Chapter 2: AL GREAZY
When we last left off, Mike Relm started the Decipher Series by breakin’ down the history of the infamous Dr Octagon. But still unclear on what this new material was intended to mean, OCD has gone to their list of interpreters to get to the root of it.
Meanwhile on the Left Coast…
A hot, gray Los Angeles afternoon finds Gray Kid chillin’ on Venice Beach. Mac on his lap, posting to his blog, the Kid is interrupted by a pop-up window. It’s OCD on the I.M.
OCD: We need your services a.s.a.p.
GrayKid5678: Is there dough involved?
OCD: None, this is for the sake of all mankind.
Graykid5678: What are you talking about?
OCD: The Return of Dr. Octagon is upon us.
GrayKid5678: Oh word?
OCD: Yeah, we need you to decipher the hidden meaning of an audio track entitled “Al Green.” We believe it was sent to us by Dr. Octagon.
GrayKid5678: I thought that dude got got…
OCD: Just accept the File Transfer and get to work Kid.
GrayKid5678: Now you’re all bossy like? Whatever, I’m about it, but you owe me one holmes…
As the file transfer completes, the Kid queues the track in his media player and slips his headphones on. He pauses to observe the scene around him. Beautiful women in bikinis, bodybuilders with goatees, kids with rainbow colored waterguns. All is well. Yet, the Kid feels uneasy. He hesitates, then presses play.
The bass loop, the guitar stabs, the piano keys – the Kid is mesmerized. The hair on his neck jump to attention, his pupils harden and his veins begin to bulge. When the vocal drops, the Kid gasps and glances up. A large, hairy man dressed in traditional Pakistani garb stands before him. The man places his sweaty arms on the Kid’s shoulders, staring him down with eyes glowing neon green. The man speaks, oddly enough, with an urban American accent, “All you motherfuckers trying to be Al Green… Suckers, pack your shit!”
The Kid snatches his headphones off and shakes his head vigorously to snap out of the hallucination. The strange man gone, everything around him appears to be normal. Yet, convinced that something sinister is afoot, the Kid gets to work. He cuts and pastes and patches and scratches until the sun sets, until the investigative analysis is complete. He emails the results, the raw essence of the audio distilled via his skills as a pop chemist, off to OCD.
Now that business has been taken care of, the Kid smacks his lips contemplating the thought of slurping down a cool cerveza to relax with after all the day’s excitement. His left hand reaches into his pocket to pull out funds to turn this dream into a reality. He freezes.
“Yo! Where’s my money clip?”
Until next time…