The Night of the Shining Domes
It was the biggest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over thirty years. The kind of moon that inspired love songs.
Eight tuxedo-clad ghosts solidified themselves and gathered, at midnight, in the empty baseball field of Dodger Stadium under remarkably clear skies. The Stadium was built in 1962. The Elysian Fields where it stood had been named by the Pantheon of Greek Gods in 5000 B.C. The local LA politicians, who would have named it for one of their rich cronies, had, thank the gods, nothing to do with the naming of the sacred space.
The ghostly group was a collection of the most talented of the deceased, bald show-biz legends. There was Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, and Al Jolson. They walked the diamond in a slow orbit around their chosen leader, the chairman, the venerated spirit of Francis Albert Sinatra, who stood on the pitcher’s mound holding a ghost cigarette in one hand and his cocktail of choice — four ice cubes, two fingers of Jack Daniels, and a splash of water in the other. Frank was wearing his magic toupee.
Other curious follically-challenged spirits began to drift in from the night to witness the rare and momentous occasion. Two dozen, daisy pushing, songwriters, and band leaders joined the festivities, as well as two accursed showbiz agents, from the Earth’s molten core; Max and Lenny Lipschitz — the twin Lex Luthors of Hollywood.
When they had been alive, each of these tuxedoed giants of music had sported one of muse, Terpsichore’s, magic toupees; charmed hairpieces woven from the fur of the her long haired cat, Mr. Snuffles. When these musical giants were alive the magic toupees had helped them their fragile egos so that they could keep performing.
The Domes held their charmed toupees against their chests as they tightened the circle around Frank. The tops of their shiny heads pointed toward the heavens.
The solemn ceremony had begun.
The pale rays of the silent moon multiplied themselves upon the ghost’s polished heads until the moonlight snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous single beam, more robust than any laser, ricocheted itself back to the dark heavens. The signal was sent.
They set their wigs back upon their heads.
The toupees were lifted and slapped down repeatedly, over and over again, upon the bare heads of ghosts in quick, efficient military precision. The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted into the great beyond.
The Chrome Domes had sent their urgent message to star system LSMFT-456. Hundreds of light years away, on the distant planet Brill, the beam entered the studio window of Terpsichore’s two writing partners, the aliens, Ada and Buddy Brill. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for action, reaching into deep space.
“The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please ask Terpsichore, to weave a special toupee for our new inductee, Johnny Passion.”
Johnny Passion, the washed up pop star, was about to be given a second chance at showbiz, thanks to his number one fan, the heavenly muse.
“Toupee or not toupee!” The ghosts chanted as they dematerialized back into the endless night.
. Johnny Passion was Cori’s last hope for the renaissance of quality music.