Triston Seever exited the building, led by his large bodyguard. What was his name again? The rock god thought about it, but he couldn't recall. In a sense, his life was an endless tour. Names became hard to remember.
“Stay back. Give the man some space.”
Girls reached their hands for Triston, quivering if they grazed him. Some of their young, pretty eyes glistened as they fought back tears. Other girls were openly crying, their cheeks flush and wet. “I love you,” a distant voice screamed from the far edge of the crowd.
The rock god rolled his eyes behind his diamond-studded designer sunglasses. There was a time when groupies would be flashing bare breasts right now. When his band mates would be chugging whiskey and puking in the hotel hedges. Lost in a sea of doe-eyed teenage faces, the rock god longed to be himself again.
His music had grown heavy over time. From its humble beginnings, it had morphed into something chaotic: a brutal reflection of the emotion he wished he could feel, a mix of shrieks and guttural screaming, shredding guitars and tribalesque drum beats. He loved the thrill of performing, the feel of adrenaline as it surged through his veins. He loved the moment when the music would stall, when the audience would wait with bated breath. He loved to see their fists pump into the air, heads banging when the beat kicked back in. That's how gods were meant to be worshiped.
A rage burned in his gut like a double-shot of Everclear. The world didn't want rock 'n' roll any more. The world wanted Triston Seever.
They wanted songs produced by a team of marketing experts; carefully planned dance moves. A pretty boy who spent two hours in makeup and ten minutes writing lyrics. They wanted machine-made melodies and commercial endorsements. The heart of rock 'n' roll had been ripped to shreds by Corporate America.
The rock god seethed, grinding Triston Seever's perfect teeth together as he approached the open door of the stretch limousine. A young woman with wild eyes ran past security, reaching for him. He managed to keep his flawless hairstyle intact as he sidestepped her and slipped into the car. Settling into the leather seat, he smiled and said, “Tonight's the night.”
Arty nodded, helping himself to the mini bar.
“Did you get my band together?”
Arty nodded a second time, polishing off a miniature bottle of scotch. He reached for another without so much as glancing up at the pop star. Breaking the seal and unscrewing the lid, he answered, “Yes, they'll be backstage when you arrive.”
“Perfect.” The rock god flashed a flawless smile and turned to watch the crowd grow smaller through the tinted window of the limousine. He fished a drink out of the mini bar and took a swig, still smirking as if privy to a joke that no one else had heard.
Arty gulped. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and raised a third bottle to his lips with shaky hands.
Raucous laughter echoed through the dressing room, punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. “Control yourselves!” screamed the rock god. He scowled at the men, who regarded him with bewildered expressions as if he'd spoken in tongues. (Although, chances were this group of men understood the dead languages much easier than the concept of taking orders.)
There was a moment of silence as the rock god's guests eyed him with intense curiosity. Each face was devastatingly handsome. All of these men could pass for models. The gods were no strangers to vanity and took pride in selecting their bodies.
Another glass shattered against the wall. Jagged pieces sprinkled the carpet. “Sorry,” said a man with icy blue eyes and chestnut hair. “I couldn't resist. I'm very fond of this crystal, as humans call it.” He studied the glassware in his hand. “Such a lovely breaking noise.” He reared his arm back as if to chuck another dish, but thought better of it, setting it on the counter.
At the bar, three men drank from a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, laughing among themselves. Two were blonde; the other had ebony hair that shimmered like obsidian atop his handsome, bronze face. Their eyes sparkled with energy, their chiseled features undeniably beautiful. The kind of beauty that, over the centuries, had inspired countless artists to sculpt and lay paintbrush to canvas.
The rock god observed their merriment with a hidden disdain. These gods were nothing like himself. So shallow, he thought. Happy to float around the fringes of the physical world, basking in adulation and prayers.
On their rare visits to Earth, the other gods were predictable in selecting a human. They always managed to find a perfect male specimen. This allowed them to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh without so much as putting forth an effort. Their amusement with human life was never more than skin deep. The rock god didn't understand this way of thinking. Still, he needed their help.
There was one thing all gods had in common, a similarity among them. They were hungry. He had never met another god who wasn't ravenous for human souls, and tonight that would come in very handy.
“Is everyone prepared?” he asked. “I need you alert for tonight's show.” He pointed to the half-empty bottle of vodka. “Can we put that away? Just for now?” He expected a protest, but to his surprise, the dark-haired man pushed the bottle aside. No one made an effort to stop him.
“Do you think we can pull this off?” asked a god who had chosen a blonde-haired, blue-eyed vessel. “How many humans will there be?”
“Thousands,” the rock god said. He approached the others and slid onto a stool. “And yes, we can pull this off.”
The dark-haired man opened his mouth to debate it, but an elder god cut him short. “Their numbers are of no concern to us,” said the elder. “Our power is too great for them to fight. Together, we are unstoppable.”
“Excellent,” said the rock god. His lips curled into a smile. “Bon appetit, my friends.”
The fog machines ran at full blast. Smoke swirled in the footlights, rising up to hide the stage beneath a cloudy veil of mystery that pulsated and glowed as colored lights blinked in and out, in and out. A steady hum of voices filled the arena, the ear-splitting effect of thousands of simultaneous conversations. Dance music pumped from the sound system. The smoke and light show on stage moved to the beat.
When the soundtrack stopped, so did the chatter. The crowd shifted into an awed silence. All eyes looked toward the stage. A silhouette emerged and approached the forefront. The lights brightened, and the smoke began to clear.
A digital monitor the size of a billboard displayed Triston Seever's latest album cover for a moment and then panned to a live video feed. The camera zoomed in on his face.
When he smiled, the close-up shot of his flawless teeth and sultry lips triggered a cacophony of shrieks and whistles. “Thank you,” he said, the mic held close to his lips.
“Hello, Bakersfield! How are you tonight?” A fresh round of cheers erupted from all sides. It washed over the arena, a tidal wave of human noise.
“I've got a surprise for you tonight!” He turned to watch four men step forward through the thinning clouds of smoke. The live video feed panned to each of their handsome faces. “Please welcome my new back up singers and dancers! Give it up for them!” The crowd hooted and hollered their approval.
The first song set in—a rhythm and blues beat. It was nothing like the music that had spawned it, lacking the passion that had driven the original blues singers to pour their hearts into a song. Nevermind, he thought. The time has come.
He smiled at the crowd one last time. Then, he turned to his crew of “singers and dancers” (though he wasn't sure they could sing or dance at all) and slowly nodded his head. The five men on stage held their arms out wide and opened their pretty mouths.
Nothing happened. The background music continued to pump from the speakers, but no vocals accompanied it. Feedback squealed through the sound system, and the audience recoiled. There must be a problem with the microphones, they thought. Any moment, they would hear the harmonized voices of the pop stars joining with the rhythm of the track.
People began to notice that the men on stage stood motionless, not ev
en attempting to dance. They just stood there with their arms outstretched and their mouths agape. Their lips did not move.
Audience members cried out. Wild, panicked screams filled the air. Several members of the crowd began to convulse. Their muscles tightened, spine stiff, and they fell over like dominoes in haphazard rows. They hit the ground, one by one, eyes wide and fists clenched in agony. Some writhed in sticky puddles of spilled soda; some thrashed wildly against the seats.
The audience members who were still standing knelt down and tried to ask questions of the fallen: “What's wrong? What's happening?” Many of them were dialing 9-1-1, or already had the phone pressed to their ear.
Tears streamed down the cheeks of the ones who suffered seizures, but their screaming died out as the pain seemed to reach a peak. They managed only to squeak and wheeze as they lay helpless, some of them pinned beneath the weight of others, piled like corpses on the floor.
Then, their lips parted. Hundreds of mouths opened in unison as their limbs thrashed spasmodically, eyes wide. From inside their mouths, a soft light glowed, spiraling up and up into the air. It grew brighter as the whirlwind whipped faster and faster, ascending toward the roof.
The audience members who weren't in shock started to realize what was happening. Their eyes settled first on their fallen friends and family, then on the beams of light pouring from their mouths. The light seemed to pulsate with energy. It spun from their lips like miniature tornadoes, stretching up over their heads. Hundreds of light beams, intersecting to form larger streams that headed straight for the stage—five of them, to be exact—one for each man on stage.
A cyclone of energy was being siphoned from the mouths of the seizure-stricken victims, straight into the mouths of the pop stars. The audience members collectively gulped. Some cried out, some blathered to 9-1-1 dispatchers on their phones, but all of them began turn their heads, looking for an exit.
The pop stars stood in their expensive designer outfits, flawless hair styles unaffected by the breeze that whistled around them. A sinister energy emanated from their triangular formation as they stood with their arms out wide, hands pointed at one another as if closing a circle of power. Omnipotent, otherworldly energy crackled from their fingertips, linking them together. Their eyes turned white, and the video feed on the big-screen captured the scene with ghastly, high-definition detail. People screamed and ran for the exits.
The first wave of injured humans quit breathing. The remaining ones stopped mid-run as violent convulsions rattled their bodies. They dropped, flopping like bated fish where they fell. They became too racked with pain to articulate so much as a yelp, and soon, even their choking and gasping ceased as the souls were ripped from their bodies.
Inside the arena, things were eerily silent. Outside, police sirens drew nearer. The sated gods licked their lips and went to work setting fires, eager to escape their mortal bonds.
The rock god pulled his Fender from its case and played a shredding guitar solo to an audience of none as his fellow gods set the building ablaze. Fire filled the auditorium, and still the rock god played—until flames lapped at the frets and all of his strings were melted; until his fingers were too burnt to hold the notes.
He channeled all his past lives. He poured himself into the music, even as his amplifier exploded and waves of heat seared his flesh. The guitar made no noise, but in his mind he heard it—rock 'n' roll, the music of the gods. He closed his blackened eyelids and continued to move his fingers as the inferno roared and walls crumbled down. He smiled and suffered a momentary death, quite satisfied with his revenge.
Damaged Goods
Dear Kimmie,
I hope you're not angry with me. I'm sorry for the mess I've gotten us into, for the media coverage that will surround you in the coming months, and for the embarrassment I've brought to our family. I can only offer one explanation—as concise and honest as they come: I had to do it.
Of course, no courtroom in the world will deem my crime self-defense, but it was either kill him or kill myself. I couldn't continue the way I've been living all these years, beaten down and defeated, unable to love or be loved because of memories I cannot forget.
Remember when we were little, how we used to swing together, holding hands? We couldn't go very high that way, but we held tight, our little fingers interlaced, bodies gently keeping pace, side by side. That's how we got through childhood, isn't it? Holding hands. One year apart but so much alike.
One cold autumn day, I cried alone on that swing as yours swayed, empty, beside me. An approaching storm thrashed the drooping limbs of the old willow. A few wispy branches broke off and tumbled in the wind, and I thought, That's how I feel when she’s away.
We were afraid to be alone. The “bad things” happened when we were apart. The “bad things” that we were told to put behind us after a quick divorce and a few counseling sessions. But how can we put something behind us when it's who we are, Kimmie? It’s as ingrained in our characters as dirt on a filthy mattress.
The people we've grown into are nothing but older versions of the little girls we once were. There's no escaping it. You, dear sister, found love and started a family. You put your broken pieces back together. But everyone is different. I am different. I can't heal this wound. Roger is a scab, and I never leave the thought of him alone long enough to mend it.
Mom tells me, “You can’t live in the past.” I'm sure you can picture it: the way her thin, withered lips suckle her Pall Mall, taking long pulls as if it'll somehow make her advice more profound (or even worth a shit, if she only knew how I really felt). It's enough to make me envision shoving that cigarette down her old, raspy throat. How dare she? How fucking dare she tell me to move on, to let go of the past, when she was the one who ruined mine by bringing that monster into our lives?
I did try, Kimmie. I tried to move on because that's what I wanted. We're all dealt a hand in life. It's either play or fold. I chose to play.
I went to therapy. It cost me an arm and a leg getting therapy on a waitress's pay with no medical insurance, but I pulled it off. I did it because I was trying to let go of the past, like good old mom told me to do.
When that didn't work, I suppressed it. I took all the pain, like a torturous flame burning inside me, and drowned it in an effort to appear normal, successful.... happy. I tried out cute hair styles. I made jokes, hung out with friends. I went on dates, and there was even a man who proposed to me. His name was Charlie, and I turned him down.
Charlie didn't understand why I had to break his heart, but it’s simple. I was running from the past. I wasn't ready to love him. Something rotten seethed in the noxious pit of my soul, ready to explode. Maybe he'll understand when he sees the news, when he sees how many pieces I cut Roger into and how bloody things got.
After Charlie, I started to wonder if I would ever have a normal life. I tried “looking to the future and not the past” as my therapist had advised me. What a crock of shit that turned out to be, and a waste of money, too. There are too many goddamn triggers. Strange men at the park watching children play. Middle-aged bosses flirting with teenaged staff. Fathers with their hands riding too high on their daughter's thigh in a quiet corner of a party. The world is brimming with predators, and I am equipped with a radar.
I began to wonder just how many others were out there being abused. I started to pay attention. I wore sunglasses with black lenses. I kept aware of every face in the crowd. They call it “people watching”, but I think I was trying to prove something to myself—that things were not as bad as they seemed.
It was on a gloomy day in April, at a party thrown by a co-worker, when it hit me. I'd been observing a young girl in loose-fitting clothes squirm away from her step-father's touch. The radar was screaming in my head, and all I wanted to do was take the serving knife from the table and stab it between the eyes of every creep who preys on the young.
That's when I made the decision. I would find him. I would find Roger, and I would ki
ll him.
Once the decision was made, little sis, there was no turning back. It was a fruitless effort to fight the idea. I tried, but it was all I could think about, all I dreamt of at night. And you know what? I felt better. A lot better. I had set a goal, and I would see it through.
The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror) Page 12