1961

So I am working as what amounts to a pimp for a big rock group in the 1990s and I am living the high life, as you might have expected. My job is an easy one; I go into the audience, find the best looking women, ask if they want to ‘meet the band’, take them backstage, share them out, roll up later, get paid, get some cast offs. Easy life. Good life. Hard jiving. The band trust my taste in women and I trust them just enough to pay up when I need it.

One day, though, the job changed a little. The guitarist came up to me and told me that he wanted a specific woman that he had seen in the auditorium earlier. He had never made a request like this before, and it caught me slightly off-guard.

- Man, she looks wicked, he said to me.

- Fine, I replied – Show me where she is.

- I’ll do better than that, dude – I took a snap of her on my cellphone.

- Great. Let me see it.

He fiddles with the phone and hands it to me proudly.

- What do you think of that?

I stare at the phone and find it hard to put into words just what is in my head.

- Slash, I say to him – We’ve been friends for a long time and you trust me, right?

- Sure. Are you going to give me grief here?

- Well, can I just suggest that what you want me to do would be a very fucking bad idea indeed?

- Don’t care. I want her. She looks wild. I pay you. You get her. Just do your job, man. Don’t give me grief.

He is serious. I look back at the phone and gulp. The face looking back at me is that of Janette Tough, also known as Wee Jimmy Krankie. In full costume. As Wee Jimmy Krankie.

- Slash, I’ll do it but I think you ought to re-think your ideas a bit.

- Just do it and we can cry about it later, I guess.

So I leave the room and go look for her. Him. It. I find her dressed as him in the fifth row from the back in the stalls. I start to think that this is the single most damned bizarre day of my professional life.

Five hours later we are heading out. I find him on the tour bus, a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and mumbling to himself. I make sure he is okay. Behind his shades he appears to have been weeping. I cannot make out what he is burbling to himself. Suddenly he turns to face me.

- Hey there, he says.

- Yeah?

- Remember that girl you got for me tonight?

- Yes, I do. I can hardly forget it.

- Man…what the fuck does “Dan-Fabby-Zoaby” mean?

- I don’t think that’s the right word, but it’s really quite similar. Where did you hear it?

- Have a rash guess.

He necks the rest of the bottle’s contents in one slug.

- So was she worth it, Slash?

- Worth it? Let me put it this way. I’ll never doubt a word that you ever say to me ever again.