Jazz Dalek

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Howard and Vince have an incident over a used CD, and their adventure takes them closer to home than one might imagine. (Not a x-over, despite the Doctor Who references)

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Chapter 1

Contents

Chapter 1

Author’s Notes: Chapter 1 of 3. PG rating this chapter only

Howard slipped into his brown corduroy blazer while Vince stood by the wall hook deciding between the leopard print coat and the grey poncho. “What d’you think, Bollo? They both clash with my outfit.”

“Purple tunic frock and black PVC leggings. Go wid da diamante studded black jacket.”

“Cheers Bollo. You’re a peach!”

“Where are you two off to?” Naboo eyed them in between tokes, sat on the couch.

Vince’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning.

“We’re off to the shops to look for CDs. Gary Numan’s got a new New Man Best of the Best of, including three different versions of ‘Cars’ and a remix of ‘Love Needs No Disguise’ – the ‘COSplay is all right’ version!”

“And I’ve, uh, got something to pick up too,” Howard added quickly, eyes shifting. “For my Jazz group. Yeah.”

“Well just don’t forget what happened the last time you went lookin’ for music. You bought that vinyl and the Spirit of Jazz almost ate Vince’s brain cell,” Naboo warned. “And if you don’t find what you’re looking for – stay out of my collection yeah? Bollo and I have a gig tomorrow night and I don’t need you messing about with my stuff.”

“I promise, we won’t touch anything!” Vince whinged in gentle outrage. “Bloody ‘ell, one little book on black magic and you’d think we’d looted ‘is entire collection leavin’ ‘is room lookin’ like the bottom of a skip!”

“And my Fountain of Youth amulet. And the . . . “

“ALL RIGHT!” Vince and Howard huffed.

“C’mon, let’s go Howard.” Vince grabbed Howard’s hand and stomped down the stairs.

——-

Howard reached for the door to the record shop and held it open for Vince, who fondled the chimes on his way in. Berocca Concoctions played in the background.

Howard breathed in deeply. “Aaaah, I love the smell of vinyl. Nothing like a good vintage LP to stir the soul.”

“You going to the used section, then?” Vince asked him. “I’m heading over to new CDs to get my Gary Numan on.”

“Where ever I can find what I’m looking for, sir. My musical search knows no formatting bounds.”

“I don’t buy used CDs,” Vince replied softly. “Naboo once told me something about them – it was well scary. He said used CDs are imprinted with the stories of the people who brought them back. He says if you touch the wrong one, you could get sucked into someone else’s drama. He says they have bad juju.”

Howard scoffed.

“You don’t believe him, Howard? After all this time? Well I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Telling me what, little man? That you’ll touch the wrong CD and your hair will go flat? All the feathers will fall off your boa? A tiny demon will crawl into the bedroom in the middle of the night and clip the wedges off all your platform boots?”

Vince’s eyes went wide in horror. “Don’t even think it! Anyway, there’s some goth girls over where I’m heading. Think I’ll see if they want to check out my new shapes. Try a few moves.” He licked his lips and stared at Howard, waiting for a reaction.

“I don’t need your goth girls, Vince. I’ve got my own moves. Jazz moves. For Jazz girls.”

“Wot? With your beefy northern Jazz hands? You wouldn’t stand a chance. Anyway, there aren’t any girls in the used Jazz section. None worth knowin’ anyway. You’ve got to widen your horizons. Show an interest in someone more modern. At this rate, you’ll be playing your bassoon on your own in that tumbleweed country.”

“Don’t be casting aspersions upon the ladies of the Jazzual persuasion, my friend. Or my bassoon. I’m a multi-instrumentalist you know. There are plenty of instruments I can blow.”

Vince blushed and rolled his eyes, suppressing a smile. He popped a Satsuma out of his pocket and tossed it in the air a few times.

Howard tipped his hat, turned on his heels and headed towards the used records. “See ya later, then?”

“Yeah, awright,” Vince pouted and turned the other way.

—–

Howard’s fingers moved at a clipped pace – no, no, no, no . . . the plastic cases knocking against one another as he sought out the CD he was looking for with increasing frustration.

Billy May

Muffin Top Mavis

Jellyroll Morton – whoops, too far —

Manky Loo McKnight

A moustache-crested scowl spread across his face. “WHERE IS THE CHARLIE MINGUS?”

“Calm down, Howard! The whole shop can hear you,” Vince purred as he sauntered up behind him, hands on hips. “It’s not like you haven’t got every single record of his already. Whatchya moaning ‘bout that for?”

Somehow, Vince’s hands wound up on Howard’s hips.

“Because they don’t have any Charlie Mingus! It’s unacceptable. Not in the records. Not in the CDs. And it’s vitally important I find this one release. I wanted to give it as a gift to . . .”

“To who? Who you given’ gifts to, Howard?” Vince questioned, a hint of jealousy in his voice. Then, more mockingly, “I know it’s not for me. I hate Jazz. Wot, you going to try to woo that girl who came into the shop before your birfday party again?”

He pulled away from Howard, sliding his arms down and folded across his own chest (they had somehow found their way wrapped around Howard’s midsection).

“What? I can buy a gift for a lovely lady if I choose. And anyway, it doesn’t matter who she is.”

“Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter? Wot, you think you’re gonna woo a girl with a CD by Minging Mingus and the Whistling Winklepickers? Girls don’t like Jazz, Howard. I keep tellin’ ya. Tell me who she is, and I’ll figure out what she’s into. Awright. Or ‘ave you even met one yet? Does she know you even exist, Howard?”

Howard mumbled something indistinct about an American girl. Vince raised his eyebrows and chuckled under his breath.

Howard then plucked a CD from the rack and turned back around to face Vince, his tiny eyes narrowed to the slimmest slits. “I don’t need you to do my bidding, sir. And that’s not the only thing I’ve got up my sleeve. I’ve also got my Jazz pencil cases.”

“A pencil case? I keep tellin’ ya Howard. Girls don’t like pencil cases. They’re not interested in stationery management. They don’t like Jazz.” He stepped back, hands on hips and looked Howard up and down. “And they don’t like brown corduroy. Look at me. Women try it on with me left and right when I go out. They’re gaggin’ for it. Leroy is always beggin’ me to give ‘im one a me castoffs. Listen to me, Howard. Get rid of that moustache. Wear a colour other than brown. Do sumpfin’ with your hair.” He stroked Howard’s hair to emphasize his point.

“Don’t touch me!” Howard snapped. Vince pulled his hand back and deflated like a piece of bubblegum that had simultaneously popped and lost all its flavour.

Howard’s smooth mocking voice broke the silence. “Maybe your little Camden dolly birds don’t like those things. But I’ve got my eyes set on another breed of vixen, and here she comes now.”

“WOT?!” Vince shrieked, and moved to snap the CD out of Howard’s hands.

Suddenly, as their fingers touched, the walls around them swirled and shifted like some psychedelic earthquake had just occurred.

Vince and Howard looked at each other quizzically.

“What’s that?!” Vince pointed at the back of the shop, where a curtain moved to reveal a back room.

“That’s the new location for my Jazz club. We’re having a Doctor Who theme gathering. Lester said it was an idea from these American girls who are joining us.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, it looks like they’ve sold out of the new Numan. I’m out of here.”

Howard snapped his fingers and the music in the shop shifted. Suddenly the sound of a clarinet filled the air.

Howard leaned his elbow against the edge of a display and flicked an eyebrow. “That’ll be Isfahan by Duke Ellington,” as he smoothly shifted into lecture mode. “Some of the most romantic music on the planet came from that man’s powerful lips, my friend. Much more soul than your electro ponce. Who’s got the warm nutella moves now?”

Vince shifted in his platforms, trying his best to look incredulous. Just then a girl appeared from within the back room, as though materializing out of thin air. Black hair. Pale skin. Soft round face. She wore an A-line mini dress covered in pompoms and a headband with a clarinet cellotaped to it.

She licked her lips and winked at Howard. Vince shrank in horror. Howard straightened himself out of a slouch.

“Why hello there,” Howard purred.

“Hellooooo,” she purred back.

“What’s your name?”

“Tina. Yours?”

“Howard. You here for the Whovian Jazz meet?”

“I might be. You?”

“Indeed I am. Is that an American accent I detect?”

“Ya damn right it is.”

Howard licked his lips and smoothed his moustache as a goofy grin spread across his face. Vince turned eight shades of pale and shrank in horror.

“You look like a Jazz Dalek!” Vince sneered. “Wot’s that, a bassoon stickin’ out of your ‘ead?”

“Yeah, it is, fringe face. You got something to say about it?”

“You look ridiculous!”

“Oh yeah? Well you’re a gogo boot wearing, Gary Numan stalking, Emma Peel emulating glittery vampire fat slag!” Tina snapped back.

“I’m not fat!” Vince squawked in reply.

“And your two-toned hair sucks!” she added for good measure.

The two made to lunge at one another.

“I’m gonna stuff that bassoon so far up they’ll be callin’ ya Bassoon Batty for months!”

“I’m gonna bitch slap you so hard your eyeliner comes off!”

The store manager stepped between them, arms outstretched. “Ladies! Ladies! Settle down! Or I’ll have to chuck out the lot of you.”

Vince and Tina caught their breath while Howard stood by smugly watching.

As though on cue, another girl stepped from behind the curtain. Dark skinned. Short asymmetrical hair. With a shy dimpled grin and a long knit stripey scarf.

Howard turned to Vince with a giant grin on his face and whispered. “C’mon Vince. Jazz girls. Two of them. Two of us. You game? Or maybe I’ll just go for a Whovian three-way.”

Vince spluttered, jaw dropping. “No way. You’re on your own, mate.”

“C’mon. This is my chance. I really like the look of these girls. This could be the day I finally step over that physical boundary with a girl. I need your help.”

Vince looked around, mortified at the idea that anyone might spot him chatting up Whovian Jazz girls in the back of a record shop.

“At least this one knows how to accessorize,” he bounced back in concession.

“Hey. I’m Lana,” she beamed, revealing her own American accent. “This is Four’s scarf, by the way.”

“Four who?” Vince asked.

“Yes, exactly!” Lana responded.

“Soooo, Lana,” Howard purred with a liquid voice. “How would you and Tina here like to come check out a genuine Shoreditch vintage shop? We’ve got a rare pressing of Illinois Jacquet Flies Again. And perhaps I can interest you two in some Jazz-themed pencil cases?”

The girls looked at Vince, then Howard, then Vince again.

“Don’t look at me. I’m more interested in Jaquettie than some Illinoisy Jacquet” he said loud enough to assure the entire shop he was NOT a part of this group.

Howard whispered sideways to Vince. “C’mon, I’m getting a good vibe off this one.”

Tina stepped forward and purred, batting her eyelashes. “I’d love to come check out your pencil, Howard.” She fondled his lapel. “Mmmmm, I love the feel of brown corduroy between my fingers.”

Vince rolled his eyes and bit his tongue as she shot daggers at him.

“I say we go,” chimed in Lana. “Vintage shops are awesome.”

Tina grabbed Howard’s hand and led him out the door, Vince and Lana tripping behind them.

“He doesn’t like to be touched!” Vince yelped, to no effect.

Lana gave Vince a soft smile and offered him some ‘American candy’.

“So, tell me about this scarf, then,” Vince chatted amiably. “What about hats? Do you wear hats?”

“I have a fez,” she replied as they disappeared into the horizon.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .