Allan was usually a pretty competent engineer but lately he’d started to get ballsy and add his own little twists onto songs before they headed out for mastering. If there was one thing Roy hated more than fucking immigrants and second amendment right haters, it was someone who screwed with his music. That was because Roy was the absolute best. He was the living embodiment of all that was right in the world of music. He could take the shittiest band in the world and turn them into gold record recording gods. He had the power to make an average album with twenty half-assed tracks into platinum, packed into ten songs so good they’d make the fucking pope cry.
Roy was this good and he knew it.
“No, Allan. Say it. Say the words!” Roy screamed.
His office door was shut but the glass entryway wasn’t soundproof. His blinds were drawn but that didn’t stop the office bees from hearing his conversation. He kept the place Spartan. White walls were only broken up by a few posters that were taped to the wall. They weren’t even bands he had produced, instead, they were has-beens that should have selected him. Bright orange pile carpet that had been in style back in the seventies provided his bare feet a soft pillow. He ignored the fact that large portions had been cleaned so many times they were nearly bare. Stains covered the rest, but fuck it. This was his sanctuary. His and his alone.
Roy slid a little vial out of his pocket and stormed to the corner of the room. There was a huge metal filing cabinet there filled with contracts of years long gone. Next to this unimpressive hunk of gray was a small glass table top with a mirror and gold plated tube.
“I get it, Roy, okay?” Allan whined.
“Jesus jumped up Christ on a pogo stick, Allan. I’m this close to coming downstairs. You better say those words, buddy boy, or it’s shit sandwich time for you!”
“Fine!” Allan shouted into the phone. “I will turn down the reverb or eat a shit sandwich.”
“That’s right. A shit sandwich the likes of which you ain’t ever seen. I had two ears of corn last night, know what that means? Chunky monkey goodness. Now do the job I pay you for or get the fuck out so I can hire someone to run a soundboard!”
Roy hung up the phone and tossed it along with his headphones onto his paper laden desk.
He dumped his vial out and hummed an older, but catchy tune by Damaged, the band he was preparing to produce, while he cut the cocaine and split it into two very long and beautiful lines. Like the legs on a virgin goddess, they were lean and built for speed. He couldn’t wait to bury his face between them. Roy snatched up the tube, leaned over, and snorted the first line in one long go.
His nasal cavity burned as the cocaine hit him like a bullet train.
“Lord God damn Satan by the ever loving balls!” he howled at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed on the desk but it could wait.
Roy leaned over and put the second coke bullet right into his head. The kickback, as the drug hit the back of his throat, was like heaven. Springing back to his feet, he dug around his beat up old pressed wood desk until he found his phone. Hey could have a massive work area made from the finest mahogany but why spend money on that when he could keep snorting it?
He dug around some more until he found his calendar and cross checked the dates against the phone message.
“Laura. When am I flying out on the tenth?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Louise barged into the office. She had a pencil behind one ear and a little day minder in hand. She was a portly woman with thick glasses and her hair was in a severe bun. Today she’d decided to wear a floral print dress that closed at her neck, and ended at her ankles.
“That’s tomorrow,” she said.
“No shit it’s tomorrow. What time?”
“Well, why didn’t you ask me what time instead of yelling when you were flying? Jumped up Jesus on a lamp post but you’re a mess today, Roy.”
“Just tell me the time, Louise. I don’t have all day to sit in this office and stroke my schedule like it’s my dick. I gotta prep for this band. Damaged can’t pull their heads out of their asses soon enough. Record company wants this one done in six weeks. Six fucking weeks, Louise. I’m going to have to be a miracle worker. A heavy metal whisperer. I’m going to be their savior and their devil. I’m going to whip those boys, and girl, into shape.”
“Right. Gonna fix the biggest band in the world. Got it.” Louise rolled her eyes. “And actually, you do, your Royness. You have all day to sit in here and snort coke and play with yourself. The only problem is that you’re going to be so coked up you won’t be able to get it up. Now calm the fuck down.”
“Louise! Just tell me what I need to know!”
“You’re schedule to fly out at 6:00 AM. American Airlines flight 217. Once you arrive in Redding, you’re on a charter plane to take you to Weed. The address to the studio will be in the car. They are crazy secret about the location so don’t you go blabbing.”
“Six A-goddamn-M? Are you insane, woman?”
“Yes it’s at six A-goddamn-M. If you were nicer to me, I’d get you a later flight. I might even spring for first class.”
“I’m not in first class? I’m flying coach?”
“Like I said, Roy. Play nice and nice things will happen to you.”
Roy fumed. He flung his cell phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.
“Shit biscuits! Wait, what did you mean about them being weird?”
“Just that you might have to wear a blindfold in the car.”
“What in the shitting hell?”
“I don’t make the rules, Roy. Just do what they say and they won’t club you over the head with a guitar.”
“Do these people even know who they’re dealing with!”
Louise spun and marched toward the door. “I think they do, Roy. Now, you want this open or closed?”
“Closed.” Roy fumed, unleashing a string of profanities.
“Maybe you need to go back to anger management classes.” Louise turned again and looked him in the eye.
Roy gulped and shook his head.
“I’m good. No need for more classes,” he said, and then sat at his desk and stared at the remains of his phone.
“Take the sim card out. There’s another phone in the lower right drawer. Try to keep that one in one piece at least through the weekend,” Louise said. She pulled the door behind her.
“I will. Love you, honey.” Roy said in a soft voice.
“Love you too, sweetie.” His wife answered, and then slammed the door shut so hard the little set of blinds fell off and clattered to the floor.
23
I Hate Therefore I Am
Seth and Sunny
“Storm the gates of a new reality, and conquer the king whose leash keeps up bound. Trample the whores who sell us the lies, that peace can be found at the cross on the mound. Shatter the—”
“Are you seriously going to sing me the entire song right now?” Sunny asked, rolling her eyes and taking a hit off her pipe.
Seth reached over and turned the stereo down until the demo CD was nothing more than a quiet warble in the background. “I thought it’d help take your mind off our little adventure.”
“So singing a tribute song to the motherfucker who just ate a fucking cat in front of us is supposed to keep my mind off it?”
Seth shrugged. “Like you ever pay any fucking attention to me anyway. Why you listening now?”
“Because you’ve got the damn volume up so loud it’s rattling the windows of every car we pass. That’s why the fuck I’m listening. I don’t have a damn choice, asshole.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re a captive audience, huh?” Seth grinned and turned the stereo back up, nodding his head to the tinny guitar wailing through the speakers. “Digging the graves for the mentally dead, we’ll suffer none with no thought in their head. Promote integrity no matter the cost. To the weak among us, their ilk are no loss!”
Sunny grunted and thumped
her head against the window, stuffing her left ear with her middle finger, making sure Seth saw it as she toked on, blowing smoke against the glass. He just laughed. They were almost there anyway, so Seth slowed down a little to drag the trip out. The more pissed off Sunny was, the better.
He sang along with the demo, grinning the whole time. He’d written the songs for his solo debut and had been sitting on them forever, but he was starting to lose patience. He’d had to keep his music under wraps but he knew damn well Sunny wasn’t paying attention to it. She’d never imagine they were anything but more Damaged tracks Seth was trying to win her over with so when he took the before the rest of the band they’d slap them on the album.
He honestly didn’t give a fuck anymore.
The next twenty miles was a slog, Sunny sneering the entire way and cradling her pipe like it was a baby, but Seth ignored her, purposely steering into traffic to slow them down even further. He’d already gotten under her skin and she was primed to explode and his dragging ass at the end would only make it worse. Satan appearing like he did was the perfect catalyst for her breakdown on top of it all. Seth hadn’t expected the Devil to show up while they were hunting her dope, and he sure as fuck could have done without seeing him, but his appearance would only help Seth manipulate the drummer.
While Seth was usually seen as the hothead—a title he often shared with Wex…and Michael—the last thing Seth wanted to do was stir shit up and become the target of the band’s attention. With Sunny, he was always the asshole. That’s how she saw him and to be any other way would make her wonder what the fuck was going on. Seth didn’t need any questions. It helped that the shit the Devil had given them was top of the line smoke, laced with dust and some kind of downers, just like she liked it. He knew Sunny would be tweaking hard, dancing the razor’s edge on that shit, a rollercoaster of emotion. She’d be a total bitch and no one would blame Seth for storming off once she got going; and she would. He would make sure of it. That gave him the time he needed to do his thing.
He wiped his smile away as he finally turned the corner onto Wex’s street, easing the car up to the gate of the singer’s house. Seth didn’t bother ringing the bell, choosing instead to punch in the code and let them inside. Wex hated when people just popped in, whether they were expected or not. He was usually snorting blow off some hooker’s tits or getting a Jack Daniel’s enema and didn’t want anyone walking in on that shit. Seth hoped he had a bottle shoved up his ass right now because that’d be fucking perfect. He needed a laugh.
The gate clunked and whined and rolled open on dirty rails, sounding like the motor was ready to give out any second, the chains rusted. Seth shook his head, watching the gate jump in its track. Leaves and dirt were piled a couple inches high all along the driveway.
“Guess the yard guy is on vacation,” he said, not bothering to turn the music down so Sunny could hear him. Not that she was paying any attention; still. She’d tuned him out hours ago. Her eyes stared straight ahead, taking in the house as Seth pulled into the long driveway. He watched her in his peripheral vision and saw her shaking, her right hand twitching in her lap as if she had palsy, her pipe tapping her leg. She was unraveling right before his eyes. He loved it.
Seth spotted Michael’s car parked off to the side of the driveway and he pulled alongside it, only noticing the guitarist himself, stomping back and forth outside of the front door. The sneer on his face and the subconscious tirade spilling from his lips told Seth he’d shown up right on time.
“What’s up, my brother!” Seth shouted as loudly as he could when he clambered out of the car. “You look like King Diamond turned you down for the prom and you had to go with that Aerosmith chick, Taylor Stevens or whatever her name is.”
“Fuck you!” Michael growled without slowing, spinning around to start back the way he’d come. “And fuck tonight. Fuck Wex and fuck this whole mess.”
“I can feel the love.” Seth chuckled while Sunny climbed out of the Mercury, holding her head as if she feared it might topple from her shoulders. “Tonight’s meeting of the Bitch Club is obviously in session. Where’s Captain Bitch?”
“Inside doing what he does best,” Michael told him.
“Masturbating and raping his sinuses?” Seth asked.
Michael snorted. “Fucking shit up, like always.”
“What the hell did he do now?” Sunny shook her head. It was obvious she didn’t care but she didn’t want to listen to Michael and Seth’s back and forth bullshit.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do,” Seth said, “unless it’s something sexual with an animal. If that’s the case, I want video.” He chuckled.
“Freak,” Sunny muttered, storming up the walk toward the front door. Michael stepped in her way.
“Might want to give him a minute.”
“Not the first time we’ve seen him wiping his dick off,” Seth said, slipping past Michael and opening the door, darting inside before the guitarist could stop him. Sunny followed to the sound of Michael’s sigh.
Whatever was going on, it was clear Michael was pissed off but he didn’t try very hard to keep them outside. Ten years back, Michael would have fought tooth and nail to keep Wex’s bullshit hidden from him and Sunny. Tonight, he barely raised a finger, his half-assed attempt at defense more a habit than anything. Shit must really be serious.
The door slammed at their backs and Michael stomped in behind them, his boots thumping on the tiled floor.
“What the fuck died up in here?” Seth asked, waving his hand in front of his face and chuckling.
Michael sighed and Sunny lit her pipe, drawing in a deep hit.
24
Still Remains
Michael
It was still there. The smell of blood and shit.
Although Wex had put Payton in a plastic bin and was in the process of hiding her in his room, the reek of her still permeated the place. All Wex had done was cover the bin with an old blanket.
Maybe the smell was his imagination.
Seth strolled over to Wex’s couch and plopped down while Sunny headed for the kitchen. She was acting weird, walking funny, dazed, almost like she was back on…
“The fuck is she on?” Michael asked, thinking heroin.
“What, man? I’m not Sunny’s keeper,” Seth said with a smirk and kicked his feet up. Seth dug out a beat up joint and lit it.
Michael’s eyes were drawn to the smoke as it rose from glowing tip. Just a hit. A quick one, for old times sake. Giselle would never know. He could be on his way to high-station in a few minutes. How long had it been? The gummy eyes, slow thoughts, ringing in his ears, altered reality. Had he missed it?
Fuck yeah he had. He wanted it bad. The pungent scent just about made him drool because Michael had spent almost three decades either baked or drunk. More often that not, both. That was when he hadn’t been on the harder stuff. Now he had word that Bruno was dead, butchered, and he didn’t even have time to look into the murder. He had to get to the studio as soon as possible so they could finish the ritual.
But he couldn’t stay here, wouldn’t stay here. Another body. The death count was mounting around him, and Michael felt like he was trapped in a little room with the walls closing in.
“Hit this, bro. You look like you need it more than me,” Seth said as he blew a long column of smoke upward. “That sobriety thing? Tried it a decade ago and it sucked but figured out it’s all about moderation. A little of this, a little of that, and you’re good.”
“There’s a huge bloodstain in here. Tell me you didn’t kill our singer, Michael,” Sunny called out from the kitchen. “Or maybe tell me you did. I’m not sure which one I’d rather hear.”
Michael stared at the glowing joint. Seth put it to his lips again and inhaled. Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
“It’s called Obama Kush, man. Helps me with my glaucoma.” Seth proffered the joint, grinning wide enough to split his cheeks.
“T
his is seriously a lot of blood. Wex! Hey, Wex, you dickless dumbass. Did you start your period and not have a tampon to stuff in your hole?” Sunny yelled.
“That you, Sunny?” Wex said as he strolled down the stairs, wiping a red-stained towel over his arms.
“No, it’s your mom, motherfucker. What’s wrong with this dude? He looks like he’s seen the ghost of weed-past,” Seth taunted, pointing at Michael.
“He’s just being the new Michael,” Wex said, gesturing to the other room. “Can’t handle a little blood.”
Seth raised an eyebrow and popped up, like he’d only realize what Sunny had said, and wandered into the kitchen. As he passed Michael, he offered him the weed again. Michael shook his head, no. Seth shrugged.
“Shit! A little blood? Did you guys kill a pig in here?” Seth asked once he saw what Sunny had been talking about.
“Not a pig. A girl who couldn’t keep her shit together. It’s cool, I moved her over there,” Wex said and pointed at the blanket covered plastic bin. “She’ll chill until I can take care of the body.”
“Was this part of the deal? What the hell, Wex!” Sunny said.
“It’s cool. Everything’s under control,” Wex said.
“I can’t do this right now.” Michael turned his back on Seth and the sweet smell of pot. There was a dreamy quality to the conversation, like he was watching it from the distance. The image of the dead girl kept flashing into his head. They were supposed to be having a band meeting, but with the dead girl in the room, chatting about business was the last thing Michael wanted to do.
Michael hadn’t wanted a drink this badly in years. In fact, he wanted to head to the strip to score a half gallon so he could put this entire night behind him.
But he couldn’t because he had obligations. Not to mention promises to his wife.
Shit. Bruno was dead.
“Can’t do what? Hang out and have the big band meeting?” Seth did air quotes around band meeting.
Damaged Page 17