Happy Fox Studios had seen better days.
So had Hands Over Hollywood. For two seasons, the steady flood of business had slowed to a trickle. The scenesters got sick of RhyDin, and when they left for other planes, so did the scene. Irony-pop and psychobilly might someday return? but Keaton wasn?t willing to bank his career on it.
He still had funds ? there was always a sizable chunk in reserve since Tara?s generous handout ? and he wasn?t going to give up on RhyDin. Not completely. The cellar door that took him into a London pub was a windfall, and it looked like he and Trixie would end up with a band, but he couldn?t leave the city for good.
He applied the final coat of paint on the sign and made his way down the noisy aluminum ladder, juggling a paint can and brush. One, two, three steps backwards, and he looked up and grinned, shielding his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand.
?Radio RhyDin,? the sign read, and in smaller lettering underneath, ?102.5 RhyDin ? 102.7 West End.?
The West End frequency was still tricky. The district?s odd properties seemed able to turn their broadcasts into anything the Nexus desired, and often arcane chants were muttered over the music between two and three a.m. But he had mages working on the problem, never mind augmenting their radio signal with magic to better transmit through RhyDin City.
He squinted at the small radio tower atop the building and hollered in broken Russian at the two men working on it. They called back to him and laughed. Keaton grinned, lit a cigarette, and stepped inside.
Boxes greeted him to either side, packed with recording equipment. Transporting it all to London would be expensive. Much as he wanted to run the radio station without any outside interference, he?d already nearly destroyed his savings, and needed investors to get the project up and running.
?Nice job on the sign, Mr. Fox.?
Keaton craned his neck to look over his shoulder at one of the investors. Ethan Bernard Lane III. Nice enough guy for a rich prick ? that was the fox?s thinking, anyway. ?Sure.? He kept the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, and his expression tightened, just a little. Selling out to the Man wasn?t easy. ?Come to give me your John Hancock this time?? Lips tugged into a grin. ?Or is the lawyer here again??
?No, no,? Lane chuckled and walked over. ?The new schedule?s acceptable? I?m ready to sign.?
?Cool beans,? Keaton said, and led the way into his office.
So had Hands Over Hollywood. For two seasons, the steady flood of business had slowed to a trickle. The scenesters got sick of RhyDin, and when they left for other planes, so did the scene. Irony-pop and psychobilly might someday return? but Keaton wasn?t willing to bank his career on it.
He still had funds ? there was always a sizable chunk in reserve since Tara?s generous handout ? and he wasn?t going to give up on RhyDin. Not completely. The cellar door that took him into a London pub was a windfall, and it looked like he and Trixie would end up with a band, but he couldn?t leave the city for good.
He applied the final coat of paint on the sign and made his way down the noisy aluminum ladder, juggling a paint can and brush. One, two, three steps backwards, and he looked up and grinned, shielding his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand.
?Radio RhyDin,? the sign read, and in smaller lettering underneath, ?102.5 RhyDin ? 102.7 West End.?
The West End frequency was still tricky. The district?s odd properties seemed able to turn their broadcasts into anything the Nexus desired, and often arcane chants were muttered over the music between two and three a.m. But he had mages working on the problem, never mind augmenting their radio signal with magic to better transmit through RhyDin City.
He squinted at the small radio tower atop the building and hollered in broken Russian at the two men working on it. They called back to him and laughed. Keaton grinned, lit a cigarette, and stepped inside.
Boxes greeted him to either side, packed with recording equipment. Transporting it all to London would be expensive. Much as he wanted to run the radio station without any outside interference, he?d already nearly destroyed his savings, and needed investors to get the project up and running.
?Nice job on the sign, Mr. Fox.?
Keaton craned his neck to look over his shoulder at one of the investors. Ethan Bernard Lane III. Nice enough guy for a rich prick ? that was the fox?s thinking, anyway. ?Sure.? He kept the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, and his expression tightened, just a little. Selling out to the Man wasn?t easy. ?Come to give me your John Hancock this time?? Lips tugged into a grin. ?Or is the lawyer here again??
?No, no,? Lane chuckled and walked over. ?The new schedule?s acceptable? I?m ready to sign.?
?Cool beans,? Keaton said, and led the way into his office.