Eleven Days 'Til Showtime
Mab Cassidy was pissed off.
She was a terror on two legs; a red-haired and red-lipped mad scientist of the music industry. The woman had taken leprechauns — gold-hoarding, rainbow-riding, clover sniffing, shoe-making, practical-joking leprechauns — and made them into what could very well be a multiversal musical sensation. This thing was poised to be bigger than the strangely attractive love-child of the Menudo and the whole of the British Invasion. Something about the novelty of the Little Green Men with their tiny green instruments seemed to enchant folks and bring them to major venues on droves. They'd sold out Bottom of the Hill in San Fran, the Trocadero in Philly, and the Copacabana in the Big Apple. The world was buzzing (and the little guys had amassed half a million followers on Twitter), but Mab wanted more than the world for the lads. She wanted the whole bloody universe, and she was going to get it.
"Damn it all tae hell, Johnny, I don't care if'fn ya have tae drop the hand on a ganky, give yer own mother a toe in the hole, or give yerself a prunin.' Quit jammin,' grow a pair and make the flight happen. Find a pilot. Find a way. Today. I'm sittin' on the biggest thing since the feckin' Stones, and they are goin' tae Rhydin fer Saint Paddy's. If ya cannot figure this out, I'll sack ya, hire ya back, publicly emasculate ya, and sack ya again just to laugh at ya. Ya get it done, sonny."
She hung up the phone with a deep breath, composed herself with a shot of Jameson from her flask, and moved from the privacy of her office. Mab let herself into studio number three, where the shoot was taking place, and put on her best thousand-watt smile. The woman was as ruthless as the devil himself, and she had learned just how much those vertically inept musicians like a pretty redhead with a nice set of gams.
Her gams were legendary.
"Boys. Ya look sharp in those nice green suits. Travel's nearly booked, Fender and Ibanez have delivered the customs, and the advertising has started. Rhydin is goin' to eat ya up, I promise."
"Aw, thank ya, Mab. Yer an angel walkin' about on two legs," said Seamus with a naughty little gleam in his naughty little eye. "Ain't she, lads?"
"Just like an angel," agreed Paddy as he leaned over to ruffle Seamus' spiky green hair.
"Not the hair, Paddy! The pictures! Jesus!" Said Seamus with a little scowl.
"Stop with the blarney, we're supposed tae finish the shoot," said Sean, sweeping the long blonde hair from in front of his money-green eyes.
"Can we be done" I'd like a sandwich," said Ringo. Pfffffft. Drummers.
"I think ya can be done, boy-os, I like what I see. Why don't ya practice a whit and by the time ya get in it, lunch'll be here." Mab dazzled them again with those oh-so-pearly whites, and gestured to the intern who quickly went about the task of fetching sandwiches. Leprechauns dispersed, headed for their tiny instruments and broke into an absolutely savage rendition of Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love, just for Mab. Sean killed it—he could really nail the essence of Page and if you closed your eyes, you would swear that Paddy was Robert Plant.
The music washed over her, and she felt like she wanted to dance, to shake, to lose herself in the pervasive wall of sound. She would do no such thing until the next big show. Always on the job, she looked at the monitor as the photographer uploaded shots of the group. Without hesitation, she pointed.
"That's the one."
And with that, Mab Cassidy headed back to her office to finish coordinating her Little Green Takeover of the musical universe.
http://i809.photobucket.com/albums/zz12/EightBitPlayer/RDI%202010/SgtShamrock.jpg
Mab Cassidy was pissed off.
She was a terror on two legs; a red-haired and red-lipped mad scientist of the music industry. The woman had taken leprechauns — gold-hoarding, rainbow-riding, clover sniffing, shoe-making, practical-joking leprechauns — and made them into what could very well be a multiversal musical sensation. This thing was poised to be bigger than the strangely attractive love-child of the Menudo and the whole of the British Invasion. Something about the novelty of the Little Green Men with their tiny green instruments seemed to enchant folks and bring them to major venues on droves. They'd sold out Bottom of the Hill in San Fran, the Trocadero in Philly, and the Copacabana in the Big Apple. The world was buzzing (and the little guys had amassed half a million followers on Twitter), but Mab wanted more than the world for the lads. She wanted the whole bloody universe, and she was going to get it.
"Damn it all tae hell, Johnny, I don't care if'fn ya have tae drop the hand on a ganky, give yer own mother a toe in the hole, or give yerself a prunin.' Quit jammin,' grow a pair and make the flight happen. Find a pilot. Find a way. Today. I'm sittin' on the biggest thing since the feckin' Stones, and they are goin' tae Rhydin fer Saint Paddy's. If ya cannot figure this out, I'll sack ya, hire ya back, publicly emasculate ya, and sack ya again just to laugh at ya. Ya get it done, sonny."
She hung up the phone with a deep breath, composed herself with a shot of Jameson from her flask, and moved from the privacy of her office. Mab let herself into studio number three, where the shoot was taking place, and put on her best thousand-watt smile. The woman was as ruthless as the devil himself, and she had learned just how much those vertically inept musicians like a pretty redhead with a nice set of gams.
Her gams were legendary.
"Boys. Ya look sharp in those nice green suits. Travel's nearly booked, Fender and Ibanez have delivered the customs, and the advertising has started. Rhydin is goin' to eat ya up, I promise."
"Aw, thank ya, Mab. Yer an angel walkin' about on two legs," said Seamus with a naughty little gleam in his naughty little eye. "Ain't she, lads?"
"Just like an angel," agreed Paddy as he leaned over to ruffle Seamus' spiky green hair.
"Not the hair, Paddy! The pictures! Jesus!" Said Seamus with a little scowl.
"Stop with the blarney, we're supposed tae finish the shoot," said Sean, sweeping the long blonde hair from in front of his money-green eyes.
"Can we be done" I'd like a sandwich," said Ringo. Pfffffft. Drummers.
"I think ya can be done, boy-os, I like what I see. Why don't ya practice a whit and by the time ya get in it, lunch'll be here." Mab dazzled them again with those oh-so-pearly whites, and gestured to the intern who quickly went about the task of fetching sandwiches. Leprechauns dispersed, headed for their tiny instruments and broke into an absolutely savage rendition of Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love, just for Mab. Sean killed it—he could really nail the essence of Page and if you closed your eyes, you would swear that Paddy was Robert Plant.
The music washed over her, and she felt like she wanted to dance, to shake, to lose herself in the pervasive wall of sound. She would do no such thing until the next big show. Always on the job, she looked at the monitor as the photographer uploaded shots of the group. Without hesitation, she pointed.
"That's the one."
And with that, Mab Cassidy headed back to her office to finish coordinating her Little Green Takeover of the musical universe.
http://i809.photobucket.com/albums/zz12/EightBitPlayer/RDI%202010/SgtShamrock.jpg