“And Mr Moon rounds out our little band,” smiled Disc Jockey to the six men dressed in matching leather outfits. “Welcome to the Rock N Roll Squad.”
“Wot the %$^# is going on?” snarled Sid Vicious, his hands tugging at the uniform.
“Where the ^&%$ am I?” yelled Marc Bolan looking around. “I was in my car…”
Disc Jockey, a five foot racially ambiguous man dressed in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt with headphones around his neck, held his hands up as he bopped to a strange unheard rhythm in his head. “Chill. I’ll answer all your questions, but you probably won’t like any of the answers.”
“Excuse me, but I should be on a plane?” Buddy Holly raised his hand. “And whose clothes are these?”
“You’re Buddy Holly. You’re Jim Morrison,” Bill Chase, the world-renowned jazz trumpeter said. “But you’re both dead!”
“I think you’ll find, I’m quite alive.” Jim Morrison stared back at him with his piercing gaze.
“Actually, you’re all quite dead.” Disc Jockey interrupted. “Some by accidents, some from overdose, some because it happens. But have you heard the saying, if there’s a rock and roll heaven?”
“We’re the band?” Keith Moon said as he patted himself down.
“You’re A band,” Disc Jockey said. “We form these every so often when something goes completely off the charts.”
“This is bollocks!” snapped Vicious spitting on the ground. “I ain’t working with these old pricks!”
“Oh, you will John,” Disc Jockey looked the nasty punk rocker in the eye. “You will.”
“So, mister…. what is your name, I didn’t catch it?” Buddy Holly asked.
“I’m the Disc Jockey,” he replied as he put on his headphones. “And you’re going to save a world from Jimi Hendrix!”
The sextet of musicians spun in circles as the world went purply and hippy like an LSD adventure. Disc Jockey floated calmly in the middle of them spinning up a story on his decks. “Here’s the beat! In nineteen sixty-nine, one Jimi Hendrix born Johnny Allen Hendrix, was arrested in Canada for drug possession.”
“So?” Keith Moon said. “Nothing wrong with a bit of spice.”
“I’m not here to condone or condemn the uses of substances,” Disc Jockey said as he scratched on the decks, the air and the colours reacting to the mixing of the tunes. “I’m just setting the tone. Jimi got arrested, charged and set free on bail. He was later acquitted. But in the infinite spectrum things don’t always go the way we like. Where you’re headed is a place where Jimi had the book thrown at him. No bail, seven years in prison. This stops Jimi from dying in 1970 but creates a monster.”
“You want us to kill Jimi Hendrix?” Marc Bolan said bluntly.
Disc Jockey nodded. “If you don’t his legacy of rock and roll is overshadowed by his criminal endeavours.”
“Why don’t you do it, you little git?” Vicious asked as he picked his nose and flicked it into the zero-gravity environment.
“Got no VIP pass,” Disc Jockey shrugged. “You’re all famous, you get in places. I just push buttons.”
“And after we kill Jimi, what happens?” Bill Chase asked. “Do we go to heaven?”
“We’ll see,” Disc Jockey smiled as he ripped a great ear-piercing scratch across the record. “Anything else is in the rider. Good luck!”
And like that the sextet were standing out the front of Kingston Penitentiary in Bath, Ontario in knee high snow.
To be continued