Saint Peter (Jingles). The guy with all the Keys.
Pete “Jingles” Wicszotcszkivitch had been the janitor at Westchester High School for as long as anyone could remember. He’d been assigned to his job, by God himself, at the current site over 3000 years before the school buildings had been constructed. Between Westchester High School and the Pearly Gates of Heaven, Jingles (a.k.a. Saint Pete) put in over eighty hours of cleanliness, so that he could be next to godliness.
The local Jocks and cheerleaders always teased Pete and they had nick-named him “Jingles” because of the huge key ring that dangled from his grey overalls. You could hear Jingles coming from miles away, unless he didn’t want you to hear him. Then you could only hear him three quarters of a mile away. His constant companions were his Japanese transistor radio and his rolling mop-bucket combo that was always filled with ACME Demon Eliminator.
The kids at the school loved to tease the old janitor. They considered unshaven Jingles a drunk, dirty old man who spent his free time at The Duck n’ Fishes ogling, its owner Cheri Baby. He would fill Biggie’s jukebox with coins requesting “I’m in the Nude for Love.”
He still is (what they said) and he still does.
Jingles always managed to teach the “little punks at school a lesson” especially when he greeted them, years later, after their deaths, at the pearly gates as a result of auto accidents. In his part-time gig as the cruel Saint Peter, he would force the brats to spend a year in “Traffic School for Teenage Sinners” before they could enter Heaven. That way, the punks would invariably miss the sumptuous nightly Oriental Seafood buffets.
Jingles had been watching Rubio since the kid started school in 1964 when the punk began to leave his trail of oily smudges along the newly mopped corridors of what Jingles called “Excreter Central.”
Westchester High was planet Earth’s foremost portal to Hell. It was an obvious fact to anyone who took the time to track the caliber of kids that the school released upon the world. Those “kids” included five Manson family members and the notorious surf band called Ionel GrtwszxtszckKyzt And the Spazmotics.
According to Jingles, his job was “to control the flow of these ‘juvenile delinquent punks’ from Earth to Heaven or Hell, so that they don’t bother the ‘Big Cheese (God) during their journey.
One day, Jingles decided to ring up Mr. Cheese using his Magic Hoppalong Cassidy Walkie-Talkie. Jingles was ready to spill the whole enchilada to the boss—about Hell’s chosen composer, Anthony Rubio.
Jingles heard ‘El Queso Grande’s’(The Big Cheese’s) phone pick up. “Jingles! Is that you, my old friend?” It sounded like Charleton Heston. “It’s me, Moses, your friendly Prince of Egypt. What the consarned heck is going on down there?”
“Moe! Is the Big Cheese in? This is an emergency. The awful music that ass faced moron plays on his boom box and …”
“Are you talking about that kid, Rubio? Sorry, God took the rest of the week off, Saint Pete. He’s eating ice cream and binge watching some British fantasy nonsense on Netflix. You can talk to me.”
“This is more serious than the atomic ‘trots,’ Moe. It think that this garbage that Rubio is writing might be the type of Drek that Cheri was developing as a weapon for the Department of Offense, or, even worse, it could be the Hippity Hop music that the Old Testicle warned us of.”
“Disco? Hippity Hop? Are you on cough syrup, Pete?”
“Jesus! This is serious, Sir.”
“Sorry Jingles, Jesus F. just left for the day,” explaineth Moses. “If you want to talk to his brother, Jesus H., the kid comes back from lunch at one. Or, acting as Charlton Heston, I could ask some of my NRA friends visit this punk Rubio.”
“I’m thinkin’ that we might need to use the old hellfire and brimstone on this kid,” saidith the janitor.
“Are you sure he’s threatening us with a new enhanced version of Cheri’s Crisco music? Has he killed anyone?”
“It’s Disco music,” corrected Jingles. “No deaths, sir.”
“Then, I’ll let the Cheese, himself, deal with him appropriately,” said Moses, who sounded worried. “Meanwhile, just keep Rubio away from Cheri. She’s a swell kid. All of us up here like her, but we do not care for her Frisco garbage.”
“Not Frisco. Disco, consigliere, and that abomination was also Rubio’s idea. This new variety is much worse. He’s throwing in country lyrics and space sounds. Country Rap, or, as we call it, CRAP music.”
“I should have guessed. I’d like to stomp him into clay for Ramses’ pyramids, but I don’t want to have to scrape that punk off of the bottoms of my boogedie boogedie shoes.”
Jingles needed to get down to the Duck n’ Fishes to get hisself drunk and meditate to the hypnotic motion of Cheri’s electric boogaloo.