The Night of the Chrome Domes from my short story book: The Kingdom of the Cats
It was the largest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over ten years.
Seven tuxedo-clad phantoms had solidified their departed selves and gathered in the empty baseball field at Dodger Stadium. The Los Angeles stadium stood on sacred ground (only a few short miles from Tommy’s Original Hamburgers). The field had originally been named Elysian Fields, by the Pantheon of Gods.
The ghostly group of bald-pated show-biz legends: Bing, Astaire, Frank, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, even Al Jolson (whom nobody could stand), all stood in a solemn circle. The singers were joined by nearly a dozen other bald songwriters, band leaders, and agents.
When they had been alive, these giants of music all had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. The charmed hairpieces, made from the fur of Cori’s cat, Joe, had helped them all to regain the confidence that they needed to keep performing when they were alive.
Their task had begun.
The light of the silent moon lit the bald heads. The pale rays multiplied themselves upon the surfaces of the men’s collective domes until the moon’s power snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous beam projected itself into the heavens. The initial signal was sent.
The toupees were lifted by the ghosts, and then dropped down upon their bare heads in efficient military precision, more exact then that of the Chinese who jump in unison to send tsunamis toward their enemies across the Pacific.
The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted.
On the distant planet Brill, a great light entered the studio window. The code from the Earth below sent its urgent message to Buddy and Ada. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for help, reaching into deep space.
“The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please bring some new tunes and a magic toupee for Johnny Passion.”
“The Earth is in danger of imploding due to bad music. Also, bring some celestial smokes, if you can. And a dozen Plutonian tacos.”
“Toupee or not toupee?” The message from the bearers of the Magic Toupees was given top priority by the Brills, who in a rare move initiated a call to their boss.
“Buddy! She’s not answering!”