HOME OF THE HITS
by Carl Cafarelli
"Good Evening, Mr. Keller."
Amber buzzed Skip Keller into the reception area at the Mephisto Records studio. Keller looked casually around this familiar environment. He'd long since lost track of how many times he'd been there, starting nearly thirty years ago, when he was a teen idol in a boy band called Hit Corps.
He wasn't a teen idol anymore, nor was he a boy. His hair was flecked with premature gray, starting to thin just a little bit on top. He still held the same guitar case he had back then, still never visited the studio without that case at his side. He visited the studio often. He didn't sing or record anymore, except as a session guy. He still wrote songs. He still made hits. His business card read:
HITCORE
Home Of The Hits
Skip Keller
Songs And Services
He was a company man now.
Keller smiled at Amber, skipping any pretense of flirtation. They had history, and that's what it was between them: history. "I'm here to see Willington Blue about his new album."
She replied curtly, "Mr. Wonderful is in Studio B."
Amber waived Keller in the direction he already knew. Hit Corps had recorded five Top 10 hits in Studio B. Keller had been there just last month, helping a budding young diva record the soon-to-be-hits for her Mephisto Records debut. Keller wrote two of those hits. He felt no connection to them. Decades ago, music had been a creative release for Keller. It was always a business. Business was all it was nowadays.
Willington Blue had been in a buzzworthy rock band, a critics' darling that actually sold records. Blue, the arrogant auteur, broke up that band to pursue the glory of solo superstardom. The suits at Mephisto grumbled. Those grumbles subsided when Blue's first solo album topped the charts. Grumbles resumed as work on Blue's second album stalled amid cost overruns, production delays, and the increasingly odd behavior of the tortured genius, the perfectionist, the insufferable enfant terrible Willington Blue. Mephisto Records didn't want art. Mephisto wanted a hit. And that was Skip Keller's job.
In Studio B, Blue sneered a greeting at Keller. "God's gift to aging nubiles. How's the boy band business, Keller?" Keller ignored him. "Shut up, Blue. You need to be done with this album. And you need a goddamned hit."
Blue saw red. "So Mephisto sends you, the hit man with the happy pop songs, to fit me into their cookie-cutter pop machine. Go to Hell, Fabian."
Keller shoved Blue into his seat. A trace of fear suddenly joined the scorn in Blue's eyes.
"Shut. Up. Blue." Keller held his anger in place. A professional. "I've heard your unfinished tracks. They suck. But this album needs to be finished and released now. You've made some powerful enemies...."
"Mind your own...."
"This is my business now, you idiot. Mephisto owns me. I'll never repay my studio debt, so I just do what they tell me to do. I'm going to take your session tapes, and I'm going to make them into a record, a hit record."
Keller sighed, but without emotion. "And to do that, I don't need you."
Keller pulled his handgun and pointed it at Blue. "You need a hit. And nothing sells like a dead rock star."
Blue's eyes widened in terror. "NO...! What are you doin'? Who do think you are...?"
"I'm what you said I was, Blue." Keller fired and ended Blue's life, # 1 with a bullet.
"I'm a hitman."
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