Madonna-Bon Jovi!

Do YOU have what it takes to be America’s Next Top Wedding Singer? Don’t wait! Come on down to Los Angeles, the city of dreams (and overpriced parking), and prove you can serenade drunk aunts, swooning brides, and grooms who wish they’d eloped!

Grand Prize: $10,000, a fancy trophy definitely made of real gold, and the chance to perform at THE most exclusive wedding of the year (we legally can’t say whose, but trust us, it’s a big deal).

Runner-ups get: A firm handshake and an Olive Garden gift card with an option to receive free breadsticks.

Auditions: THIS Saturday @ 10 AM. No, we won’t reschedule if your cat is sick. Be there or forever hold your peace (and regret it forever)!

Vincent was given the flyer during a corporate party event he was hired to perform at in Las Vegas. He was thrilled to have gotten a professional email from Signed, Sealed, Delivered, an international greeting card company having their big bimonthly corporate dinner party event. Apparently the manager of the cardiac arrest greeting card department was a huge fan and, since the party just so happened to be on his birthday, they wanted to hire him to perform.

Vincent was ecstatic when he read over the email (three times just to make sure he wasn’t finally losing it). It was going to be his first gig in over six months. The last thing he got hired for was helping a college student with their Songwriting & Composition 201 course, where they needed to arrange a piece from the point of view of their favorite family pet. Vincent’s lyrical genius was truly challenged when he had to help the poor lad find ways to rhyme: “I thought

he’d be chill, but my house is in shambles / He ate the TV and two door handles” for their pet komodo dragon.

Vincent didn’t have half the dignity to care, though. For helping out, the college student paid him seventy-five bucks an hour, and when he got a B+ for creativity, treated him to a free meal at Chili’s. The Triple Dipper meal was worth every bruise to his ego.

But for the corporate party, they were paying him quadruple what some broke college kid could. He’d be a fool to give up that opportunity. So, he tuned the strings of his old Gibson Les Paul Standard guitar, scraped together the last few dollars and change he had left in his wallet, and took a humble bus ride to Las Vegas. During the seven-hour ride, he prepared renditions of his greatest hits a true fan would love and even wrote a new song for the special birthday boy in hopes they’d slide him a generous tip for the effort.

However, when Vincent arrived and started strumming the tune from “Myspace Friend, Real Life Enemy,” the third lead single from his only number-one album ever, the business professionals in the room stared back at him in odd confusion, frequently checking the glasses in their hands to make sure no one accidentally slipped any more “funshine” in their Robert Mondavi’s.

He did his best to ignore the befuddled gazes and continued playing all the hits from his album. It took half an hour to get through just four songs, and when he reached the last one, he made a special announcement.

“For my last song of the afternoon, I’d like to take the time to wish Mr. Jeffery Morgan, the manager for the Cardiac Arrest Department, and most importantly, a dedicated fan of my old band Vincent & The Kingsly’s, a very happy birthday! On the ride here, I put together a little song as a way to express my thanks.”

The room was silent. A few confused murmurs from the crowd made Vincent’s guitar pick tremble in his hands. Blowing air from his cheeks, he pushed his anxiety to the side and strummed a few half-hearted chords on his guitar, pretending to tune it for dramatic effect, even though it was perfectly fine.

“Well,” he said, smiling wearily, “this one’s for you, Jeffery.” He cleared his throat unnecessarily and began to sing in a tone that suggested he had just remembered how to use his vocal cords.

“A one! A two! A one, two, three, four!”

“Happy birthday, Jeffery, it’s your special day / I wrote this song for you, ‘cause you’re my biggest fan, hey hey! / You run the cardiac department with grace and flair, / Must be all that heart-saving magic you prepare!”

The audience seemed confused at first, eyes shifting awkwardly between each other. But Vincent was on a roll.

“Do you handle chest pains like a champ with a grin? / Or offer a band-aid and a card with a heart on the skin? / When you see someone clutching their chest in distress, / Do you hand them a card, or just say, ‘Take a rest!’”

Vincent was grinning like a maniac, his eyes closed as he lost himself to the heavy sounds of the electric guitar vibrating through the air, fully embracing the maladroitness of the situation.

“From the bottom of my heart, Jeffery, here’s the deal, / Keep the rhythm steady, and your heart’s always real! / May your birthday be stress-free, with no chest pains to fight, / And may your heart keep beating strong, from morning ‘til night!”

Vincent finished his performance by harshly flicking the final chords off his guitar and belting the last set of “Ahh” and “Ooo” into the mic.

If this were one of the sold-out concerts he headlined back in 2001, he would have reveled in the sounds of screams and cheers from the fans below his feet, reaching out to him in a desperate attempt to touch anything on him, even if it were the obsidian black size 12 leather combat boots that glistened in the stage light aura.

But today, nearly twenty-four years later, there was no stage to frolic about on and no fans to scream his name. Today, there was just an awkward cough that echoed throughout the office room, and an audience of people collectively wondering what the heck they just witnessed. When Vincent opened his eyes to assess the damage, he knew more than anyone that no one in that room wanted any servings of what he’d just slapped on the grill and burned.

In the sea of silence, someone hesitantly raised their hand. “Um... so I take it you’re not Vincent Kingsly, the magician?”

Vincent blinked. “The what?”

“The magician? You know, the one that’s on TV and stuff?” They fumbled in their pockets and quickly typed away. In a matter of seconds, they pulled up a Getty image on Google of some old guy with silver hair, wearing a black and white top hat with a suit to match. He was holding a baby kangaroo he had pulled out of another top hat.

Vincent’s face dropped. “Oh... no. No, I’m not Vincent Kingsly the magician.”

Someone else spoke up besides them. “Wait, you didn’t order the magician?”

“I thought I did! One sec.” Their thumb swiped quickly through their phone, crease lines deepening on their forehead. “On the Craigslist ad, it said Vincent Kingsly, world-famous… musician. Oh.”

After his performance, they let him linger around for as long as he wanted, even offering him a plate of the gas station pizza they ordered from up the street. Vincent ate a couple of slices before he started packing up all his equipment, trying not to think about the colossal failure he’d just endured.

Jeffery, the man he had just serenaded not even an hour ago, slowly approached him and waved awkwardly. “Hey. Thanks for... all of that.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. If you do, I may punch you.”

Jeffery took two steps back. “Look, I know today wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for you either. But, you may have a knack for this sort of thing, you know.”

Vincent glared at him as he zipped his guitar holder up. “What the hell does that mean?”

Jeffery didn’t take his eyes off of him as he pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper from his back pocket. He silently handed it to Vincent, who took it curiously from his fingertips.

He read the first line and wanted to cry.

Do YOU have what it takes to be America’s Next Top Wedding Singer?

The flyer had been hanging up in their office building’s coffee room for the past two weeks, ignored by everyone because it wasn’t nearly as interesting as a steamy cup of vanilla espresso.

Vincent was about to tell Jeffery no thanks, that someone of his caliber would never subject himself to the humiliation ritual of begging people to hire him as if he were some fresh-eyed pretty boy new to the industry, and to never contact him again. But then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Taking it out, he read the email that was just sent to him from his landlord.

Subject: Eviction Notice

Vincent, your stuff’s outside. If you’re not here in 10 minutes to grab it, I’m charging you for storage. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long. Maybe you can sell the guitar to get yourself a cheap hotel? Good luck.

Vincent sighed. “Where’s the nearest bus station from here?”

He packed himself four extra slices of gas station pizza for the road and bought a room-temperature bottle of water from a convenience store along the way. The bus station was his home for the next hour, but hopefully, he would soon make a home out of LA—if he could get through the elimination rounds.

The evening heat of the Las Vegas sun shone down on Vincent like an alien ray gun pointing its deadly beams at his forehead. His butt was velcroed to the empty bus stop's metal seats, where he had remained seated for the past several hours. Hiking up here from Timbuktu made him late for the mid-afternoon pick-up.

Vincent swiped irritatingly at the sticky substances leaking from every hole in his body. Rubbing his free, wet hand on the front of his old T-shirt, which he’d picked up off the ground from behind a Goodwill trash can and cut the sleeves out of, he read over the photocopied flyer in his hand for the thousandth time since he received it.

But Vincent wasn’t alone at the bus station for long. Within a few minutes, he saw the silhouette of a young woman approaching him. She speed-walked across the street before any cars could run her down and sighed into the seat next to him.

Vincent eyed her closely—a black, expensive, feathered coat that hugged her curves tightly, the fur of the hood draped around her shoulders like a curtain would in some old oil painting. A beret hid most of her curly pixie-cut hair. She crossed her long, slender legs, her thighs bouncing in anticipation for the bus.

She took notice of him staring. Pursing her lips, she said, “Is there something on my face that is so interesting?”

Vincent stared at her with a lazy, almost bored expression, his eyes half-lidded as if the heat outside had drained every ounce of energy from him. His posture slouched slightly, one hand resting on the back of his sweaty neck, as if he couldn't muster the energy to fully engage. He blinked slowly, like he was trying to figure out whether her question was even worth a response. His gaze lingered on her, but it wasn’t one of curiosity—more of mild amusement mixed with disbelief, as though her entire presence was a bizarre spectacle in the middle of an

already exasperating day.

“It’s just...” he started, his voice dry and slow. “You’re wearing all of that, and it’s, like, 80 degrees outside, friend.”

“So? What does my heat tolerance have to do with you?”

Vincent just shook his head.

As the moments passed, the woman’s breathing became more labored. He watched as she dabbed a handkerchief over her nose. It was soaked instantly, as if she had dipped it in a small puddle of water.

He glanced down at the newly opened bottle of water he’d bought, then softly nudged her, extending it toward her.

“What is that?” she asked him, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

“Water. Got it over at the convenience store on the way here. I opened it but didn’t drink out of it. Looks like you need it more than me.” Vincent shook it in front of her. “So, drink.”

The woman continued to stare at it, her ruby-red lips still pressed in that thin line that reminded Vincent of the markings his middle school English teacher would scribble through whenever he mixed up ‘there,’ ‘their,’ and ‘they’re.’

Finally, she spoke, and he suddenly found himself missing when she was quiet.

“... Does it have lemon in it?”

“Ma’am, what convenience store sells lemon in their overpriced bottled water?”

“The only kind I can drink?”

Vincent gripped the bridge of his nose. “Do you want the water or not?”

The woman sighed dramatically before taking it. “Fine. I guess it’ll do. But it won’t be nearly as effective as lemon water! The lemon helps keep my throat healthy and smooth.”

Vincent leaned back further in his chair. “I didn’t ask.”

But the woman continued. “Did you know that the chemical properties of lemon water can even help the pitch of your voice go higher? I also found out that sweating as much as you can offers the same effect. These past few months, I’ve absolutely seen a change in the pitch of my voice. I’ll be singing like Madonna in no time!”

“Is that why you’re dressed like you’re going on a hike to Mount Everest?”

She nodded excitedly, as if her outfit were the pinnacle of fashion. “Yep!”

“I see. Well, Miss Mount Everest, may I ask how long you’ve been doing these… experiments?”

She blushed, tucking a curl behind her ear nervously. “About a week.”

“Go figure.”

“My name is Penelope, by the way. You?”

“Vincent.”

“I’ve heard that name before!”

“You and everyone else in the world.”

Penelope gulped the last few drops of water before handing it back to Vincent. He took it from her, his fingers brushing hers briefly, his jaw tight with barely contained irritation.

“Thank you for the water, Vincent! It was a bit warm for my liking, and even though I would have preferred some lemon, it was still much appreciated!”

Vincent rolled his shoulders back. “The bitterness of the water should have reminded you of the lemon, so it’s practically the same thing.”

She didn’t respond, only shuffled around in her lilac suitcase and pulled out a golden harmonica. “Do you mind if I warm up my voice a bit before the bus gets here? I have an important audition coming up, you see, and I want to be ready for it.”

Vincent just wanted the conversation to end. He crumpled the empty bottle and tossed it into a nearby trash can. Pulling out a book he’d stashed earlier, he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

Vincent barely registered her warm-ups—just a few elegant hums and a string of “mi, mi, mi’s”—but thought nothing of it, choosing instead to focus on The Existential Dread of Being a Duck. He’d read online that it was one of the best philosophical books of the 21st century. But nearly ten chapters in, every word on the page simply read, “To quack or not to quack, that is the question,” over and over again.

Penelope took a deep breath, poised to sing, and Vincent braced himself for a soft, elegant melody to match the rest of her.

Instead, the moment she opened her mouth, a thunderous, operatic baritone erupted from her tiny frame.

Vincent jumped in his seat, his book slipping from his hands and thudding to the scorching cement. Penelope belted out the female part of “The Phantom of the Opera,” but instead of the E6 note that made Emmy Rossum famous, she bellowed a low A1, a register lower than his own.

He nearly lost consciousness. It was magnificent—powerful, rich, the kind of voice that could shake the heavens—but all he could think was: Where the hell did that come from?! Just minutes ago, she’d sounded completely normal, and now she was channeling the ghost of James Earl Jones.

“Oh my god.”

Penelope stopped and turned to him, her brow furrowing as she crossed her arms. “What? What is it?” she asked, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

“Your voice. How are you able to sing like that? When did you find out you could??”

She paused, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again. Her arms dropped to her sides as she straightened, the tension in her posture easing just slightly. Her cheeks blushed a deeper shade of scarlet.

“Always could. I was born with Subsonic Laryngeal Syndrome. The doctors told my parents it was rarer than heterochromia. I sounded fine until I opened my mouth to sing. My preschool teachers thought I was possessed during a fun round of ‘Wheels on the Bus.’ I got teased a lot growing up, to the point where my parents had to switch me to seven different schools in the county. They forbade me from singing, but I couldn’t just stop! Singing was in my blood. I wasn’t meant to be average. I wanted to be a pop star—like Madonna. So, right after high school, I started auditioning for those popular TV contests. That went okay for a while. I got signed to a record label, but they kept pushing me to make comedy albums and open for stand-up comedians like George Lopez. After my album Low Notes, High Expectations peaked at 67 on the charts, I saw it clearly—they never took me seriously. I was their joke.” She patted her hands to an imaginary beat. “So, I finished my contract and quit. Not much came after that, except for some local singing gigs at shopping malls and the occasional karaoke competition. Since then, I’ve been trying my hardest to break out. Do you know what that’s like?”

Vincent nodded. “Yeah, more than you’ll ever know.” He picked up the handle of his guitar case and showed it to her. “I’m a musician. Been performing for the past 24 years. I was pretty well known back in the day. Ever heard of Vincent & The Kingsly’s?”

Penelope’s eyes lit up. “Yes! My dad was obsessed with them. He keeps their CD in his liquor cabinet. Wait, don’t tell me. . . Are you that Vincent?!”

“In the flesh.” Vincent leaned back in his chair, his voice slightly resigned. “You know, me and the guys used to be everywhere. 2001 was a good year for us—sold-out tours, radio hits, magazine covers, the whole rock star package. It felt... like I had made it. But by 2003, I was sort of... well, unmade, you could say.”

He paused, rubbing his temples as he remembered all of his disappointments for the millionth time. “First, there was that accent scandal. Yeah, turns out I wasn’t exactly the British pop sensation I made myself out to be. I’m from Ohio. Born and raised in the land of cornfields and cheese. The label at the time was pushing that persona since being anywhere but from America was all the rage. But you know, people started asking questions. Turns out telling everyone my favorite cuisine was tea and crumpets made them suspicious. Then came the Martha Stewart thing. It was all during that ‘wild phase’ of my life. You know, drugs, bad decisions, huge ego, I could have plastered on a billboard. I called her a fraud on TV. I was skeptical, no way her pancakes could have ever been that fluffy! But I underestimated the Martha Stewart stans. And then there was the fast food commercial. We sold our biggest hit to a burger joint for a local ad campaign. You can probably guess how that went. The song went from the top of the charts to the bottom of every jukebox in the world. You know you’ve made it when your music’s synonymous with a terrible night out of questionable life choices.”

Vincent looked off into the distance, as if contemplating the irony of it all. “Our second album? Didn’t even sell 20,000 copies. The label dropped us faster than a microwaved hot potato. The others in my band? They’re doing fine, you know. Making money, doing their thing, living their lives. Not getting evicted. Meanwhile, I’m here, the only deadbeat still chasing a dream that, frankly, died with my accent.”

Penelope placed an empathic, sweaty palm on Vincent’s shoulder, leaving a damp handprint when she pulled away.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. You know, everyone’s been telling me to give up on my dreams too. My parents are on their knees, begging me to move back to Kansas, become a math teacher, settle down with my mom’s best friend’s son who works in accounting, have three kids, and live out the rest of my days in the same state Dorothy almost died in before skipping down the yellow brick road.”

She shook her head, the curls that she had tucked behind her ear coming undone. “But I don’t want that for myself. I want to be in the spotlight up on that stage and have people singing with me, not laughing at me. As unconventional as it may be, God gave me this voice and what a damn shame it would be to not use it.”

She fumbled through the deep pockets of her oversized fur coat and pulled out the same flyer Vincent had been reading just minutes ago.

“That's why I'm taking the bus to LA for this audition,” she said, her voice full of resolve. “I bet my parents that if I can make it to the finals, they'd let me pursue singing seriously for as long as I want. I have to go there and prove them wrong, to prove them all wrong.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow, glancing at the flyer in her hand before pulling out his own. “Funny,” he said with a subtle smirk. “I’m heading there too.” He held up his own for her to see, and their eyes met. A moment of realization passed between them, like the spark of an idea too good to ignore.

“... Maybe we should team up,” Vincent suggested. “A duo. That way, we can both prove everyone wrong, together. You did say you wanted to be a popstar, right? Allow this former rockstar to help make that happen.”

Penelope’s eyes lit up, “A duo? Huh. I like the sound of that.” She couldn’t help herself from asking, “What’s your favorite song? Something tells me we’re going to need to figure out the vibes we’re going for during this audition.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting up as he thought. “‘It’s My Life,’ by Bon Jovi.”

She didn’t hesitate when it was her turn, nor wait for him to ask. “‘Like a Prayer,’ by Madonna. No questions asked.” Just as the words left her mouth, the bus pulled up in front of them, and the doors opened with a dramatic hiss.

“Well, no time like the present,” Vincent said. He groaned when he stood to his feet, picking up the old guitar case with him. Penelope stood too, her lilac suitcase rolling close to her heels like a trained chihuahua.

They boarded quickly, finding a seat by the window. As the bus lurched to life, Penelope pulled out scraps of paper and pens, and began scribbling furiously. Lyrics came faster than either of them expected, bouncing off each other, building with every line. Their ideas fused together, and the excitement between them was palpable, as if the song were writing itself.

Six hours to create a masterpiece.

“You really could be the new Madonna, you know,” Vincent said, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Forget the whole lemon-water-and-sweating thing. You’ve got it naturally. Singing soprano is overrated anyway.”

Penelope paused mid-scribble, a small grin spreading across her face. With a dramatic flourish, she threw her coat off onto the seat next to her, revealing a simple white crop top and blue jean skirt. “Well, I appreciate that! But I’m sticking to the regimen. The lemon-water-and-sweating routine’s got me feeling like a new woman already.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “One day, you'll hear me hit a note that’ll make Madonna wish she’d taken the same route.”

Vincent chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Sure. I’ll be waiting on that falsetto note to burst the windows when you do.”

Penelope laughed, pulling out her notebook again, and without missing a beat, she started scribbling even faster. “Hey! That would make a great song lyric.”

The ideas flowed effortlessly now, their creativity sparked by the promise of the next six hours. Their mission was as clear as Vincent’s electric guitar and Penelope’s baritone vibrato: to prove everyone wrong.

Together.