Hatman and the Hat Crew

The audience of adoring fans scream in ecstasy as stage lights flash to reveal the heroes of the night. As the opening riffs wail from the speakers, the crowd raise their arms and wail likewise. Thousands of young women bawl their eyes out, and thousands of men roar until their heads explode. For the tens of thousands who are attending this amphitheatre, this concert is an event comparable to sex: you simply did not know the joy of living until you've seen Hatman and the Hat Crew live in concert.

The band's front man is seen spilling manic energy into the mic and straddling a bass guitar with precision and timing. His bizarre get-up-black tux, black cape, and an old-fashioned top hat-sets him off as the one and only Hatman. The rebellious little white man with his shoulder-length hair angsts and rages over the deafening bleats of his sheeple, songs ranging from the most emo of the emo to the kind of crap that sucks the brains right out of people's butt holes. If the signs his fan girls hold up mean anything, then he's definitely "the Sexy One" of the bunch. Considering the rest of his band, though, it's not exactly the greatest compliment.

When verses aren't being sung, then there's rhymes being spat, fools! Fat Cowboy, the jiggly, unibrowed rapper tapping his boots on the other end of the stage, takes the phrase "Dirty South" and rides it fifty miles below the border. His grimy, Texas twang and thick, overwhelming figure make his act a tough example to follow. In the wake of Hatman's vocals, Fat Cowboy gyrates wildly onstage, his substantial fat rolling along with the quasi-erotic dance. With his breasts a-bouncing, one finds it difficult to look away.

Breakfist's fingers slide up and down the guitar neck like bacon grease on steroids. The blood-eyed samurai shreds and licks the instrument like delicious ham on a Sunday morning, the result always being musical pancakes for the whole audience.

Hyper-stimulated Springo pounds away at the drums. The crazy bird-thing thrashes away with endless abandon and energy. That giant stocking on his head must be packing several tons of "tic-tacs" tonight.

The bleeps and bloops that harmonize with the Crew's traditional metal noise are trademark of Hat Spooks and his keyboard. A huge surprise that the bowling-pin ghost of a DnD nerd can hit keys like a god. But as that inner-city colloquial goes, "A pale spook can raise da roof!"

These five colorful characters, in that same unknowable manner as every other famous rock group, have managed to consistently top the charts and gain the adoration of millions of fans worldwide. The Hatman phenomenon has dropped a mountain of feces on whatever Linkin Park accomplished in the past decade, and has become the new face of nu-metal. With such staggering popularity, people have grown curious of this new culture icon. Who is Hatman? Who is his Crew? And why is he such a badass?

Hatman as we know him today did not originally begin as some aspiring artist. On the contrary, he's spent most of his adult life as a county commissioner in New State. Yes, Morgan Hattingburg, as he was then known, sat at a big round table and listened to ignorant old men argue for eight hours a day, six years of his life. He was a prominent member of the short-lived Death and Pain Party and worked for prison reform all throughout his various terms. Yet his radical ideas about reducing the deficit by "Hatting" life-term inmates proved too much for even his own party. With his support ground into dust, he was never reelected. Morgan slunk away to his ratty bachelor pad and plotted to carry out reform in a completely different manner….

In the months that followed Morgan's disappearance from public eye, a mysterious figure that called himself "Hatman" took to the streets. He soon became a local celebrity that was engaged in a multitude of activities, most notably shooting up LAMDRIFTER gatherings (the "threat to all that is good and sane" as he often rants in his songs), slapping pedestrians across the face, trying to kill Fat Cowboy, and finding ways to fund Morgan Hattingburg's campaigns for public office. As time went on, Fat Cowboy and the rest of the Hat Crew's current lineup apparently joined up with Hatman. This all culminated, as we all know, when Road Runner Records discovered the fivesome and released their smash debut album, Hatman Hats Haters (Say That 3 Times Fast). In the flames of universal obsession, rumors and gossip often speak louder than the truth. I intend to answer some of those FAQ's as I visit and interview each one of the Crew.

After making a few intrusive phone calls, I manage to pinpoint the band's top-secret recording studio. Nowhere, Oklahoma was the name of the place, and the studio is, incidentally, right in the middle. As soon as I walk through the front doors, a head behind the front counter spins in my direction and gasps as if he'd seen Jesus Christ on a unicorn. As my eyes meet his, I know from that ecstatic gleam that I'm in for a greeting that would test my capacity for tolerance.

"Well, HELLO!" he cries flamboyantly as he leaps to his feet. I have no idea what this guy is supposed to be: he looks like a clown dressed like a Spartan warrior. His name tag says, "Cannon Kid." I think he's the only person here.

"Um, I'm from a magazine," I say. "I was wondering if I'd be able to interview the Hat Crew?"

"Hatman is the only one here at the moment." He claps his hands together and looks up at me so sickeningly-sweetly.

I'm struck confused as to why Hatman is the only one present since, supposedly, the Crew is working on a new LP, but I manage to put up with the ugly kid and say, "Okay, then can I just see Hatman?"

He grabs my hand, leans into my face, and whispers, "We'll go together."

Despite the extreme discomfort of being lead around by a flamboyant Spartan clown, I feel especially eager now that I've arrived at Hatman's own doorstep. Cannon Kid pounds the door like a drum and screeches, "Hatman! Hatman! Open the door! Open the door!"

Silence persists for the next moment. Then finally, a voice behind the door says, "Go ahead an' open."

Cannon Kid pushes the door inward. A gunshot sounds, and all the sudden Cannon Kid slams to the floor with blood gushing out of him. I manage not to shout "Holy shit!" as I rapidly exchange glances between the dead clown and the man standing in the doorway. The top hat, the tux, the pistol pointed in his right hand-I might be confused as hell right now, but this is definitely Hatman.

He apparently notices my shock and holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, look, he irritates the crap outta me sometimes, and sometimes I gotta be a little aggressive. Believe me, this happens quite often."

I cast another horrified glance at Cannon Kid and wonder how in the world this could happen more than once. But just as I'm about to burst with a million questions, Hatman says, "So, ya here to see how the music happens? Well come on in, and we'll take a look."

As he motions for me to enter, I consider whether this would be a good idea or not. Although, since he clearly has no qualms with lethal hatting, I think I better not refuse his courtesy. I take one long step over the growing blood pool and cross through the doorway. The door slams behind me, and I find myself within a dimly-lit, windowless room.

"You might think it looks like a dump," Hatman says while he strides to the desk by the back wall. He lands into a comfortable office chair, takes it for a spin for no apparent reason, and stops all the sudden with a clap of his hands. He draws up wiggling fingers and dives into the mountain of papers on his desk. "But I'm not one to throw out potential material, crap or not. Here, read this one." He balls up one of the sheets and throws it over his shoulder. I manage to catch and uncrumple it. The top of the paper is titled "Raining Hats", and I proceed to read the interesting lyrics written beneath.

"Thunder strikes and tax hikes,
These guys can't do nuthin right.
So now I got a fine idea
To poison all their minty tea.

Hatman's got a long shot;
He can fly to Little Rock.
It won't be rainin' cats and dogs;
No, it be rainin' hats and-"

I look up from the unfinished song just in time to hear Hatman explain, "That song really pissed me off, man. I mean-it's not like you can just put in a word that rhymes with 'dog' and expect it to finish the verse. 'Raining hats and hogs'? 'Raining hats and frogs'? 'Raining hats and thongs'-" Hatman quickly covers his mouth as he giggles. "I tell ya, songwriting takes a lot out a true artist. If it sounds gay, it won't matter what rhymes!"

While Hatman continues to prattle about his songs, my eyes float about the various oddities that were surrounding me. A huge bookshelf full of loose papers, unabridged thesauruses, and massive political volumes consume the entire right wall. The left wall is covered in pictures of dozens of historical figures with top hats drawn on their heads. I find myself particularly interested in this left wall. There's Hat-Aristotle, Hat-Jefferson, Hat-Descartes, Hat-Carnegie, Hat-Einstein, Hat-Elvis, and many other identities that my minimal intelligence could only guess at.

"Are you listening to me?"

I look back to find Hatman's accusing finger pointing in my face. He looks rather irritable. "Does my Wall of Great Past Hatters interest you more than my trade secrets?"

"It's…uh…fascinating?" I reply with some uneasiness.

"Are you one of those tabloid people," he says, "just here to find some dirt on Hatman?"

"No. No, of course not!".

His whole arm suddenly falls limp at his side, and his face morphs into a creepily giggly contentment. "Yeah…I don't like those kind of people. If you were one of those kind of people, I might have to, oh…." He starts coughing and hacking into his fist, and among the various noises I think I catch the words, "rapeyainthebutthole."

"S-s-so, where's the Hat Crew?" I desperately change the subject.

Hatman raises his finger, "One moment, please," opens his door to find a completely unharmed Cannon Kid standing there with his thumbs up, and proceeds to knee him in his nether regions. Slamming the door behind just as the screaming begins, Hatman says, "Pardon me. I get a massive urge to hat whenever I hear about those guys nowadays, so for your sake, I'll keep this short: every Crew member, barring myself, has officially sold out."

"Sold out?"

"LIKE HATS, THEY'VE SOLD OUT!" In a fit of raw fury, he lashes out against the desk and swipes all the papers off. Then he whips out both his pistols and starts shooting at it. Over the gunfire, he continues his tirade, "FAT COWBOY'S DOWN SOUTH APPEARING ON TV AND GETTING FREE FOOD! SO WHAT, NOW HE'S TRYING TO BE 'FATTER COWBOY'? HAT SPOOKS IS PLAYING VIDEO GAMES, BREAKFIST'S OPENING SOME GAY RESTARAUNT, SPRINGO'S BUYING MORE TIC TACS WITH MY MONEY, AND I'M HERE ALL BY MYSELF DOING WHAT THE FANS EXPECT OUT OF HATMAN AND THE HAT CREW!"

Hatman keeps clicking on the triggers, but finds that all his bullets were expended on the freshly-mutilated desk. Tossing his guns to the side, he turns around, with eyes full of insanity, and faces me with his arms wide open. "RUN, CRAP-IT! RUN BEFORE I RAAAAAAAAPE YOOOOOOU!"

I run out of that place screaming like a girl and never look back.

After some much-appreciated therapy, I finally get back on the story and begin searching for the rest of the Hat Crew. Luckily, I find out that Fat Cowboy is booked for an event in Nebraska set to take place in just a few days. Of course I'm going to be there too. I have stalking celebrities down to an art form, thank you very much.

I find the rapper standing at the end of a long picnic table decorated with several dozen plates of pie. He was apparently judging a best pie contest at the state fair.

"You're Fat Cowboy, right?"

His head snaps in my direction, and I notice a bit of drool hanging beneath his lip. But his initial shock immediately disappears behind a big, toothy grin. "Well howdeh thar, partner. Can I be a-helpin' ya'll dis finely Saturday?"

"You're Fat Cowboy?" I repeat.

"That's me!" He snaps his fingers. "Fat Cowboy: slick as a Jeep."

I nod my head, impressed. "Always coming up with new rhymes, I see."

"You betcha, Dexta." He slaps his big belly and laughs for the whole fair to hear. "But lemme tell ya first off-I just an ordinary simple man who tries to put food in his stomach wheneva he can find it." He reaches into a McDonalds bag sitting on the table, and literally chugs a large order of French fries from the fry holder. Chewing doesn't stop him from continuing the conversation. "Yeh can't get a big head in da show biz. Mah head, thank da Lord, still's pretty normal, I think. Don't feel 'fraid to ask me anythang."

"Well, I talked to Hatman a little while ago, and he seemed to think you that were selling out."

"Baw!" The cowboy just shakes his head. "Hatman's just bein' a puppeh dog in coleslaw. He's so paranoid sometimes, he'd burn da whole fores' down if jus' one leaf fell on his fanceh hat."

I chuckle. "That's not too far from truth actually."

"He's gotta learn to take thangs easy fer once. Hat Crew's released, what, thray or four records so far? We gotta let the creative juices flow fer a bit 'fore we get back to studio, and fer my brand of rappin'-no, sorry, wrong word-fer my brand of p-ing, dis counteh fair environment is perfect for some inspiration."

"Wait, what do you mean…'p-ing',"?

"P as in poetray, mah bud. Ya see, the word 'rap' comes from the agronym 'raytards attemptin poetray'. But I ain't no raytard, so da only thangs comin' from dis mouth is pure, strong, bull-wild p." And again, he snaps his fingers like a hipster.

"That's…a very unique philosophy."

"I neva really cared about rap since I never heard any till just recent. I eventually found dat da whole meanin' of it all can be summed up in two words: bitches and hoes. An' when I came to that conclusion, I realized how perfect that type-o-thang was fer me."

"Really? How so?"

"Well, when I was growin' up on mah ma an' pa's farm, we had all kinds o' bitches. Hairy bitches, bitin' bitches, huntin' bitches, bitches that fetched sticks, bitches that got pregnant, we used 'em fer bunches of stuff, and me and mah brothers loved 'em too. And hoes, well, that's pretty much what every farmer does his whole life. I remember getting up at da crack o'dawn to hoe da whole field. And, ya know, when ya consider all dat, I've got more material than most other 'rappers' usually do. Most of dem talk about hoes and whatnot, and then have some skankity skanks grind all ova da dang camera! Naw, I try to put some sophistication in mah rhymes."

"But you don't normally rap-"

"P."

"-p about…hoes."

"Well, I'm Fat Cowboy. If ya want Fat Farmer, he's in dat stall behind me."

He lifts a thumb over his shoulder, and I look to see a giddy-looking fat man with some hoes of his own. He was showing them off to passer-bys, apparently.

"I work on mah stuff every time I get da chance, 'gardless o'whatever Hatman or anyone else says. Wanna hear some spits, partner?"

"Lay it down, cowboy!"

Fat Cowboy grins proudly as he clears his throat.

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, watch dat lil' boy run!
Feet must beh feelin' like some doggies in a bun.
Herd coming at 'em like da devil in 'dere boots,
Dat's what kiddies get when dey don't get it done!

My mouth flies open as Fat Cowboy's triumphant pelvic thrust flings the entire table upward. Screams fill the air as pies start to rain down, and when the table finally flips on its top, I hear a loud crunching of bones and an ear-raping wail that brings back unpleasant memories of a certain Spartan clown.

Like any gentlemanly journalist, I thank the good cowboy, get the hell out of there, and fly over to Hat Spooks' house to interview him next.

The first thing I notice when I step onto the front porch is the piece of paper taped to the door.

"In the Wildy, Do Not Disturb"

Is he out camping or something? I ring the doorbell anyway, just to be sure.

"GO AWAY, NOOBS!" responds a nasally, disembodied voice. "TELL HATMAN HE CAN FELLATE MY NON-EXISTANT PENIS BEFORE I EVER GO BACK!"

I'm quite stunned by the sudden profane outburst, but I press on anyway. "Hat Spooks, right?"

"GET OFF MY PORCH! I'M TRYING TO SET LUMBRIDGE ON FIRE!"

"I just want to interview you for an article."

"I DON'T CARE! SCRAM, BEFORE I WHIP OUT MY MASTER SWORD!"

I open my mouth to argue, but after a moment's thought I let out a tiresome sigh. I sure as crap don't want to have to deal with nonsense a second time, so I turn around and try to fix my sights elsewhere.

Breakfist's restaurant isn't simply a restaurant. It's a breakfast joint, grocery store, children's playground, health center, and samurai dojo all rolled into one building. Well, that's what the billboard in front of the construction site says it's going to be. At the sword-and-guitar virtuoso's trailer, I find the front door flanked by two, bacon-smothered samurai. Breakfist's body guards, I suppose. I tell them what I want, and they just stare at me for an extremely long time. Then, just as I was about to stomp off in frustration, they snatch me by the collar and throw me inside.

Lifting myself off the ground, my eyes give a start when I see Breakfist himself standing right in front of me. He bows politely. "I appologize for the painful entrance."

"Um, I'm okay. Thanks."

He opens his arm towards a nearby table. "Tea?"

When we sit down for tea-and I'm surprised how much I like this stuff since I always grew up thinking tea was un-American-I find Breakfist to be a far more bearable personality than the Crew members I'd thus far encountered. After engaging in a bit of small talk and introducing myself, I get right to the big questions.

"So, I read the sign out front. You have some pretty big plans for this restaurant, huh?"

The warrior nods. "Yes. I have made much money since joining with Hatman's band, and I believe it is my duty to give back to my admirers."

"Was a breakfast joint slash dojo what they had in mind?"

"No, but it is necessary, I believe, to the welfare of all the peoples of this planet."

I fondle my chin hairs in facination. "Really now?"

"Did you know that in the past five years, violent crimes have gone up in the United States significantly."

"No offense, but I think the media's made that pretty clear over the years."

"Well, did you also know that, in those same five years, the number of people eating breakfast on a daily basis has dropped significantly?"

"No, I did not."

"Long long time ago, my family worshipped the god Barekufisto in the tradition of over five hundred years. He had the head of a pig and the body of a naked body builder. Every new season we would honor him by cutting off a pig's head, drawing out its intestines over the god's statue, and then eating them."

I tilt a slightly-disturbed eybrow. "That's…delicious, huh?"

"No, it was the worst breakfast ever, and that was all we had when I was boy. And somehow, out of ten children, I was the only one who didn't die from salmonella."

"That's gotta suck."

"I studied the sword for a very long time after leaving home, but even after so long, the 'breakfast' traditions still stuck with me. However, in this new millennium, I found that people cooked their breakfasts with ovens and microwaves. And it was at that point that my life was changed forever. Now I'm happier, stronger, and more successful than I ever was in the past now that I've taken up the habit of always eating a well-prepared breakfast."

"So you attribute your success to a healthy breakfast?"

"It is undoubtedly the one true secret to success."

He reaches over the table to hand me a small book. I receive it, and hold the cover in front of me. A statue of Buddha sits on the cover, and behind it is a giant fluffy pancake. The title is written as syrup on the pancake: The New Age of Breakfast: The Physical and Spiritual Necessity of Healthy Morning Meals.

"I couldn't believe it that there were others exactly like myself. This book confirmed that and answered so many of my lingering questions."

I flip through the pages, briefly examining the illustrations and chapter headings. Various diagrams depict flows of bacon traveling from mouth to stomach to heart and eventually to every other part of the body. There's also chi flows, chakra flows, magic runes, and a picture of Yoda using the Force to eat his cereal. Noteable chapter headings include "The Parable of the Pig and the Chicken", "Lost Breakfast, Lost Humanity", and "Alternative Breakfast."

"That manifesto you hold," Breakfist goes on, "is the secret to turning our troubled society around. I intend my restaurant to be the starting point. Customers will not only be given quality meals at a small price, but they will also have free access to the health center for advice as well as to the dojo to train their bodies in the ways of proper digestion."

"So will the restaurant sell typical breakfast fares like coffee and sausage and whatnot?"

"All parts of the pig will be available on the menu, as well as various eggs and grain-based products. However, coffee, cappuccinos, espressos, everything of that kind is forbidden in the restaurant. Caffeine disrupts chakra flows and puts unnecessary strain on the appendix's runic cycle-the book can explain it better than I can. Instead, customers are encouraged to purchase herbal tea just like the kind we're drinking right now."

"Most Americans I know don't buy tea with breakfast. Don't you think that could have some negative consequences?"

"In my years in this country, I've found that any American will change their mind if their favorite celebrity does the same. Which is why I came up with this."

Breakfist places a top-hatted aluminum can up on the table. The can hosts a picture of Hatman sipping tea with his pinky held out, the words "Hat Tea" labeled next to him. I grab the interesting drink and examine the top hat more closely. It seems to be a device for opening the drink as well as for decoration, as I twist the hat off the can to see the familiar opening where consumption would take place.

"This is very creative," I comment. "Did you get his permission to do this?"

I didn't hear any response. Concerned, I glance up and nearly jump in fright when I see bright red blood crackling in his eyeballs. He's shaking uncontrollably. His lips look ready to burst. Oh crap.

"Uh….B-Breakfist?"

His shaking stops suddenly, but his eyes remain bloodshot. "I apologize. Could you repeat the question?"

"I wondered what Hatman thought of his new tea brand."

"What he thought?" He stands up and strides over to a window, his back facing me. "Well, I didn't tell him, obviously. That's partly why I'm out here instead in the studio. When he found out, he said something along the lines of, 'Oh, you put my hat on your frickin' gay tea? You homo! Hats don't belong on tea, especially not on tea where there's a picture of me drinking it!'." I see a shoulder twitch. "Well, he obviously didn't understand the necessity of the tea, so I showed him that book I just showed you and explained its purpose. He laughed at me." His other shoulder twitches. The shaking's come back. "You know…it's a little ridiculous…the whole planet's at stake here…my life's work…and he thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever heard…."

Twin katanas fly into Breakfist's hands as he lets out a crazed, enraged scream. He turns towards the table, giving me full view of his blood-crazed eyes, and starts slicing up the table we were just sitting around. I leap backwards as the rampaging goes on. He seems to be screaming in Japanese.

I accidentally back into something else, and suddenly I'm dragged by the collar and find myself thrown out of the trailer in the same way I was thrown in. Gathering myself from off the ground, I look up at the bodyguard just in time to see him shake his head.

"You should not talk about Hatman in the presence of Master Breakfist."

I look past him to see the trailer jumping around like an out-of-control bar fight. The screaming is still quite loud. Am I lucky to have made it this far?

At this point, a nice cohesive story on the Hat Crew is pretty much impossible. And Springo, if the rumors about him are true, will hardly ameliorate my current situation. Still, I think I owe it to myself to talk to the last of this freak show.

Springo has always claimed to be in love with the LA scene. I check in at every hip club in the city, and they all tell me that he lives in this huge mansion in Bel-Air. They all say that he's a "night-bird", and that my best chances of getting an interview would be late at night. I chug me some coffee and head over to the address.

The instant I pull up to the mansion, my windows start shivering to a booming beat coming from the building. I could hear the distant thundering of abrasive rap lyrics about booty and bling. I approach the front door and ring the doorbell. I have no idea whether the bell works or not since I can't even hear my own breathing right now. I don't see any lights on in the windows. There must some kind of party going on in the backyard.

I walk around back, passing through an unguarded side-gate, and examine the grounds for a moment. A concert-quality sound system towers in the far back, blaring ripples into the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Multi-colored lights are set up around the premisis, and all sorts of drink tables line up across the lawn. It all looks like a pretty cool set up for a party. Too bad nobody's here.

Then I look across the pool and notice a small humanoid shape relaxing in a hot tub. I shout out to him, and he turns his head towards me. He waves his winged arm in the air as if to greet me to the party. The target in my crosshairs, I approach the hot tub with casual steps.

"Duuuuuude!" Springo shrieks. "It's great to see you!"

"Yeah! Same here!" I shout back. I have to shout if this guy's going to hear me.

I very nearly trip into the hot tub. What I see there is easily the creepiest thing I've seen on my whole adventure. There lies Springo, naked, vibrating, arms spread out on the concrete ledge, with about half a dozen frozen turkeys floating around in the water. His jaw seems incapable of anything but a wide, buzzed grin, and his eyes are as bloodshot as Breakfist's.

"Maaaaan, I love a good night with the friends, don't you?" says Springo.

I'm still gaping in confusion. Seriously, there's frozen meat in the freaking hot tub! "Umm…friends are fun, yeah."

"Yeah, yeah, yeeeeaaaah, zizzles!"

Everybody knows that it's rare to see a Springo that isn't buzzed. I was prepared for that, and I didn't plan on making him a pivotal part of my editorial. I mean, come on! He's a drummer for God's sake! Anyway, I figure I better get this done quickly. There's no telling when the cops will come and shut down his "party".

"Hey, so can I ask you some questions about your drumming?" I say in my polite voice.

"Oh, yeah yeah! I can tell you anything, man!"

"Okay, so…why do you play the drums?"

Instead of telling me why, he throws his hands into the air, and then brings them down upon his chest. He starts pounding on himself like a drum and makes several screeching noises. When he finishes, he sighs. "'Cause it's easy, man! I used to hit crap all the time before I hit the big time. Now I every time I do break something, I get on TV!"

"So, you like drumming?"

"Like zizzles I do! I was born to bang! I know Tina agrees with me!"

"Tina?"

"Oh my zizzles, are you serious, man? I love her. I love like my own blood, even though that'd be weird as bubby. She's my inspiration for like…everything, man!"

"She sounds real special."

He looks up at me with a tilted eyebrow. Like he had no idea I was there the whole time. "Who?'

"Tina, right?"

His eyes widen. "Tina?"

"Yes!"

"TINA!" At that moment, he pulls another turkey out of the water and raises it high above his head. There are many obvious finger marks in the skin over the breast, and a small, crude hole punctures the region below its belly. I look at it, and feel seriously compelled to drown this fool.

"Me and my baby wanna live good lives, man!" Springo says as he grasps "Tina" to his heart. "But it's hard! Hatman gave me, like, no money, man! Now I'm struggling just to buy tic tacs!"

"Then how are you paying for this mansion, and this party?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm just borrowing this place for a night or two. No one lives here, so I thought I'd put it to good use."

So this isn't his house. That means I'm trespassing with this dumbass. Fantastic.

A bright light suddenly flashes on Springo's face. "Oh, zizzles!" he cries, shielding his eyes with his beloved frozen turkey.

I spin around just in time see a cop and someone else approaching us. The cop is waving a flashlight around, much to Springo's dismay. He looks pretty angry, but the guy standing next to him looks absolutely furious.

"The music is going to have to stop, sirs," the officer states. "You have the neighbors up in arms."

Then the other man stomps up in front and says, "These guys are tresspassers! This is Mr. Soros's summer retreat."

The cop then turns his damning gaze upon me. "Is that so?"

"No, bubby, nooooooo!" Springo drawls. As if the situation couldn't get any worse for me. No, scratch that. It's worse now that he's got his handcuffs on me.

A long story short, I managed to avoid charges and was able to get this story done. I can't say the same for Springo though. During this whole journey, I have done nothing but search for the secrets of the Hat Crew's success. Well, I think I've succeeded in some respect, but I wish I could have actually spoken to Hat Spooks or Hatman. Clearly, though, this band is walking a fine line. Will the Crew settle its differences, make more music, and become timeless rock'n'roll legends? Or will they fizzle out in pot-smoke and argument like so many others before them? Personally, I think Hatman himself will "Hat" his own band. An ironic yet fitting ending to phenomenon like the Hat Crew.