insurance, for example, or the discounted advertising rate for Bibi Beautiful—Joey simply wasn’t equipped to receive. The closest thing he had to a cosmetics company,
any
company, was a twenty percent share of a Colorado brewery, which had repeatedly offered to buy him out because of “urination issues” during shareholder meetings. While putting together Joey’s offer, Rabbit had also been under the impression that Joey wasn’t interested in the money. “I AIN’T FUCKIN’ INTERESTED IN THE FUCKIN’ MONEY!” as he’d screamed on many occasions. What Joey
really
wanted, Rabbit thought, was leverage against Honeyload. But things had changed during the week or so between the first sanity check and Rabbit’s offer: Namely, Honeyload had reformed. They still weren’t
speaking.
They had simply agreed to perform together. None of them had any choice in fact because when Joey had taken out his injunction against the band for allegedly considering Billy Ray Cyrus as his replacement, they countersued, arguing that if Joey was going to prevent their hiring a new singer, then he had to go back on tour immediately to allow them to continue earning a living. That’s what Joey had wanted at the very beginning, of course, but everyone had forgotten about that by then—including Joey.
Fortunately, Mitch was able to remind him before yet another court date was set.
Meanwhile, Honeyload knew nothing about Joey’s interviews for
Project Icon
(he’d denied all rumors)—and if they had, they would have almost certainly done everything possible to kill the deal. After all, Joey couldn’t exactly appear on a twice-weekly TV show
and
play a gigwith Honeyload in a different city every night. Being a judge on
Project Icon
would render all his promises about touring meaningless.
The day Rabbit finally approved Joey’s appointment, Honeyload was booked to play a gig at the Freaky-Cola Amphitheater in San Bernardino. I was in the room when Len and Ed tried to make the call to Joey personally, but he was already on the road and wasn’t answering. So instead they called Mitch, who was still in LA. He knew exactly what was coming, of course—thanks to the story that had gone up a few moments earlier on the
ShowBiz
website:
HOUSTON, WE HAVE AN OFFER!
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
BUNNY NET DANGLES FIVE-MILLION-DOLLAR CARROT IN FRONT OF YOUTUBE POOPER’S NOSE —
SEEN AS LEVERAGE, REHABILITATION FOR TROUBLED HONEYLOAD FRONTMAN
“I’m going down to meet Joey at the show tonight—if the rest of the band haven’t killed him before then,” said Mitch. “I’ll see what he thinks of the terms.”
“Great,” Len replied. “Bill will go with you.”
Actually, I was supposed to be having a video chat with Brock at seven o’clock.
Not anymore.
Mitch didn’t put up a fight—which was just as well, otherwise the three-hour Town Car ride that followed might have been a bit awkward. Maybe he wanted the company, I thought. Or a witness, in case things got nasty backstage.
When we finally got to the amphitheater, Blade Morgan was waiting just beyond the crew entrance, looking about as unhappy as it is possible for a human being to look. Holding up his BlackBerry—on which the headline from the
ShowBiz
website was displayed—he said, “Tell Joey to go fuck himself up the ass with a razor blade. Actually, don’t: He’d probably enjoy that. Tell him I hope he drops dead, so I can skullfuck his eye sockets.”
“One word, Blade,” Mitch replied, pushing the screen away from his face. “
Franjoopta.
”
“That was different,” Blade steamed. “That was fuckin’
different,
you asshole!”
Mitch just raised his eyebrows and walked away. Franjoopta was of course the worst contestant in
Project Icon
’s history. Indeed, when he was voted into the season eight finale as a result of an ironic “Save Franjoopta” campaign, the nation was so outraged, questions were
any
company, was a twenty percent share of a Colorado brewery, which had repeatedly offered to buy him out because of “urination issues” during shareholder meetings. While putting together Joey’s offer, Rabbit had also been under the impression that Joey wasn’t interested in the money. “I AIN’T FUCKIN’ INTERESTED IN THE FUCKIN’ MONEY!” as he’d screamed on many occasions. What Joey
really
wanted, Rabbit thought, was leverage against Honeyload. But things had changed during the week or so between the first sanity check and Rabbit’s offer: Namely, Honeyload had reformed. They still weren’t
speaking.
They had simply agreed to perform together. None of them had any choice in fact because when Joey had taken out his injunction against the band for allegedly considering Billy Ray Cyrus as his replacement, they countersued, arguing that if Joey was going to prevent their hiring a new singer, then he had to go back on tour immediately to allow them to continue earning a living. That’s what Joey had wanted at the very beginning, of course, but everyone had forgotten about that by then—including Joey.
Fortunately, Mitch was able to remind him before yet another court date was set.
Meanwhile, Honeyload knew nothing about Joey’s interviews for
Project Icon
(he’d denied all rumors)—and if they had, they would have almost certainly done everything possible to kill the deal. After all, Joey couldn’t exactly appear on a twice-weekly TV show
and
play a gigwith Honeyload in a different city every night. Being a judge on
Project Icon
would render all his promises about touring meaningless.
The day Rabbit finally approved Joey’s appointment, Honeyload was booked to play a gig at the Freaky-Cola Amphitheater in San Bernardino. I was in the room when Len and Ed tried to make the call to Joey personally, but he was already on the road and wasn’t answering. So instead they called Mitch, who was still in LA. He knew exactly what was coming, of course—thanks to the story that had gone up a few moments earlier on the
ShowBiz
website:
HOUSTON, WE HAVE AN OFFER!
(A CHAZ CHIPFORD EXCLUSIVE)
BUNNY NET DANGLES FIVE-MILLION-DOLLAR CARROT IN FRONT OF YOUTUBE POOPER’S NOSE —
SEEN AS LEVERAGE, REHABILITATION FOR TROUBLED HONEYLOAD FRONTMAN
“I’m going down to meet Joey at the show tonight—if the rest of the band haven’t killed him before then,” said Mitch. “I’ll see what he thinks of the terms.”
“Great,” Len replied. “Bill will go with you.”
Actually, I was supposed to be having a video chat with Brock at seven o’clock.
Not anymore.
Mitch didn’t put up a fight—which was just as well, otherwise the three-hour Town Car ride that followed might have been a bit awkward. Maybe he wanted the company, I thought. Or a witness, in case things got nasty backstage.
When we finally got to the amphitheater, Blade Morgan was waiting just beyond the crew entrance, looking about as unhappy as it is possible for a human being to look. Holding up his BlackBerry—on which the headline from the
ShowBiz
website was displayed—he said, “Tell Joey to go fuck himself up the ass with a razor blade. Actually, don’t: He’d probably enjoy that. Tell him I hope he drops dead, so I can skullfuck his eye sockets.”
“One word, Blade,” Mitch replied, pushing the screen away from his face. “
Franjoopta.
”
“That was different,” Blade steamed. “That was fuckin’
different,
you asshole!”
Mitch just raised his eyebrows and walked away. Franjoopta was of course the worst contestant in
Project Icon
’s history. Indeed, when he was voted into the season eight finale as a result of an ironic “Save Franjoopta” campaign, the nation was so outraged, questions were
Similar Books
