The latest, heaviest sounds from England arrived to Seattle Center Arena yesterday, opening for The Vanilla Fudge.

With the swagger of Iron Butterfly's Jerry "The Bear" Penrod and the biker pool hall bravado of Steppenwolf, Robert "Bob" Plant is his own unique package of leather and lace Right On-ness. On stage, he's one part bad-ass, two parts Mississippi Delta, and one million parts luminous, hard rockin' radiation!

This dude is a terrific blue-eyed merchant of Soul. One moment, Bob bellows to his old lady that he's leaving her. That is, right after the next fuck! The next, he is remembering to not forget the laughter, something he digs doing. I talked to Bob in a small and mostly empty, white room after the band's scorching red hot set.

"How can you consider open swashbuckler shirts outdated?," he laughed, as he ran a hand across a dusty, black curtain.

I said: "I don't think I can, Bob."

Standing, he slowly raised one foot onto the back of a chair, stenciled with the phrase "Not to be taken away."

"The essence of my shirts is the desire to be the latest pirate for peace and harmony, if you will."

I lit a Viceroy and placed my right elbow into my left hand, which was stretched across my chest. With my head turned slightly upward, I exhaled toward the hanging bare light bulb and softly said "Fuckinay."

"Yeah. Fuckinay," answered Bob. "Cheers."
And with this, he walked on down the hall.

The last time Father Robert went looking for Rachel, he found her passed out and mostly naked at Fifth and Olive. He kicked her awake. Rachel grimaced and sat up on both elbows, squinting through an imagined haze.

"Hey daddy Bob. You horned up again already?" She reached for the cardigan she had lifted from the donation bin at St. Anthony. Two half-empty pints of Seagrams clinked over the curb. She wrapped her discolored frame with the garment, grabbed the fuller of the two half-empties and staggered upright like a newborn giraffe.

"You stink and you're filthy," Father Robert said. "A beautiful young woman like you...." He was looking at the ground. "Come to church with me. And don't call me ‘daddy Bob.'"
The soup line at St. Anthony had already formed along Hilliard Ave. Some of the younger homeless men whistled at Rachel as she and Father Robert slipped through the south transept entrance.

They fucked quickly in the sacristy. Father Robert pressed a small plastic bag into Rachel's palm.

"Midnight shift again at the Orange Room," Rachel said. "This'll get me through just fine. Thanks daddy Bob."

"Don't." Father Robert said, making a serious face. "Especially not here."
"You don't think God already knows?" Rachel asked to taunt him. "He knows; he just don't give a fuck."

Father Robert was still working some buttons. "God loves you," he said absently.
"Everyone does, daddy Bob, everyone does."
"I said stop it."

Rachel affected a petulant frown as she pulled Father Robert's hips into her own. She pushed her breasts against him and moved her lips close to his ear.

"Maybe I'll just call you ‘daddy,'" she whispered. "Maybe I'll come to mass and call you ‘daddy' so everyone can hear me."
Father Robert cupped her shoulders and pushed her back. Rachel expected to see a flash of anger, but instead Father Robert tightened his lips into a kind of smile. "What do you expect me to say, baby? What do you expect me to do?"

"That's what mama was gonna do, wasn't it?" Rachel continued. "She was gonna tell. What did you pay her to get her to shut up and leave town? I want the same. I wanna get the fuck out of here."

Father Robert was quiet for a moment. Then he embraced his daughter and ran his fingernails up her back. She winced and drew quick, shallow breaths.

"Yes," he said after a time. "I will give you what I gave your mother." He kissed Rachel's neck and she began to cry. Then he kissed her mouth. His strong hands traveled the length of her arms. He grabbed her wrists and in one quick motion, rotated her arms back and up, dislocating both her shoulders, then wrapped his hands around her throat.

"Rachel," he said coldly, "I want to tell you something about your mother." Rachel's face began to turn the color of the bruises on her torso. She kicked at her father, which only transferred the weight of her body into his hands. "Your mother is in a landfill," he said.

He stuffed Rachel's body into a vestment bag. That night, he deposited the bag in the dumpster by the back stage door at the Orange Club. The club rumbled with a muffled and vaguely musical sound. Father Robert thought maybe a security guard would come outside for a smoke and catch him in the act, but nothing happened.
Later, in his bedroom, Father Robert prayed he would be arrested. He prayed for a punishment more dreadful than his haunted dreams. He prayed for some penitent emotion, some small sign that God had not entirely abandoned him.

-David Summerlin

up and running, sort of.