[A_NINmas_Carol: Chapter_1]

by Mimi Jones-Taylor

          Trent Reznor hunched over the mixing board in the middle of the hall, staring sternly at the band, who were shivering where they stood. Raising an eyebrow, Trent moved a few level bars, and gave the band the signal to begin. Jeordie White took the cue to speak into his microphone.
         “Is this the final take?”
         “It’s the final take when I say it’s the final take,” growled Trent. “Right now, this song sounds like shit. You’re going to keep playing it until it’s perfect.”
         “Hey Trent,” said Jeordie, “do you think you could turn up the heat just a little?”
         “What, do you think, I’m made of money?” said Trent. “It costs $100 a month extra to heat the place up to the tropical temperatures that you sissy boys keep crying for. Besides, heat changes the sound of the instruments, and the last thing I want is a warm sound for this song.”
         Jeordie sighed, and the band began to play the song once more.
         “No no no no no!” Trent interrupted, screaming over the echoing music. “What the hell was that supposed to be, music? You guys suck. Especially you, Alessandro. Are you actually using your fingers to play the keyboards or are you just pounding them with your head?”
         “Signore Trent,” said Alessandro, “We are all very tired. And it’s Christmas Eve and I have to catch a plane to Roma.”
         “Well, bully for you,” said Trent. “Don’t you think I was tired as I slaved over the instruments recording The Downward Spiral practially by myself? Do you think I stopped in the middle of recording, just because it was some damn statutory holiday? Christmas. Bah, humbug, I say. You know, my old keyboardist never used to complain during these long nights.”
         “Sì,” said Alessandro, “But I haven’t seen my family since the summer, and I would really like to see them for di Natale.”
         Trent slammed his fist on the board. “You are going to keep working until you get it right. You don’t work for your family. You work for me.”
         “Sì Signore,” said Alessandro.
         The telephone beside Trent sounded a loud ring.
         “Hello? ...Yes, this is the Nine Inch Nails session…another two hundred dollars an hour? Holiday rate? Bah, humbug!”
         Trent spoke into the mic again.
         “Well it turns out that they’re going to charge an extra $200 per hour because it’s a humbugging holiday. So we’re going to finish for the evening.”
         The band heaved a collective sigh.
         “But,” continued Trent, “don’t travel very far from your computers. We can do the session early tomorrow morning from each of our homes via Garageband. So I’ll see you all online tomorrow bright and early at 7AM.”
         “Ma Trent,” said Alessandro, “I am going to be in Italia with my family. I will have the jetta lag.”
         “7AM Eastern time,” said Trent. “No exceptions.”
         The band sighed and grumbled, and exited the studio. Trent was packing up his gear, switching all the slides on the board to “off”, when the lights in the rehearsal hall faded with the slide of the bar.
         “Is this another one of your childish jokes, Jeordie?”
         Trent turned around to find himself in an empty space.
         “Humbug,” he muttered, switching back on the light, and returning to his gear. He halted in mid-movement as the intense pounding of the starting beats for “Eraser” came from the direction of the stage.
         “What the… that humbugging Alessandro,” Trent cried to himself. “Leaving his samples on. Great. Now I have to take down his gear, too. If he costs me any more damn money…”
         Trent flipped on the stage lights and gasped as he caught sight of the figure hunched over the drum kit. He carried heavy chains around his body that rattled as his arms raised and lowered in rhythm.
         “My God…” Trent froze in fear.
         “Hey there, ex-roomie!”
         The figure put the sticks down. His chains rattled as he stood up and moved away from the drum kit.
         “But… but… that’s impossible,” said Trent, “You’re…”
         “Dead?” The figure smiled a sly smile. “Old band members never die. We just do exposés on VH1 and episodes of The Surreal Life.”
         “How did you get in here?” said Trent. “Never mind. You have to go. They’re going to start charging overtime in about five minutes.”
         “Oh Rezzo, you never change, do you? You win a ton of money in your court case and you’re still pinching pennies like they’re going out of style. That always made me laugh.”
         “Look, what are you doing here?” said Trent.
         “Since you’ve put me on a time restriction,” said Chris Vrenna’s ghost, “I have to make this quick. Dude, you can’t treat your band members the way you treated us. I mean, first of all, the cost of living has gone up exponentially since 1994. And secondly, these guys for some reason actually like you. Don’t treat them like shit.”
         “Why not?” said Trent. “They play like shit. Don’t you remember the times we used to get together and bitch about how bad the rest of the band was? How we didn’t need them anyways?”
         “Look, do you see these?” Chris held up the chains attached to his body, as Trent nodded. “They were attached to my body by old fans and secondary band members of the netherworld.”
         “Whatever for?”
         “I’m wearing these chains as punishment for the way that we used to mock the other band members and keep all their money for ourselves.”
         “Oh good humbugging lord,” said Trent.
         “My friend, you should see the set of chains they’re making for you.”
         “What?” said Trent. “I don’t deserve to be wearing these chains.”
         “You deserve that and worse,” said Chris. “But there is still a way you can redeem yourself.”
         “You mean pay the band more? Those humbuggerers don’t deserve it.”
         “Listen,” said Chris, ignoring Trent, “tonight you’re going to be visited by three spirits of Christmas…”
         “I quit drinking,” said Trent.
         “Would you shut up for two fucking minutes and stop making jokes?” Chris was getting pissed off. “The first ghost is going to be showing up at midnight. Listen carefully to what these ghosts have to tell you, because it’s your last chance to be redeemed. If you don’t change your ways after their visit, then you’d better bulk up to be three times the size you are now, and you might be able to wear the chains that they’re making for you.”
         “Bah, humbug,” said Trent. “You’re just going to spike my mineral water.”
         “Believe what you want,” said Chris Vrenna, “but I have to go now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Rezzo. Take care of yourself, bud. I’m outta here like last year.”
         Trent Reznor scoffed, and turned back to look at the clock.
         “Why it’s nearly midnight now, and…” Trent looked around the room. Chris Vrenna had gone, leaving no trace that he had even been there.
         “Ghosts,” muttered Trent, “Bah humbug. Humbug I say! I’m probably hallucinating from lack of caffeine and sleep.”
         Trent closed the door to the hall behind him. His watch beeped to indicate that it was midnight.
         “Just in time,” said Trent, as he pressed the call button for the elevator. “I’d like to see them charge me overtime now.”
         The elevator arrived, and the doors opened. As Trent stepped in, he noticed another person standing in the corner. Trent’s mouth dropped to the floor.
         “You’re… you’re…” he stammered. “You’re Joey Ramone!”

                                                            ...to be continued.