The British Invasion: A Novel

CHAPTER ONE

The year is 1964. We are the middle of our first press conference.
I have only managed this band for so long, but already they have hit the top ten at least six times in a row, and I found myself amongst a growing void of what is to become a movement like none other- an invasion, to say the least.
They were selected upon birth by a supreme council who have, since the beginning of the history, made the decisions for those to be chosen in what the common belief summarizes as ‘destiny’. In truth, this is mere strategy all according to a carefully written master plan. One piece of a giant mosaic that absorbs all nourishing light and the predetermined properties of fate- an illusion we helped craft as well. What you have read about destiny will be re-evaluated upon reading this account. Understand while reading this that the concept of ‘Fate’ is just an operation conceived by those you should fear the most. Yes, I am referring to the Man. The institution. The system. Big Brother. We are also the hands that feed, the keepers of all knowledge collected and every piece of history whether crucial or information that may appear useless to those seduced, sedated, or just plain skeptical.
The Love Bugs, currently the up and coming rock and roll band of the youth, are a developing act (unbeknownst to both the public and the musicians themselves) as well as a crucial part of an elaborate mission to take over the minds and win the hearts of a very feeble generation we fear prone Soviet manipulation and rule. For her Majesty and even our allies globally, we have placed important subliminal morale into the crevices of their material. Already it has been an incredibly successful hit. They have even spread to the United States, where we sit today. I am awaiting the first reporter in a piss poor yet somehow miraculously fancy white room; the sheep skin thin chaps pulled it off. I’m shocked they aren’t taken by my fake as shit British accent, the most obvious red flag beyond the Mod attire.
I could give a fuck less if they call out my phony accent; I’m here for the boys. As an Agent posing as a Rock N Roll talent mogul I play the part damn well. How I wasn’t awaiting Death Row on San Quentin was now a worn shadow of another man’s past.

This was in the making years before I was graced to be spared and selected as an operative, years before I relocated to the UK as per agreement I would help assist Parliament following my proposed execution for the murder I still do not regret committing. I never thought I would enjoy popular music (growing up I was forbidden to listen to anything that wasn’t considered classical), but these boys have definitely got it. They get the act. They’re completely oblivious to the propaganda and I doubt they’d cared at all if they even knew as we throw hideous amounts cash their way and not to mention, endless cabbies of women. Two out of the four of them were virgins when the band formed just prior to me being sent in to “discover” them. Now, crowds of teenage girls (after under just a month’s worth of global airplay) gather to worship these gawky chaps and they can’t keep up with the swarms. The kids are alright.
Gene, Paul, Davy, and Mick- all native Liverpool boys who grew up in roughly the same area- had been selected, as mentioned above, upon birth as referred to by the British Government with equipped with a fake family and new social security number after the reservations had been made based on genetics. They were the purest the English came, blood tracing back to the Middle Ages. Gene was known to be the alleged reincarnation of King Arthur, and his dominant stage presence resonated in a charming way that made you forget about the kid being a complete asshole. He was a bastard and didn’t even know it, but he sure acted like it was his only talent- being a clever little prick.
Gene and Paul both wanted to name the band the Bastards. As an American I was all for it, but I knew EMI would throw a bitch fit over a fucking name so in the phony accent I declared “Get with the program! Look at the youth, the ass-kissing Beatles! Those hideous Stones! People love this! Call yourselves the Love Bugs, mate!”
They willingly and joyfully bought into this after a healthy serving of pills I’d slipped in their tea. All four boys received an equal cocktail portion of amphetamines and downers that weren’t even on the black market handed per a gift of the United States CIA.
During the time Parliament presented me the heavy loads of drugs meant to be supplied as mind control and stabilizers for the Love Bugs, I found myself insatiably tempted to run my fingers and nose through a holy amount of drugs. Drugs that hadn’t been on the market yet, magical pills that would turn an obese hag into a super model, all confidentially approved by the FDA and privately distributed overseas during Government-related functions which tend to result in orgies and shady deals that would even scare a rookie like me. I was a criminal, in my I was under a new name and title with a sudden authority only the most irresponsible and corrupt system would grant any power.

This is why I love the Queen. I wish not to get into the details of how I escaped death row and imprisonment, capital punishment and even my own country probably look at me in scorn and view me as a disgrace- a traitor. What I can officially confess to the reader is that sometimes the most dangerous people end up with the most control, for reasons so crucially unfair to all mankind it justifies all war and violence in every Nation. In short, the vicious killer I was happened to attract the attention of the MI5-who were seeking fresh and virtually faceless people to take on numerous dangerous missions.
I had no choice in my assignment to the British Invasion, a massive scheme Her Majesty’s Government was behind to bestow ancient beliefs and values carefully embedded in the subliminal messages marketed within the image and placed in the lyrics. I wasn’t crazy about the music from the start, Country and Blues was all that played on the radio and me really not being keen on the Classical nonsense my pretentious left winger parents brought me up on. Music wasn’t for me, but I had to act as the Manager and be the one who pulls the strings in the most professional manner possible. I also had to make it fun for the kids. I had to buy these boys everything from credit cards issues by the record label, the executives cared less about the music than the people trying to call it “classless devil music”. I didn’t give a shit or have the patience for the staggering interviewers, who surrounded the Bugs far worse than the teenage girls permitted backstage. I would just smoke and smoke with those doors shut and hear the obnoxious virgin squeals I tried to halt by slamming on the door.
“On stage in five minutes, HURRY IT UP LADS!”
I had the most passionate urge to call them little shits, call them cunts. I was told carefully not to act as a bully on a personal level but this I was willing to break having to put up with the shenanigans they were essentially being paid for. This interview, being taken so seriously as a cultural symbol, made me sick to my stomach. The papers felt so touched by the recent tear-jerking single “Don’t You Leave Me Lonely”, allegedly written by Gene and Paul. I’m not the nicest or gentlest person but I don’t even have half the heart to tell those boys every single word of those lyrics was a predetermined formula meant to brainwash the public with British Imperialism and remind the generation to not tamper with the spread of communism or the consequences will be dire. I had my appetite for drugs and alcohol, my supply a bit shorter than theirs, so I would occasionally crawl into their parties and snatch what I could for later. This was the least they could do for the man behind their image being a hit. Well, perhaps I should not fail to understand myself this is all the products of the purest bloodline there is-the English. The legacy the Love Bugs are destined to leave behind is an impressively laced trick. The songs are, for the time being, very simple. But the expansion and innovation placed in all the subliminal makings unknowingly drilled into them will allow their stages to transcend with new genres and stages until they are historical legends. Gene, Paul, Davy, and Mick are never to know their entire lives have been a lie.
The oldest man I have ever seen happens to be asking a very stupid question. Like most useless questions, it involves yet another journalist pointing out the countercultural significance of the song. How it’s a message for the youth, an anthem for the mistreated.
What bullshit it all is, knowing the true authors are erased numbers of a database meant to redistribute a vessel of mind control. The pink elephant is also that most of the ambition of the boys stem from an enormous hunger for fame and fortune. Paul particularly loved money. His background was indeed wealthy, his Irish immigrant father and mother had been faithful agents of Her Majesty, and domestic rebels like me only they sought to escape the blood curtain of the IRA. Like me they had also been sent to be killed before the glory and grace of the Queen stepped in to assign them new names and surrender their citizenship to the UK. As they had been notorious spies in their homeland they were warned not to sabotage or pull any tricks, they had been instructed to raise the purely conceived child with their own false accents and new names (though ironically keeping the Irish-like pronunciation to the surname) and with that raised “the cute one.”
Being the looks and possessing a buoyant talent, his assigned father was a skilled jazz musician who played every instrument from flute to banjo. The naturally talented tend to stay alive in the eyes of Her Majesty, of a greater worth than the average peasant or pawn.
After being spared I’d gone to learn all the secrets and staged events throughout history, not limited to other countries and even planets. The fact that I had been so naïve as a criminal, hustling and stealing for a savage life of nothing, became a shameful choice of life after upon being enlightened on the truth of existence. I was told the meaning of life, the origins of man, the equation of what is known to humans as ‘love’, the patterns within the architecture...even being the messages in the sky all people fail to notice or see.
It makes a man want to reverse time and fix the nature and all the mistakes of my past. However, I was not permitted for to a project or turf involving time travel.

Gene responds before Paul to the interviewer.
“Yes, this is our message to the people. The world. We aren’t trying to be the biggest band out there, we want to be ourselves.”
They were feeding the public well. I couldn’t trust Mick or constantly stoned Davy the awful burden of answering the questions. They were told by more sources outside of me to keep their mouths shut.
“Look pretty, stay British!” was my least favorite piece of advice the Record Companies would tell them. EMI needed to calm the fuck down. They weren’t even set for another week for the American tour dates, but they were already acting like the boys image had been mounted over Mount Rushmore. Though I was posing as the manager and there remained a subtle agreement between the MI5 and Record Label, we allowed them their own territory and power. We were only responsible for the underlying but indeed important nationalist propaganda of the material- all they did was book the studio and throw out loads of money. My cut of everything made does not match the calculated sum of each exact time those damn songs are played on the radio and I know because I did the fucking math. I had enough for a healthy sized flask that fit in my dry-cleaned Mod suit. The wearing shades inside trend was hard to adapt to, but the MI5 are only so forgiving each time an operative breaks character. I was also so high and drenched with sweat, not able to see a fucking thing.
The cameras are brighter than the cheesy smiles I can barely make out the chaps making through the Ray Bans.
“What’s next for the band, Gene?”
“Davy, do you have a girlfriend?”
Not only is the amount of bullshit and mutual ass kissing I’m witnessing nauseating, but a deep error of her Majesty and probably why I hated the United Kingdom as an American. I loved the benefits of this humorously pompous society, but there was a polluted sense of worthless present that seemed to have a very real odor. The smell of London was the stench of a failed yet corruptibly insecure Kingdom.
The CIA was very pleased and responsive to the instant press and exploitation of the Love Bugs, eagerly awaiting them overseas.
They already had passports made both approving them and additional back-ups of fake American names, birthdates, and social security numbers. How this all schemed like a natural discovery of stardom was an amazing spectacle to witness.
I’m puffing away on another Camel, grinning devilishly every moment the camera pans towards or away from me, shaking hands with the admiring crowds who I felt shadier than me. A pretty lady with a bow in her hair, almost cartoonish, is asking me to get the attention of the almost clueless tie of lads.
“Boys, answer the bird! She’s a nice lady and wants to ask you something!”
Very rarely do I shout demands at them during interviews, but I felt bad for her. She looked not even over eighteen, a notepad stapled to her chest covering her enormously budding breasts. Her hand raised so high there was a light pinch of sweat has found way despite the very cold room.
“Thank you, sir,” she tells me. “I have a question for Paul.”
The shrill feminine tone and quality of what I could not tell was the voice of an American woman. I had not heard one in so long:
the sound of a young, beautiful American woman. It was like watching the Wizard of Oz for the first with the same curious tone of Dorothy and watching in awe at her wander as a virgin through dark mazes. I felt that same fear for her well being if she was a fan of the group.
Paul’s shallow costume is no match for the potential she must have, but he smiles and winks as if a Prince collecting another wife.
“Do tell, Love! Is that an American accent I hear?” he quips.
“My name is Paige, and I’m a writer for a journal in America. I do a weekly column that runs in the Student Newspaper for the University of Florida. I’m just curious on how your music objectifies women-if it’s for the sake of fame or a genuine reflection of character?”
Paul’s starry eyes are flickering in bewilderment, I could tell the subliminal morale that dominated his formulated brilliant prototype mind, was in danger of malfunction. It would be like an engine going to shit if he had flashbacks pertaining to his real origin. He could have a seizure or far worse- begin to know the truth.
“Uhh...” he has an almost dwarf register to his voice, total confusion and embarrassment appears as his natural charm becomes an almost idiot wind completely new for him and the Press.
“Next Question,” I proclaim.
The smiles fade from the young girl, me, and the three other mates.
Paul’s face looks frozen in idiot grin. I remember the first headshot it seems he’s imitating. The Press is embarrassed too, yet even more interested.
Paul’s stunting is going to make us look fucking bad and I can already see Gene getting angry. We shouldn’t have programmed his story as such a “dipshit in the rough Teddy boy” (really bred to compete with the American 50s Rebels like Marlon Brando and Elvis), his anger and audacity is another problem I don’t want to deal with. His lyrics we programmed that he considers his words don’t mean shit to me.
You will find no poeticism that isn’t a pretentious gimmick in most popular music. 

I really do appreciate what the girl has to say, but in this setting and my position being on the line if Paul’s brainwashed mind goes haywire, all will end in blood. I grip Paul’s shoulder firmly, and then I quickly press my thumb against his back to channel silent frequencies of mind control for stabilization to refresh his near coming awareness. We are taught thoroughly that if a mind becomes aware, it will question. When a mind acts upon their question or dissatisfaction with any answer, the mind will become defiant. Defiance usually leads to clashes between the citizen and his authority- which we will not allow under any security agency.

“Well that’s just lovely, mate. We’re fucking idiots thanks to you. You can’t answer a question?” Gene tells Paul, once the interview is over. The Press had left us pleased with plenty input and classic filmed footage that may have been part of the simulated event the agency failed to inform me of happening. They’ll do shit like all the time and expect me not to bring it up to them, of course I will.

We are still huddled and smoking in the now empty room, the Media left more trash than they end up writing in the Conference room than the maintenance staff could handle, so they’d already left too. Now it was me and the next big four fiddling a heap of questions pertaining to the pay and the next gig.

“Listen mates, I don’t know if that was necessarily good or bad press we just underwent. As we know, the record has been a hit and the word is definitely out: people love the Love Bugs. You bastards are headed to the top but there’s a big problem we’ll face if you start going blank on important topics. Paul, speak for your damn self for once because the more you make it seem that way in public the more you’ll be responsible for holding yourself to it. Gene, don’t say smartass things to take the piss out of the American political institution. You always talk about how you love the Queen; it’s not that different in the States. No one gives a fuck about what you think concerning global issues; if you want to become Prime Minister or Ambassador of Shit-take it to fucking Parliament. Talk about the music. The tour dates, the upcoming scheduled television appearances. The messages, boys! Love One Another! Stay With Mind! All is Love! Don’t forget the slogan that’s been setting sail on this bit!”

The Love Bugs nod their heads, with some smears of ego and defeat thankfully overpowered by indifference that prevents them from fighting back. I hand them each their wads of cash and we make our way. Even the way they marched in slight angst and repressed fury was programmed in their teachings, and here I was laughing at it like a tyrant. They were told by both the Record Executives and the “management”-composed of separate posed operations-to save their money in addition to being required a monthly fee for our services.
Truthfully, this money was going to Parliament for the purchase of weapons and funding to further the investigation of those Russian bastards silently plotting world domination. No soil could be trusted
in the eyes of the MI5. To me, we are the superior agency; the true knights and noblemen of the kingdom. But I grow tired issuing my account as a lampoon to lobby her Majesty.
I had somewhere to be, and an informant appeared upon my return to the office dressed in street clothes but of an odd breed. He wore a rhinestone suit and cowboy hat; I had seen this agent before. Here was one of the most trusted and trained soldiers, a different case than mine. In his own guise as an up-and-coming rock and roll singer and guitar shredder, he had been scheduled for big things for the Unit. The CIA elected him to be the tough guy of Rock N Roll, a brute but bringer of peace for operations like Woodstock and Summer of Love.

Stephen Stills, from the United States, generous enough to bring a carton of Marlboros I had a bitch finding in England. His job hitchhiking to recruit scruffy folk singers across the West Coast paid off and offered him a free trip to England to distribute LSD and amphetamines for Dylan and the Band. I assumed he had some free time, and I knew he always had a blast in Liverpool.
“You can take a break from that French crap,” he placed the carton of cigs on the table and looked at me as if I was going to unknowingly continue in my forced false accent.

“You’re a life saver, patriot.” I sighed, the Western tone becoming more slurred and heartland. I opened the box and immediately fished out a cig (I refused to call them “fags” as the English did as I refused to acknowledge fags of any breed).
“I heard the latest single. The Love Bugs are due to take over the States. The Agency has been telling me everything. They’re gonna have a real impact on this upcoming movement called the hippies. We’ll be fucking rich in no time.”
I blew out my smoke, “No way will my broke ass be in the History books, though.”
“HA! Oh you’re a fucking riot. You’d be forever known for those murders if they didn’t already erase your identity and existence, Zodiac.”
That got me a little nervous.
“Don’t call me that,” I said. “Or I’ll have to kill you.”
He laughed again, I could make Stills laugh. I had missed him after meeting him in San Francisco when I had first sent letters to the Police as a Political Activist known as yes, the Zodiac. The problem was all the connected deaths after my initial killing were all framed by both the Mafia and CIA working undercover and crafting together the aesthetic I’d put into my work. Word overseas was that I was still at large, not even a known fear to the public. It’s 1964 and I had already been detained and sent to death unless I made a deal with her Majesty-much to the dismay of the United States who could have easily made me their own weapon.
“We really should kill you, but we like what you do.”
I remember sitting there, the shit inflating my jumpsuit pants, shocked and even infuriated with their praise.
“We’d like to make you an offer working for the Government.”
The awe continued, I was certain the Men in Black smelt my criminal stench as they went into detail on how my aesthetic and record held me of high importance to the English bloodline. They were conducting a project to stage numerous upcoming outlines for a generation that was, once again, not to be trusted. There was a disgusting amount of money suddenly in front of a dangerous man.
“You know I don’t regret killing that man, and I would have killed more on my own had you pieces of shit not framed me.”
“We are aware, Mr. Zodiac- but we think your evil mind is just what our allies in the MI5 need.”
“Will this job allow me to kill?”
The two agents grinned and faced each other in unison, laughing much like me and Stills were just now.
“Oh, Mr. Zodiac, the United States Government is going to miss you!”
“Trust us, what you’ll be doing does much more than murder ever could. We’re talking about real power. The thrill and chance to possess the third eye and mind of all suburban America and Great Britain. Not mention good pay and endless pussy.”
I snapped out of my flashback and gave a long glare at Stills.
“You know that really brought me back to the old days. I can’t believe it’s been almost ten years since I was erased from the country.”
I could tell he was stoned, but he seemed worried about me.
“Well, do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“America?”
“Probably not,” I said.
He sat up and in his stoner yet extremely professional posture, he was to be off. “I’ll be meeting Neil Young in Newcastle soon. We’re gonna score some dope from Eric Bourdon, you wanna come along?”
“I can’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“I hate that kid’s fucking voice.”
I really knew how to make Stills laugh.
He went on his way and I sat in the office, now dark and lonely. I now, at least, had enough cigarettes to last me the week. How my past had yet to haunt me gave me a sort of chill.

I am having nightmares. The glamorous life of not only an Agent but a Rock N Roll band manager, distraught and sweating in fear for the dreams they have been giving me. I realize in the heat of my nightmare that I receiving updates on my assignment, this is a method they modeled after the Russian Sleep Experiment.
In this dream I am in a Victorian corridor, lost. The Love Bugs are in another room, I imagine being knighted. I am wearing my priceless (soon to be iconic) shades. There are men in black appearing and disappearing before me, I expect this regulation is not going too well on their end. I hear one them whisper, “We may have to keep an eye on this one,”-they could be talking about the band or me.
I have no motor skills in this dream. In fact, they’ve just turned me into a slug. The sunglasses are still resting on my head but I am at a loss for motion. There are lizard people, dressed in ruffled medieval attire reminiscent of the early days of the Kingdom. The Love Bugs are now visible, and I see them walking behind the Queen, the most hideously crafted lizard of all. I do not know if this is a reference to the original race or simply the Agency pulling another fast one. The operation develops further every year, a unique way of tracking any potential threats to the government and influence the morale of each movement.

 Their sense of humor exclusively relies on the fear and humiliation they evoke, even the reputation adorned by conspiracy theorists (like my friend Hunter in the States) on their reputation and means of control. I am transformed back into my equally disgusting (the personal jab they’re giving me to me) human form, and quickly handed a blank white card.
“Your assignment, Agent Z.”
“You don’t have to talk like that.”
“Have you heard from Greer? Groden?”
“They’re too busy following that goddamn contract for me to take seriously.”
“There are several.”
“There is only one we care about, the constitution. The one we wrote. Who gives a shit if they want to create fake laws to get richer, everyone’s got to make a living. Let them be dumb, it’s easier having a Queen. The old bitch Bathory lives forever.”
“You’re talking a bit too much in your land.”
“I don’t follow all the spooky shit, mate. The occult is not my specialty.”
He was off shortly after that, sometimes I can’t stand the likes of his kind or even him.