How naive I must’ve been to think you were a good person by the way that beautiful poem was written. Now I think you must’ve simply plagiarized the words to — what?— get a reply e-mail from a ‘hot piece of ass,’ and get her to create a song you pretend to have written the lyrics for so you could impress your buddies at the bar. I am not some thing that you can have for yourself. I wholeheartedly regret making the song. And it makes me truly, truly sad that people like you exist amongst a civilized society who make it sometimes seem uncivilized. I thought you were cool. And I say to you, sir, “You’re just an asshole!” 

     Rolanda then moved on, replying to comments which praised her until the hour was over, and she logged off her YouTube account. 

     She took out her cellphone, and opened the SnapChat app. 

     “I just finished replying to the comments to my pie celebration video,” she said into her phone. “I want to thank all those who congratulated me, and rained in their praise for me achieving one hundred thousand subscribers. I did see some negative comments from those damn trolls that live on shaming people like me, but I pay them no mind, they mean nothing to me, because I am just too damn happy to notice.”

     The time limit for the SnapChat video ran out. She added it to the “My Story,” then began another Snap. 

     “And also big thanks to those who voted on my Twitter to choose how I’d celebrate,” she continued. “Especially to those who chose the pies over the other options. I don’t think I could’ve handled being maced, or electrocuted in the face while trying to perform a song. Thank God for democracy. Remember, it’s extremely important you register to vote in this year’s election. It only takes fifteen minutes. Let your voice be heard.”

     About twenty minutes after the hour of her replying to the comments was over, Ronald Mungus replied to her little lecture of a reply. 

     Ronald Mungus: That’s exactly the type of response I expected. LOL. I have even more respect for you than I did before. All this time I thought you were another Indie musician who’d sign a contract to a big corporation, and end up like those pop music idiots that dance half-naked on television, twerking their bony asses at the camera. Now I see you’d never stoop that low. Well, hopefully not. Money is a drug everyone wants. I can’t wait to hear the song you’ve made out of the poem I wrote. It’s very important to me. I love you for doing such a thing for giving lowly people like me who have a hard time finding a conduit to get our words out to a larger audience other than our relatives, and close friends. You’re awesome, and so damn funny.      

  

     Rolanda never read this reply due to her moving on to work on music for new videos, and doing collaborations with other YouTubers. The most important thing a Social Media Celebrity had to do was remain busy, and keep on uploading on the various social media outlets. One hobby she did to keep the energy up, and her mind focused and in the zone, was training in the Mixed Martial Arts. She never had the intention of participating in an actual competition, just wanted to be a tough, badass people would aspire to be.

     A week later Ronald Mungus deleted his comment, and his response to Rolanda’s reply. To remove her reply he had to report it to YouTube as harassment. That day when Rolanda was uploading a new video, she saw she had been flagged for said harassment, but ignored it because it didn’t really effect her in any way. It was the first time she ever got a notice from YouTube of being flagged for anything, and would be the last.