Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

Iscariot

  Seth

  Today had taken a turn for the fucking surreal. Roy was a total prick but there was no way he could ignore the majesty of Damaged’s music. They’d settled in—on their terms—and had blown the fucker away, his pork chop cheeks unable to contain the grin of excitement at his surprise. If the old boy could get an erection, he’d have popped on right there at the sound table.

  Shit, for that matter, Seth had sprung a half-chub. It didn’t matter what else was going on, once Damaged plugged in and turned on, the sound was a fucking aphrodisiac. The shit flowed, Sunny’s drums pounding out their heartbeat as he danced around her rhythm, magnifying its impact while the crunch of Wex’s guitar scraped the paint from the walls and Michael’s swirling leads and technical brilliance made Chuck Schuldiner sit up in his grave and nod his approval.

  Rest in peace, Chuck.

  As a band, they were amazing, and even Seth had to admit that. In those moments when they did nothing but play their music, he lost himself to the ecstasy and didn’t give a shit about anything but the rumble of his bass and the godly beauty wrapped up in darkness that battered his ears.

  But all good things have to end.

  Roy had spewed all over their playing, yet he still wanted them to repeat their parts over and over and over and fucking over, until the point that Seth was ready to throw his bass through the glass at the fucker. The only thing that stopped him was that he didn’t want to fuck up his Specter and risk getting blood on it. So he’d resisted, killing the man in his head a hundred ways before he’d laid out his lines to the fat bastard’s approval. Not that Seth gave a damn what the idiot thought, but it didn’t make any sense to rattle anyone’s cage out in the open. No, all that shit would be private.

  He grinned as he remembered sneaking into Sunny’s room, the one nearest his after she’d stumbled down to the studio for her session. Seth had brought along one of the old envelopes Satan used to deliver their messages and had packed his newly scripted piece of flesh into it, making sure the ink he’d used to fill the burns was dry. He set the package under her blankets, right by her pillow, knowing she’d realize it was there as soon as she pulled them back to crash. Having seen her routine firsthand for several months, he knew she wasn’t a fan of being awake and would head for bed as soon as she was done with her shit for the day.

  She’d be stoned by then, of course, but the concentrated LSD he’d laced her weed with would be kicking in and making things all the more interesting. Seth laughed, muffling it behind his hand. She’d be so fucked up when she read the letter that she would implode and not even begin to imagine it was a fake, especially after having seen Old Lou on the way up to Wex’s.

  She’d simply do what the letter told her—after a few agonizing moments, her hitting the pipe the entire time—and then she’d get what was coming to her high and mighty ass. He hoped she didn’t bruise it too much falling off her pedestal.

  Seth leaned back against his headboard and closed his eyes. He couldn’t wait to see Sunny’s face in the morning.

  32

  Chemical Noose

  Sunny

  The mostly empty bottle of vodka thumped against the door as Sunny struggled to turn the knob, unwilling to put down her reward for a hard day’s work. After a few attempts, she managed to get the room open and go inside.

  “Fuck that dude,” she muttered, kicking the door closed behind her and swallowing another mouthful of Absolute. It slithered down her throat and she let out a contented sigh. The band had gone out of their way to make things difficult for Roy of the jiggling moobs, and Sunny was still chuckling about it. She hoped the dick was making a ton of money because, by the time they were done with the guy, he was going to wish he’d taken on an Yngwie Malmsteen/Mike Portnoy project rather than put the fuck up with the assholes in Damaged. She chuckled at the thought.

  “Throw a little Danzig in there for good measure.”

  She grinned and pulled her pipe off the dresser, only then—and reluctantly at that—setting her bottle down so she could light the pipe. It flared up nicely and she breathed the smoke in before drawing a massive hit, forcing her to cough, deep and phlegmy. A couple more tokes after that and she set the pipe down, took another drink, and went about shaking her arms out. Stiff and tingling from pounding her kit all day, she stretched and worked the muscles so she wouldn’t be sore in the morning.

  It’d been a while since she’d gone full out, and seeing that fat fuck watch her tits bounce as she drummed only drove her to hit the skins harder, imagining each blow was upside his balding head. She knew she’d regret her aggression when they went back to tracking the drums tomorrow, but she didn’t care right then. She had dope and booze to make it all worthwhile.

  Thinking that, she finished up and grabbed her bottle again, making her way to the bed, kicking off her boots and socks. She could hear Seth’s stereo blasting next door and thought about pounding on the wall but she loved the track so she let it go. A little Coroner did a soul good, she thought as she whipped the covers back so she could crawl into bed. Something crinkled and flopped to the floor, caught up in the blanket.

  Sunny muffled a shriek and jumped back, realizing it was only an envelope before she broke out in hysteria. “Motherfucker,” she muttered, setting her bottle down again and snatching up the envelope. “Who the fuck left this shit—?” she started, only then recognizing the dilapidated and weathered look of the thing. Her stomach twisted and a hard knot grew deep inside.

  “Shit.”

  She flopped onto the bed, afraid to do anything more than stare at the envelope. She knew what it was, her hands trembling as the package throbbed in her grasp. It was like something alive. The dark stains on the envelope seemed to stir the longer she stared at them, ink stain spiders coming to life and crawling across the package. Invisible ants crawled up her arms. A quiet hum built inside her skull and she could swear she heard someone whispering into her ear. With hesitant fingers, she peeled back the edge of the envelope and shook the contents out. A slab of flesh fell into her hand. She groaned and looked away, catching the blur of black letters before she did.

  “Fuck me.” She dropped the letter in her lap.

  The word penance stood out in her head, having spied it before looking away. She struggled to catch her breath, her heart thundering against her ribs. It was several moments before she could work up the courage to face the missive laid out before her. Even then, her eyes were teary, dots of white dancing in the corners of her vision. Still, the letter was clear, her gaze trailing the words despite her reluctance.

  It read: God has no place for you at his side; there is only me. For daring to defy the will of your infernal master, there is but one penance you must submit to in order to earn my forgiveness. You must…

  Sunny looked away once more, letting the words trundle through her mind, the sentences repeating itself over and over. “You have got to be kidding me!” Where worry had tied her guts into a knot a few moments before, disgust swept in to take its place. “This is total bullshit. No way I’m doing that,” she told herself, wrinkling the parchment as her grip tightened unconsciously.

  You must lie with the first man you encounter before the toll of midnight this night, who is not Damaged, giving yourself to him fully, suffering his every whim until he is spent, his seed your garment of shame, only to be cleansed from your flesh when you return to the solitude of your chambers.

  The emphasis on Damaged told Sunny all she needed to know. She couldn’t just crawl into Seth’s bed and let him do whatever he wanted to her, blowing his wad in his typical few minutes and ending her penance with something remotely resembling dignity. No, she had to step outside the band to appease Lucifer.

  Her stomach soured and she lay back to avoid getting sick. That left only one person.

  Roy.

  “Fuck!”

  She sat up and snatched the Absolute from the nightstand, draining the bottle in a few gulps, her trembling hands spilling the las
t of the vodka all over her chest. She glanced over at the digital clock, the hour a reddened wash that held still only long enough for her to realize she had just thirty minutes before midnight rolled around.

  That was when she puked, spattering the floor with regurgitated vodka. Not even bothering to wipe her mouth, she stood, her head spinning, and made her way across the room, trailing through her spew with her bare feet and not giving a single fuck. Nothing in the letter said she needed to make it fun for the fat ass bastard. Maybe the smell of rancid vomit would speed things up. Not that she was even sure the fucker could get it up. She hoped not, but given all she’d done to piss Satan off the last few weeks, she knew better than to challenge the edict.

  Out in the hall, she shielded her eyes from the stabbing thrusts of the lights and stumbled her way toward the bedroom off to the side of the studio. That’s where Roy would be, coked out of his mind and probably running laps around the bed. Maybe he’d have a heart attack when she showed him her tits.

  When she reached his door, she hesitated. The hum in her head was a full blown Spinal Tap moment turned up to eleven, Motörhead tuning up inside her brain pan. Her jaw ached and she did her best to unclench it but nothing relieved the pressure. The muffled sound of Roy shuffling about in the room beyond didn’t help. She growled and pounded on the door before she could talk herself out of it. Better to get fucked by nasty-ass Roy than the Devil; that shit would never end.

  There was a rustling sound from the room and the clack of the bolt being turned, and then the producer opened the door, standing there in a fuzzy white robe, split open to his waist, showing off his prodigious belly, and clearly nothing underneath. He cocked an eyebrow at Sunny.

  “Uh, what can I do for you?” He glanced behind him before turning back. “You know it’s damn near midnight, right?”

  “Tell me about it,” she said, pushing her way inside and grabbing the tie of his robe. “Just shut up and fuck me, Roy.”

  Oh, baby.

  Sunny wobbled out of the room. Roy watched her from the doorway, naked, snorting a line off his hand as she made her way back down the hall, bouncing off the walls like a pinball. He had surprised her by being sprung not two seconds after his robe hit the floor. Much to her regret. Fortunately, he was built like a fruit fly and was ready to stroke out before midnight even rolled around, his face as red as a beet. It was a shame he didn’t. Still, she could feel every spot on her skin where his dry tongue had scraped her and his greasy, coke-covered fingers had explored, her body still tingling from the drug. She felt like Cinderella, only she’d left her dignity at the ball instead of her shoe, and no prince would be chasing her to return it.

  In such a hurry to leave, she hadn’t even bothered to get dressed, leaving her clothes behind as some sick memento for the old bastard, surrendering them the moment she took them off. Who knew what he’d do to them once she was gone. Sunny shuddered at the thought and sped her pace, desperately wondering why it was so damn hard to walk, her coordination shot. Thoughts came and went and cascaded from notice not seconds later, but she did her best to not worry about it. Once she managed to find her way back to her room, she could pass out and forget all about the letter and Roy and his fat fingers and coke breath.

  She’d never get the smell out of her ass.

  33

  Born to Booze

  Michael

  Michael stared at the bottle of Jack for half an hour.

  Being in the studio with the band again had been, much to his surprise, something he had missed. The energy when they played was unparalleled and he hated that they had waited so long to start on a new album. After muddling through a few old numbers, the band’s magic had started to shine through, but just a little.

  Riffs he’d written over the last few years had come back to him and, before he knew it, they had two new songs sketched out, but they weren’t good, not good at all, and they weren’t even close to coming up with lyrics. Wex had muttered over the music, making up lines as he went. Lines that, ironically, revolved around cocaine.

  So far, they were nothing like the Damaged of old. The songs were watered down pieces of shit that would not have fit on a B-side. Even with Michael’s riffs, the band was not even close to firing on all cylinders.

  Sunny had wandered in and out of the studio between takes. Every time she came back she seemed more and more out of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was barely able to stand by the time they had finished the last song of the day.

  Wex had done so much coke his voice hadn’t been able to hold up. It crackled and he had to drink half a dozen bottles of water.

  Seth had been erratic as hell as well. He kept glancing toward the door, and then back at Sunny. She flipped him off every time.

  Michael avoided looking at Wex altogether.

  “Hey, man. It’s all good now. We’re back to doing what we do. That stuff back at my house? No problem. We met the terms of the contract.”

  “That’s not how it works, dumbass!” Sunny yelled at Wex.

  She tossed the drumsticks on the floor and stormed out of the room.

  But the band was not even close to being ready to record the album. Five years ago this would not have happened. Get the band in a room, give them their equipment, and they would have performed with piss and vinegar because they were Damaged.

  Right now they were just damaged. In every other way.

  So here Michael sat, considering the amber liquid. He ached for the burn. The rest of the band was in their own world. Wex on coke, Seth on whatever the hell he loved that month, and Sunny, despite her promises that she had found God and reformed herself, was high as a fucking kite.

  So why shouldn’t he partake? They were always better when they were on their drug of choice. Ten times better. Maybe the problem was him.

  Michael picked up the Jack Daniels, spun the lid off, put the bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes. The Tennessee whiskey burned his nose and made him think of a hundred reasons why he should not even consider drinking. Giselle came to mind first. Then his empire. All of the money. If he fell off the wagon he might never get back on.

  Michael opened his mouth and let the fluid slide inside. He swirled it around and swallowed. Fuck it.

  34

  Caress into Oblivion

  Seth

  Seth awoke to a scream.

  He bolted upright in bed, the sound reverberating through his hazy skull. “What the fuck?” He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he’d dreamt the sound but he heard it again a moment later. This time it was short, cut off mid-screech, a loud thud following it up. Seth heard Wex’s voice down the hall. Seth hopped off the bed and ran to the door, whipping it open and stepping out into the hallway.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you guys are doing but there better be a whole bunch of pussy involved if you’re waking me the—” The words froze on his tongue as the scene splayed out before him. He shook his head to clear the image, no way it could be real. There, right before him, Wex stood over Sunny’s limp and naked form, her body half-in and out of the open door to her room. He rained down blows on her, a whirlwind of violence culminating in meaty thumps.

  “You like that, Payton?” he screamed. “Is this how it has to be?” He emphasized his statement with a brutal punch to her cheek and Seth heard the bone shatter even from where he stood.

  “Dude! What the fuck are you doing?” He stumbled forward, adrenaline igniting tremors throughout his body.

  Wex turned to stare at Seth through narrow, reddened eyes. “Fuck you, man! Payton’s had this shit coming for a long time.” He turned back to Sunny and punched her again. “Bitch! Tease me will you?” He laughed “I killed your fucking dog and I loved it! Time to join his yipping ass.” He drove his boot into the side of her head, bouncing her skull off the bloodstained floor.

  A heat greater than any Seth had ever felt washed over him, and he charged forward, hands clenching into fists. As much as he hated Sunny, she was his; his to do with as he pl
eased, not Wex’s.

  “Don’t fucking touch her,” he shouted, slamming a fist into Wex’s liver.

  The singer whoofed and fell to a knee, but Seth wasn’t letting him off that easy. He drove his knee into Wex’s face, reveling at the sound of the man’s nose crunching.

  “Snort your shit now, motherfucker!”

  Wex fell back, eyes wide, staring at Seth. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, his voice nasally and wet from the broken nose and blood gushing across his lips.

  Seth answered the question with a swift kick to Wex’s ribs. Having never bothered to undress before laying down, he still had on his steel-toed boots. There was a sharp crack as a rib gave way beneath the unforgiving boot tip.

  “Motherfucker!” Wex howled, rolling to his side and clutching to his ribs.

  Despite all the shit Wex had done to Seth, all the bullshit and double talk, all the betrayal, nothing had ever gotten under his skin so much as seeing the singer hurting Sunny. The world faded into a haze of red as he grabbed Wex by the throat and smashed his fist into the asshole’s jaw.

  “She mine to kill!” he screamed, throwing punch after punch, grinding his knuckles into Wex’s face with every blow. “Mine!” His fist collided with Wex’s throat, the follow up slamming the singer’s head into the wooden floor.

  Wex rolled away, covering his face with his arms but Seth was having none of it. He backed up and delivered another kick, snapping Wex’s wrist. Blood splattered the wall as Wex screamed. Another kick landed, and then another, each impact bringing Seth closer to satisfaction, the floor a Salvador Dali absurdism, slathered in crimson.

  Seth followed the kicks up with a stomp, imitating what Wex had done to Sunny, slamming his booted heel into his face.