300 BPS, 8, N, 1

300 BPS, N, 8, 1
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CONNECT 300
So we're supposed to play in Curitiba in 18 hours, but our 
bus is being held hostage by the local promoters. They've 
formed some unholy alliance with the Brazilian counterpart 
of ASCAP: The PRS. Apparently the PRS has the legal power 
to arrest people, and they want a piece of the national 
tour promoter's money. The local security force, "Gang 
Mexicana", has been bought out for 1800 Cruzados and a 
carton of Marlboros each. The only faction still operating 
in our defense is "Big John", our personal security man, 
and he's hiding in his room because a local gang is out for
 his blood because of a 1982 knifing incident in which he 
was involved. Our 345-pound road manager, Rick only had 
this to say: "You wanted the life of a rock star!". Paul, 
Jim and I realized that this was one situation we were 
going to have to get out of ourselves.
We convened a hasty conference in the hotel lobby. Paul 
suggested contacting our national tour promoter in Sao 
Paulo, but we remembered that he was in Recife with Faith 
No More, who had just arrived for their Brazilian tour. We 
thought about contacting our Brazilian record company in 
Rio, but they weren't home. Our ever-diligent American 
manager was arranging help of numerous forms, but he was in
 New York, and just too far away to get anything moving in 
time.
And there were 6000 kids in Curitiba who just wouldn't 
understand.
We knew it was time for action. Paul went up to the PRS 
guys and invited them into the bar to discuss it like 
civilized men over a few Brazilian drinks, offering each of
 them a cigar on his way. The amused PRS heavies seemed to 
like the idea of a few free drinks, even if they knew they 

would never give us our bus back. When Paul winked at Jim 
and I on his way in, we went into action.
I stole off to my room to prepare while Jim went into 
action. Creeping carefully through a service duct, he 
managed to gain a vantage point some three meters above the
 bus, and dropped carefully onto the roof. After using his 
all-purpose Swiss Army knife (affectionately known as the 
"skit knife") to jimmy open the roof hatch, he went through
 the darkened inside of the bus and removed the inside 
engine service panel. Using some spare electronic parts he 
found while on an island in the Amazon, he wired the entire
 bus for remote control, not unlike a remote control toy 
car.
At this point, he asked himself "Now how shall I get out of
 here?!?"
Paul was having difficulties of his own.
"Couldn't you see your way clear to letting us fulfill our 
contractual obligations in Curitiba? Think of the kids!"
Through our translator, Fabio, the PRS man, Aldo, said:
"No. You Americans think you own the world. Hah! We'll burn
 down our rain forest if we damn well please. We need room 
for cows!! We want a McDonald's on every... oh, sorry, yes 
anyway, no. We need 40% of your concert receipts to give to
 David Bowie," he said, winking to the local promoter, 
Phillipe.
As Paul continuted this elaborate distraction, Jim effected
 an escape from the heavily guarded bus by crawling down 
into the cargo bay, cutting a hole in the floor with the 
Swiss Army knife's arc-welder, slipping into the manhole 
cover situated under the bus, and walking up to the hotel's
 basement from there. Jim called up to me in my room and 
gave the signal. We were now to meet at the back entrance, 
with our tech guys. But first, Paul would need some help 
getting away from his unwelcome guests, as things were 
getting ugly.
"He says he has lost his patience, and that he can think of
 other ways of extracting payment from you Kurt and Jim 
physically," our trembling interpreter said.
The moment had come. Jim began operating the bus from his 
back entrance vantage point. As the remote-controlled bus 
lurched towards the parking lot exit, the superstitious 

security youths fled in terror. Paul was pulling anxiously 
on his collar as the PRS man began describing his 
collection of World War II Nazi ceremonial knives when a 
sudden crash split the tableau.
Jim had purchased me the gift of a complete black ninja 
stealth assassin outfit in Aracaju. I had been gearing up 
and crawling through the air conditioning ducts all this 
time. As I crashed through the cheap imitation-Styrofoam 
hung ceiling tiles, skates first, I flashed ninja stars all
 about me. In the ensuing panic, Paul escaped to the 
pre-arranged bus pick-up point. Unfortunately, my skates 
were a poor choice of foot gear for escaping over the 
broken glass of the table I had landed on. Were it not for 
the confusion and the ninja-star-inflicted-wounds delivered
 to the bad guys, I would have been set upon while 
floundering on the glass-strewn carpet. As it happened, 
however, I leapt through the open door of the careening bus
 as it departed the city of Maringa forever.
 If only we had managed to get our equipment in the bus, 
too . . .
Every word of this story is true.
- Kurt H
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