tongue of the serpent ➵ a.b.

Chapter 2: Role Call Name Call

"Role call!" the producer exclaimed.

"Go go go!" Paul lectured us as we we're pushed out of our dressing rooms. Apparently this is where we're meeting our competition.

I didn't know what to think, but I found Cadell's eyes staring into mine and I smiled. "It's okay," he whispered into my ear, "Everything's gonna be all right."

The producer had us line up like it was a military drill. He seemed very strict and I guess he didn't like rule-benders. Good luck with Frey.

"All right, line up by genre alphabetically. Starting with Alternative, all the way to Rock," he said sternly.

We all shuffled to find our ground. We were the Rock act. But the producers are too dumb to classify us as metal. But I guess it'll have to do.

Eight acts. Seven weeks. Seven performances. Seven songs. One winner. The eight acts broadly covered all genres of music.

The producer found his way to the front of the straight line. The first act: Alternative. "Instant Witness; Alternative act. I presume everyone from the band is here?"

The four of them nod their heads in unison. They looked scared. All men. But scared shitless.

The manager waltzes up to the front of the line and fixes his suit. He is a ghastly man with orange hair. He reminds me of Mr. Dursley from Harry Potter. He is wearing a purple bow tie and shakes the producer's hand like he was welcome to since the beginning of time. "Hello, Sir! It's nice to finally meet you! Has you seen the way these boys perform? It's quite a sight; tenderizing lyrics, quick yet sufficient chords-"

"Yes yes yes," the producer cuts him off. He literally takes the hand that was touched by the man and wipes it on his own suit. "Mr., uh, Griffon, isn't it?"

"Uh, yes Sir!" the man smiles, unaware of his tremendous mistake. He seems to be overly confident in his foursome. I'd hate to break his spirit. Usually in a moment like this, I'd get lost in my weird mind and end up figuring out the reason why watermelons are red! But the producer seems to be blocking any thinking of my own. He seems to suck all the happy from me. "Mr., uh, Griffon!" he says shakily, imitating the producer.

The producer looks at him with the most blank expression I have ever seen. It shows a weird emotion filled with hatred but aggravation. It's like he hates happiness. If he can't be happy, then no one can.

He walks away from the act with a smirk on his face, worse than anything I've ever seen come from Star! It's like he really was a demon.

Mr. Griffon's smile immediately fades to a look of complete regret as he turns to face his band. He walks away but the band stays in line, as they are instructed.

The producer then walks to the next act: Contemporary. Hey, this guy needs a name. We can't just keep calling him "the producer". C'mon mind! You're productive and creative! Think!

The producer looks face to face into the Contemporary act. "Robert Conti..." he says with a grimace.

Robert smiles at him, "Hello, 'producer'," he says. Apparently these two have had a history behind them. And what does him saying 'producer' mean? Does this man have a past?

Overall, Robert looks like he's the king of sass. I thought that belonged to Vic Fuentes. But this man, oh, you should've seen him. He talks in an Italian accent, so I can only guess that Conti is an Italian branch.

As the producer walks away, Robert whispers something to his manager I can't verbally recognize. I guess he's speaking Italian.

The producer eyes the rest of us, making sure no one else knows his 'producer' past. Haha, maybe he produced porn! That's a weird-ass thought. And by the way, brain, I'm still waiting for that impressive name to call him.