Chapter Text
It was the morning he would be eviscerated, torn limb from limb, beaten dead and bloody, but Joel didn’t know it yet. He rose, as he did every morning, with a demo of a song he recorded the day before as his alarm clock. It sucked. It always did. He kept listening to it as he made himself a cup of coffee using an expensive french press made in Germany, one of the few luxuries he afforded himself in this late stage of his career. He ate a sandwich. Checked to see if there were any texts from Ellie. Just a picture of her at a party with Dina, looking happy. Back when he found her, sick and alone, he never thought he’d see this moment, but there he was. It felt like something about the lovely atmosphere of the picture was calling out to him. He looked at his old picture with his daughter Sarah, taken too soon. Cancer. It filled him with longing, but then again, he hoped she would be happy to see him where he was – a long career behind him doing what he loved, having raised Ellie up to be a formidable young woman. Just when he was about to take his guitar and iron out the kinks on his new song’s bridge, Tommy called him.
“Tommy, what’s up? You still on for bowling tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but, uh, you might not wanna read the news.”
“Why?”
“Uh. Don’t.”
“You gotta give me more info than that, Tommy.”
“Well – lemme just say you have Ellie headin’ your way and she ain’t happy.”
“What did I do? Did I – I didn’t sing ‘Dyketown’, did I? Now, that song was a bona fide classic 40 years ago, and I never should’ve sang it, even 15 years ago, but, I mean, I apologised and donated and Ellie will never let me hear the end of it.”
“No, it’s not about Dyketown. We weathered that. Had to pull those strings to get you on Kimmel, but whatever, you’re my brother. And I fuckin’ hate that song.”
“So do I. They asked me to play it.”
“Just – okay. Open the news. Open Rolling Stone.”
“Got it. Tommy?”
“Yeah?”
“How mad is she?”
“She’s exploding as we speak.”
“Good God.”
They hung up. Joel didn’t even put his guitar away as he grabbed his phone to open Rolling Stone magazine’s online website. He missed the days when you could still have an actual reason to buy printed media, but then again, as Ellie put it, he was old as balls.
He was on the front page. It had been a while since he was on the front page of a major online outlet, but then again, Midland had asked him to duet, and if there wasn’t a hotter act in country music right now, he didn’t know what. They seemed a bit pretentious, those guys, but they made good tunes, and that’s all he could ask for.
As he clicked on his picture, showing him in his trademark flannel with his red guitar, he read the title of the article. “Pitchfork critic #murders Joel Miller.”
It felt like reading about the aftermath of a terrible accident or manslaughter. “Never in the history of tweets has a person been this close to cancellation by sheer force of will of those willing to make it happen. Joel Miller isn’t even connected to any sexual abuse allegations – people are just now, thanks to Abby Anderson, waking up to the fact his music sucks.” She hadn’t left a good hair on him, apparently, and quotes from her article were trending all over Twitter and Instagram and whatever else there was these days, Joel was too tired (tired being a way of life) to keep up these days.
The very moment he thought it would probably be a good idea to read the actual Pitchfork article he heard the sound of pummelling fists bursting against his door.
“Joel! Joel, let me in!”
“Ellie, imma need you to calm down, ya hear?”
“Joel! Let me – I have keys! This is courtesy! I’m going in!”
He heard her fumbling with the keys, drop them, curse, hit her head on the door while picking them up, curse, get them into the keyhole and open the door. Ellie was wearing black pants, a white T-Shirt with Neil Young’s “Harvest” emblazoned on it, and she entered the house like a hurricane hitting the west coast.
“That bitch!”, she said, “I’ll get her!”
“Nice to see you too. How’s Dina?”
“I’ll kill he- Abby. Not Dina. Fuck, Dad, aren’t you even – aren’t you even mad? Get that guitar outa here, we need to talk strategy, get Tommy in here!”
She still didn’t call him dad that often, even if they’d been family for a good decade now. He’d found during one of the routine charity stunts he’d been performing after the Dyketown disaster, and her mother and father had both abandoned her for a rare genetic disease that made small tumours grow on different parts of her skin. They’d gotten to talking, at he’d travelled most of the U.S. with her looking for a cure, looking for a particular doctor. Ultimately, they found him – and the treatment seemed to work. But as soon as he’d wanted to perform experiments on her, keep her there, for months, Joel had declined. He’d adopted her with his then wife Tess, but after she’d left, he’d gotten full custody. Ellie and his ex-wife called each other, they seemed to get on alright. Tess did Ellie’s make-up for prom. It was alright, if only she didn’t keep pestering him to finally come visit her with her new husband in New York. As if.
He hated New York.
“Joel? Joel, are you there? Are you in there?”
“Yeah, yeah. I just like it when you call me Dad.”
“I did?”
Ellie thought it over. “Huh, yeah. Guess because I’m scared for your life, Joel! We need to do something.”
“Hello?”, came a voice from the door. “Here’s Dina, can I come in Mr. Miller?”
“Sure thing, and call me Joel!”
“Dina!”, Ellie yelled. “Come look at the murder victim. Dad, don’t you realise – you’re dead? And that bitch killed you. I fucking – did you even see her? She looks like a behemoth. Like she crushes children for breakfast.
“Which is hot”, Dina said. She went to the sink and filled a couple of glasses with water.
“It’s not hot!”, Ellie said. Then, quieter, “it’s not hot. It’s scary.”
“Now”, Joel said, “think it’s about time I said something.”
He got up and stood taller than Ellie. Damn. It’s unfair how he could do that.
“This ain’t nothing I won’t shake off.”
“You didn’t read it, did you? Wait, I got it here.”
She got her phone out and opened the article, which was obviously the last page she’d had open before she went to her lock screen. With a voice trembling with righteous fury, she started reading out loud.
“Middling Midland and Joel ‘Ol’ Mighty’ Miller have apparently set their sights on reviving the worst things about the country genre. With a performance that can be called lobotomised at best, the inclusion of Joel Miller in their act reads as an attempt to make themselves seem more authentic. More and more is currently being revealed about their past as what can, understatedly, be described as part of a circle of Californian models and ‘fuckboys’, a term their lead singer is purportedly said to have preferred to ‘male escorts’. Joel Miller, for his part, is one of the last hallowed bastions of country music that’s passable in liberal circles because his songs don’t include as much pure misogyny, sexism, objectification of women as others do. Instead, it's thinly veiled misogyny at every turn, not helped by his publicity stunt of an adoption - this takes the fucking cake, Joel, come on! We can't let this stand. And wait, there's more. And there is of course, the famous Dyketown debacle that put a blemish on an otherwise suspiciously spotless career.”
“I apologised”, Joel said.
“I know you did!”, Ellie said. “I still hate that song, though.”
“Goddam- they made me play it! They asked me. Of course I could've said no, but it felt rude. And of course irony bites me in the ass on that one.”
“Ah, you love me!”
“You’re my karma.”
“I am. But did you - she called me a publicity stunt. I can't let that slide."
"So it's about you?"
"It's about - Joel, hey, it's about both of us. Listen, so here's the deal -"
Dina looked on, smiling. Ellie had told her about the tension their house had experienced ever since she found out Joel made the doctors find somebody else with her rare disease to perform the needed experimental treatments on in a more conclusive manner, even though she would’ve wanted to be the one. But now, pure hatred seemed to have united them again, and it was a wonderful sight.
“But Joel”, Ellie continued, “that’s not even the worst of it! She says your music was never good. That you suck."
“That true?”
“Yeah, it’s here.”
“Now who the heck does she even think she is? I don’t – that’s my fuckin’ lifes’ work. Well, you and that. She got both.”
“I don’t know! I’ve never heard of her.”
“She wrote the last review on the new Harry Styles record”, Dina said. They both stared at her. “What?” she said. “He’s good.”
Joel sighed so loudly it was almost a supressed yell. A yellp.
“Hold your horses. Now what exactly do you think I should do about this? And do y’all want something to eat? I could make an omelette.”
Ellie thought it over for a second.
“Yeah, I could go for an omelette. Dina?”
“Yeah, I’m down.”
She texted Tommy while Joel was making the omelette, and was surprised to find Tommy had already found out everything he possibly could about that Abby Anderson. Where she was, who she was, who her father was.
Good God.
“Joel”, she said. “This is a hitpiece.”
“I know”, he said. “I mean, what can I do about it? I can’t write articles like that for shit, and – I should write a song.”
“No, Joel, she’ll – Joel! She’ll kill you if you mention her in a song! And you know her.”
“What?”
“You know her dad.”
Dina perked up. “Anderson.”
“Yes!”, Ellie said.
“Isn’t that the name of the doctor who performed that surgery on you? Who wanted to do some more trials with you but then couldn't, and some other guy found a patented cure and won the Nobel for it? Don't answer, I know. I did my research.”
"So what's this, then?", Ellie asked. "Some attempt at revenge her daddy didn't get to do what he wanted to do? If he was so good, why couldn't he get someone else?"
"Now you're just angry", Dina said, "ain't that right, Mr. Miller? Don't you get why she's doing this, bad as it is?"
Joel coughed loudly, then put two plates before them, cut the omelette in two on the frying pan and put it down. It was full of cheese, and sprinkled with Oregano and Basil. Heaven.
With one look, Joel made it clear he would not be diving deeper into the subject in front of Ellie, that he appreciated Dina being there for her and that he would be getting out of this room as quickly as possible.
“Joel”, Dina said, the name feeling a bit weird on her tongue, “thank you. And I don’t think your music is full of thinly veiled misogyny.”
“Thank you, that’s good to hear. I’m gonna write a song about her and her daddy. I'm not letting that publicity stunt comment slide, she can have the rest for all I care."
“Please don’t”, Ellie said. “Let me take her down.”
“Ellie”, Dina said, “watch your blood pressure.”
“Haha, Dina. Joel, look.”
She opened up Abby’s twitter.
“That her?”, Joel said.
“Yup.”
“Good Lord. That’s some biceps.”
“Uh-huh. Now look at this.”
“She’s in a band?”
Dina leaned over. “The Molotovs.”
“That’s a good name”, Joel said.
“Like hell it is. I can make a band and name it the Magnums and it’s gonna be the same.”
“You mean the weapon or the condoms?”, Dina asked.
Her and both Joel both laughed, but Ellie reprimanded them to say focused.
“I want to that concert. And I’ll record it. And then – I’ll post a bad edit of it on YouTube. Like, really bad, exceptionally bad. And everyone will laugh which will totally discredit her opinion.”
Dina took a long, hard look at Ellie.
“That’s your plan?”
“Dina, she killed Joel.”
“I’m still right here, actually”, Joel said.
“She ended his career.”
“I’m gonna go record a song.”
“She fucked with my family.”
“See you girls when Ellie’s calmed down.”
And while Ellie talked the plan over with Tommy, Dina watching in an exasperated mood that was nevertheless in awe of Ellie’s pure grit, the familiar twang of Joel’s guitar came from the bedroom. It filled the air, and it seemed to almost dispel some of the deep-seated anger Ellie felt.
But who was this Abby? How could she dare? Getting an artist to trend in a negative way got more people to check out their music, sure, but it cancelled concerts, tarnished a legacy, ended their image.
“Ugh”, Ellie said.
“Ellie”, Dina said.
“What?”
“Is this, I mean, how hard this got you, because of that question I asked you?”
“What?”
“About – about us settling down somewhere? Moving in together?”
“What? No. No way. No.”
Maybe a little. A moment passed with nothing but the sound of forks.
“Where’s that concert?”, Dina asked later.
“Next one’s in Seattle, three days.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“What?”
“If you go, I’m going.”
“But don’t you have exams coming up?”
“I do.”
“Fuck. Goddammit, Dina. I love you.”
“I love you too. Let’s eat.”
They ate while the faint outlines of a song formed around Joel’s fingers. No matter how often she heard it, Ellie would always be mesmerised.
That Abby was going down, even if it was the last thing she did, even if it cost her her hand or at least a couple of fingers. She already imagined the edit in her head - all the fuck-ups of an amateur band displayed before a litany of interested viewers. They would show it on any news reel discussing her article on Joel. Delicious.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold", she said.
"These are some good omelettes, though", Dina added.
They'd had to work on their rapport if they were to talk to Abby. She definitely had some verbal tricks up her sleeve judging from the article. But Ellie banished any fear of the task before her from her mind - she'd made it up the moment she'd read the article. She'd murder her, even if she'd had to dust off her old MLG editing skills.