Oswald took out his phone and started the device, needing to capture the surreal images playing out before him. He stuck it inside his jacket so the light didn’t give them away.
The man with the knife came into view, illuminated by the candlelight.
It was Wex. Goddamn Wex. Lead singer and rhythm guitarist for Damaged.
The naked men and women formed a pile of bodies. They caressed each other slowly at first, but that quickly devolved into an all-out orgy.
Oswald carefully parted his jacket and studied the phone. He fingered the brightness until it was all the way down. Then he pulled it out. Yep. Still at three percent Might get a few shots.
Wex squatted over the two headed feline. While larger than a house cat, one of its heads was smaller than the other. It mewled but Wex took the blade and slit both of its throats. He lifted the body and poured blood all over the writhing bodies.
This wasn’t even the most horrifying thing Oswald observed because, in the corner of the room, near the ceiling, a black figure swirled. It expanded like an oversized clock, then coalesced into a solid mass. Shapes boiled from it like heads moving under plastic. Teeth appeared, curved tusks that rose up from oversized lower jaws. Yellow eyes opened, two slits at first, which expanded until they were each six feet across.
Oswald snapped a picture. To his horror, the flash went off. Oh shit! He’d forgot to turn it off. He quickly fingered the button and took two more photos. One of the men in the room looked up and Oswald’s eyes locked with his, but Oswald was frozen in place.
The orgy became more frantic as the participants sucked and fucked, moaned and cried as they slithered on the hard concrete and blood.
Oswald had seen enough. Fuck this!
He backed up and crashed into a crate. Then he scrambled back and hit the pile of audio cables and landed on his ass.
Jon cut off a shriek and tripped over his friend. They clutched to each other in the dark room and made for the door. Jon’s lighter appeared, a sputtering little flame that barely illuminated their surroundings.
They stumbled over each other reaching the door. It flew open and they were back in the open hallway.
“Find an exit sign. Oh man, we need to get out of here,” Oswald said.
“Had to be something in the pot. That can’t be real. Damaged sings about the Devil and shit but it’s an act, right? They aren’t really satanic, are they?” Jon asked as they fled.
“I saw an orgy, a two-headed cat, and a fucking evil shape on the wall. What did you see? Because if it’s the same thing, we’re having a shared illusion.”
“I don’t want to know. I don’t ever want to see that again,” Jon said.
“We just gotta get out. Clear our heads. Drink some beer,” Oswald said. His heart was about to hammer right out of his chest.
They ran into a pair of security guards and Oswald, thinking on his feet, flashed his fake laminate. “Where’s the exit, guys? My friend’s sick.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” one of the men said.
Another takes a step toward them, his hand on something at his belt.
“Give `em a break. Just a couple of kids,” an older security guard said. He was overweight, and sported a huge pornstache.
“Whatever, Ralph. I wanna go home early tonight, I’ll show them out,” the other guy said. He was in his early twenties and skinny as a rail, but he carried himself with confidence. He’d probably seen his fair share of crazy stuff, but Oswald bet none of that compared to what he and Jon had just witnessed.
“Thank you. Thank you, sir,” Jon said without a hint of his normal smart ass attitude.
“Whatever.” The man turned and gestured for them to follow.
Less than five minutes later, they were at an exit. Oswald and Jon pushed past the security guard and through a double door. It slammed shut behind them. When Oswald looked back, he knew they aren’t getting back in the stadium. Not a chance. He wouldn’t want to, though, even if a half dozen hot female groupies invited him to a party. He couldn’t picture seeing Damaged without re-imagining what he’d just seen.
In a parking lot, it was a long walk to their car. Jon didn’t say a word and that was cool with Oswald.
The other lots were mostly empty, with the exception of a few stragglers. A girl screamed, “Damaged!” while her friend let out a howling whoop from the front of a convertible Mustang that accelerated away.
A group of five or six guys passed a bottle between them, all dressed in black with flowing long hair. The largest man turned and caught Oswald’s eye, giving him a “The fuck?” look, then flipped them off.
Oswald stared at his shoes as they shuffled off.
They piled into Oswald’s beat up Chevy. He was exhausted to the core. His body ached and his eyes were oddly irritated, like he was about to have an allergy attack. He rubbed at them but the itching only increased.
“We should never, ever, under any circumstances, talk about this to anyone,” Jon said.
Oswald nodded and fumbled for his car keys, though he had to admit, he wondered just what they’d seen and captured on his camera. The car choked as the engine tried to turn over. On the second try, it fired up and smoke belched out of the exhaust. Damaged came over the stereo and he couldn’t eject the CD fast enough, chills running down his pine as the opening riff spooled up.
“Yeah, can’t listen to that shit right now,” Oswald said.
He looked in the rear view mirror and, for a split second, a pair of vicious yellow eyes appeared, surrounded by pitch black.
Then they blinked and were gone.
1
Blackened Dawn
Wex
The lights went out after the second encore but the crowd was having none of that. They shook the stadium with thunderous applause and foot stomping that probably woke up the Devil himself. Damaged had already played their asses off for two and a half straight hours and were ready to keel over and die.
Sunny, on drums, was covered in sweat, and her arms shook from beating out blistering fills. Of course, she wore a smile on her face even though she looked like she was about to pass out behind the drum kit. Always smiling Sunny Rains was, even if she was thinking about killing someone.
Seth Kilmister, on bass, staggered like a drunk because he headbanged like he was still fifteen years old. Michael Blacktone was on the verge of puking all over his guitar. Wex had seen that look in his childhood friend’s eyes too many times because Michael didn’t have that internal voice to tell him when to stop drinking. His final warnings always arrived in the form of power-vomiting before being dragged into a corner.
Wex had felt like his voice had been scraped by a cheese grater. He wanted to choke up a lung, then smoke a bowl, and chase it with a half bottle of fucking Jack Daniels. But the show must go on, and the longer they played to their audience, the more merchandise the kids were likely to buy on their way out the doors.
Forty-eight thousand maniacs thrashed their heads and sang every line from every song the band cranked through. There wasn’t a dry shirt in the place. It was like a sweat lodge filled with those devoted too their god: Damaged.
It smelled like a pit. Back in the day, Wex had known a thing or two about stretching out the time between washing his clothes. It wasn’t that he hated doing it, it was that the band was always on the road. The kids at the shows, though. They could learn a thing or two about changing that hoodie more than once a month.
Someone lit up a joint and cupped it in their hands before passing it to a friend. Wex pointed at the kid and gave him the thumbs up. The kid threw his head back and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke.
It was time for the encore. The band might be a fucking mess of interpersonal issues, but one thing they had long followed was the need to stay sober on stage, do the best show they could, then get down to some well-deserved debauchery. Even Michael avoided the bottle before a show, although tonight he had looked tipsy. Wex didn’t have the balls to ask about the needle mark
s and played them off. But if Michael was getting toasted before shows, it would mean another damn intervention.
Wex waved to the crowd as they took to the stage one last time. They’d been holding back one song, “Tools of the Devil,” because it was the most crushing track in their catalog. There would be blood and brain damage after this one.
“We’re gonna play one more song for the heavy metal capital of the fucking world!” he howled into the mic. “Are you fucking ready?”
The applause and screams of ‘YES’ had nearly overpowered the hundreds of thousands of watts pumping through the speaker system.
On the opening note, just before Seth came in with his bass line, the power to the entire theater had gone out. Standing under emergency spotlights that miraculously came on a few minutes later, Damaged had sung the entire song, acapella, with half the city of Pasadena chanting:
We’re all tools of the devil
Tools for the devil
From birth to death
Tools of the devil
After the song ended, Wex ripped his T-shirt off and threw it to a girl who’d been riding her boyfriend’s shoulder all night and had showed her tits every time Wex made eye contact. If she came backstage, she would be the first chick of the night he fucked.
What a goddamn night that had been.
Wex sat back in a leather chair, shaped like a throne, and hit pause on the DVD player. That show had been over a decade ago and it was probably the tightest they’d ever been as a band. He and Michael has still been best friends. Seth used to hang out at Wex’s summer cabin in Del Mar, and Sunny had just gotten clean for the first time and sworn off heroin and track marks for the rest of her life.
He studied the tattoo on his left arm. Some faded while others were fresh. There was one small symbol in particular that never paled. It was ornate, and it had been part of the deal. They’d all been required to bear the mark. Before that, Wex had simply gotten any tattoos that caught his eye without any kind of plan. Now his appendages looked like a kid had poured ink on him and swirled it around.
“Simpler fucking times,” Wex muttered.
Patrick Arthur Wexling was about the most un-heavy metal name in the history of music so, at the tender age of fifteen, he had it changed to just Wex. And Wex, now forty-six years of age, was the front man for the biggest band in heavy metal. Damaged had sold over 150 million records over their illustrious career of women, booze, drugs, and sex.
Literally.
Wex had a limited edition McLaren 650S CAN-AM with his name inscribed on the spoiler. The car could part your hair as it went from zero to holy shit in two-point-two seconds. He had his own line of guitars and microphones. He had all of the pussy he could ever want, served up on a golden platter every night of the week, provided he was caught up on his Viagra prescription.
And Wex was fucking sick of it all.
“Payton,” he yelled. “You here?”
Nothing. She’d probably gone out to spend some of his money at the spa. Not that he cared. She was half his age and hot enough to get whatever she wanted. She’d been a groupie and managed to get backstage one night. Once she had shown him her oral skills, she’d somehow became part of the tour. A few months later, she talked him into letting her move in.
Wex was fine with that. He’d had a lot of girlfriends. They usually stuck around for a while, but once they got a hint of the shit the band went through to survive, they packed up, and went back home to mom and dad.
Payton was different though. She was an auburn-haired beauty. Bubbly, bright, able to hold a conversation for more than a few minutes. She also didn’t mind that he objectified her. He wanted her dressed to kill when they went out. When she met him backstage, she was just as likely to be wearing a see through shirt and a skirt that was basically a butt wrap.
Plus, she didn’t mind having other girls in bed with them. So she stayed, and he managed to keep the band’s secret life away from her.
Wex took a seat behind his desk and fired up Skype. Behind him, platinum records hung next to concert posters from around the world, covering their twenty-five year career. From the early days of playing Sunset Strip in LA for five fans, to their recent tour where they performed in front of hundreds of thousands.
All of those nights thrilling audiences, collecting huge paychecks, fucking their way across every country of the world. It was all an illusion.
The latest package had arrived. He spun the FedEx envelope around on his desk and wondered, not for the first time, how these things even got in the system. It wasn’t like the shipper could show up and pay for overnight delivery. The mystery of the mailings was something they had discussed in the early days. Now they didn’t even bother.
He glanced at his watch and wondered where the rest were. Fucking Sunny was never on time—girl would be late to her own funeral. The other guys were usually online, but right now, their little icons were silent.
Wex tapped the desk. He shook out a cigarette and lit up, then leaned back in his custom upholstered Italian leather chair and smoked his cig to the filter. If the road hadn’t killed him by now, the cigarettes weren’t even a blip on the radar regarding what would do him in. No. There was a special party reserved for that.
Seth popped in to a window on Wex’s HD monitor.
“Brother, did you lose some weight?” Wex asked.
“Been on a juice cleanse. Look fucking great, don’t I?”
“At least you ain’t still doing coffee enemas.”
“You get new hair plugs? They look good on you,” Seth said.
“Fuck you. That’s my natural hair,” Wex protested and ran his hand over his new black rug.
The other’s popped up in their windows then and greeted each other. Michael, of course, avoided looking into the camera whenever he should be meeting Wex’s eyes.
“So, you got this month’s offering?” Seth asked.
“Yeah, haven’t opened it yet, but it’s here,” Wex showed them the oversized envelope.
“What skull-fuckery is required now?” Seth wondered out loud. His voice came out of the speakers tinny and hollow because he was paranoid and used VPN connections and masked routes over the web to hide his location from the feds.
Wex ripped the tab off and slid out the parchment paper. It was, like usual, written in blood, which had been burned into some kind of cured animal skin. Also, like usual, it smelled as if someone took a shit on the page before they packed it in the envelope. The Devil’s stink-palm.
Sunny once speculated the letter was probably human skin, but the others had scoffed. That was back when the offerings were easy. A cat or dog, snakes, fucking hamsters. Maybe the occasional virginal deflowering by all four of the band members (which actually got interesting with Sunny included, though she seemed to enjoy herself). Over the last few months, things had been getting more and more disgusting, more perverse.
“This can’t be right,” Wex said as he read over the letter.
“What does it say?” Sunny asked.
Wex shook his head and read it again.
“Show us the damn letter,” Seth said. “Stop fucking around, drama queen.”
Wex couldn’t believe what he read. They’d been required to do some messed up stuff in the past, but this was the kind of thing that could land them all in jail. Or on death row.
“Can’t be right,” Wex muttered again.
Then he turned the letter around and showed it to the band, holding it up to the camera.
Michael gasped audibly.
Seth exhaled hard, leaning back in his seat.
“No fucking way,” Michael muttered.
“It’s not really clear, you know. Like what does ‘an innocent’ even mean?” Seth asked.
“That’s your big question, Seth? An innocent? Do you know what this is asking of us?” Michael shot back.
“We have to do it, you guys know that,” Wex said.
“Come on, man. We’ve killed stuff before, but this is a pers
on. He wants us to sacrifice a person and bathe in their blood. Fucking Ridiculous!” Michael said.
“What choice do we have?” Wex asked.
“We need to have a band meeting, and before the new record. I just found religion, can’t be offing people,” Sunny said, her famous smile missing.
“Found religion in a needle?” Seth shot back.
“Up yours, Seth.” Sunny said.
“You first, sweetheart.” Seth answered.
“Guys. We can talk about this together, as a band. We can’t hash out the details on SKYPE, no matter how many blocks Seth put in place. Let’s meet in three days at my place before we take off for the studio,” Wex said.
“A new album? We haven’t written shit in three years,” Michael said. “I’ve been sending riffs, like usual, but not one peep out of you three.”
“The same way we always have. Sacrifice, booze, and the four of us in one room. Oh, that’s right, you won’t be in the same room with me. Guess we’ll record this one from separate locations,” Wex said.
“Fuck you and your righteous indignation,” Michael said. “And don’t mention sacrifice, not after that letter.”
“You’re such a drama queen, Michael. Remember living in that shitty apartment, eating crap food and smoking pot all day?” Wex said.
“That was almost thirty years ago.”
“You two need a room and a bottle of booze. Maybe some candlelight room service,” Sunny suggested. “Resolve all this sexual tension you two have going on. Bust a nut on each other’s backs.”
Seth choked back a laugh.
“What the fuck ever, Wex. You need to get your shit together,” Michael said.
“My shit ain’t ever been so well put together. Just get your asses up here. We’ll figure this out when we’re all together, as always,” Wex said, finger hovering over the disconnect button.
“We should refuse. What would happen, huh? What would he do?” Michael said.
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