Danny looked to Rhain for any final instructions. Gleaming majestically, the singer nodded his approval.
Outside the club, hellish sounds could be heard halfway up the block. Screams and droning bass and a gong were all part of Mourningstar’s gloomy intro music.
A beefy, longhaired rocker walked up to the front door as if expecting to walk in but a brawny bouncer blocked his path and pointed at a sign on the ticket booth window. It was a Mourningstar flyer and, in black Sharpie, SOLD OUT had been written across it.
Without warning, the rocker sucker-punched the bouncer as hard as he could.
Lip split open, the thick-necked bouncer staggered but did not fall. He lunged at the rocker and wrestled him down to the ground. While the two men rolled around trying to pound one another, about fifteen fans that couldn’t get in to the sold-out show rushed inside.
With the intro music still rolling, bodies surged toward the front of the stage. Derek Spencer, the president of Black Light Records, regretted not having reserved a table. His righthand man, Raul Ortega, hoped that if Derek signed Mourningstar to a record contract, a promotion would come his way. After all, he was the person who brought the group to Derek’s attention.
Satanic royalty personified, the four musicians stomped through a dimly lit hall and down a flight of darkened steps to the side of the stage. A mixture of pride and determination adorned all of their eerily painted faces.
First was Revile. Next came Ruin. Then Rhain and Wrath, who had his Flying V guitar strapped on.
A large black curtain had been drawn across the front of the stage. Ruin walked behind the amps to his double bass drum kit. He cracked his knuckles, twirled drumsticks, and waited. Revile went to his amp and flipped switches. He nodded to Ruin, who then took his position behind the large black drum kit.
Wrath and Rhain were still standing on the side of the stage. They could hear cheers and whistles coming from the audience.
“Ready to kill?” Rhain asked Wrath.
“Yeah . . . but there’s something I gotta tell you.”
Rhain stared at Wrath, suspecting he knew what was coming.
“I think you should know that my sister ain’t nearly as pure as you think and if you ever bring her into any band business again I will fuck you up!”
Chastised, Rhain couldn’t believe it. But there was more.
“And if you want me to stay in this fucking band, things have got to change around here! You need me a lot more than I need you. Understand?”
Rhain did not and never would.
Beaming with confidence, Wrath strutted across the stage and took his position stage left. He started jamming a monster riff and then stomped on one of his foot pedals causing his tone to become even heavier.
At the exact moment he stepped on the pedal, the stage curtain dropped.
Underneath an elevated drum riser, a large flaming pentagram resembled a portal into Hell. Three Marshall stacks stood uniformly on each side of the drum kit. Flashing police lights rested on top of the amp heads. All of the microphone stands had been customized with human and animal bones. The monitor wedges were dressed with razor wire. In front of each monitor stood sharpened steel poles. Impaled upon these poles were severed pig heads.
A large inverted crucifix hung down from the ceiling. It twirled slightly, slowly spinning an upside-down Jesus Christ. On each side of the crucifix was a red Nazi flag, but where the swastika would normally be, a black pentagram adorned the inside of the white circle. As the first song kicked in, awe registered on many of the audience members’ faces. This sinister stage show was already unlike any they had ever seen inside of a nightclub.
KABOOM!
Flash pots went off at the front of the stage—that was Rhain’s cue to join them.
While Wrath and Revile thrashed around looking possessed, Rhain stalked the stage. He never did anything that resembled dancing nor did he ever seem to enjoy himself. Instead he banged his head furiously, whipping his long black hair in time with the heavy beats.
The first song blasted out a powerful track full of crushing riffs that fans of Pantera or Metallica would enjoy just as much as the most ardent fans of grindcore or black metal.
Ruin attacked the drums like a wild banshee. Quick fills and hitting hard in overdrive, he embodied a whirlwind of perfectly timed precision and energy.
What Revile lacked in technical proficiency he made up by being the flashiest performer of the group. While he never smiled or got too carried away, he banged on his low-slung bass with a certain aggressiveness that many females saw as “hot.”
Wielding his instrument as it if were a weapon, Wrath possessed the talent and technique that would be a welcome addition to any rock band. Gritting his teeth and giving it his all, he frantically worked the stage. No matter how intensely he thrashed around, he never hit a sour note.
Rhain’s vocals were not particularly offensive in tone. They sounded gruff and manly but were not horrendous screeches or “Cookie Monster” vocals. Veins bulging out from his neck, every word sung was delivered with intense conviction.
The voracious crowd loved what they saw and heard. A mosh pit started swirling around violently. Audience members slammed into each other in heavy metal celebration. Wrath and Revile egged them on to go even wilder.
During Wrath’s guitar solo, Rhain walked over to Danny the roadie.
“MAKE SURE YOU STRAP THAT BITCH IN GOOD AND TIGHT!”
Danny seemed a little confused.
“I DON’T WANT ANN MARIE GETTING NERVOUS AND PULLING FREE, UNDERSTAND?”
A sinister look crossed Rhain’s face. Danny noticed it but didn’t say anything.
Seemingly a little less pissed off, Rhain slithered back and finished the rest of the opening number.
After the song ended, the crowd cheered loudly.
“This next song . . . ”
Rhain whipped out a real dagger and made the inverted sign of the cross. Because of the way he was lit, a brief motion trail appeared.
“This next song calls for BLOOD!”
The crowd roared with approval. Fingers forming Devil horns were raised as a sign of appreciation.
The singer stepped to the edge of the stage and slowly ran the jagged blade across his left hand. Blood spilled out from his slit palm. With a crazed look upon his horrifically painted face, Rhain was totally caught up in the psychodrama of his performance.
Behind the singer, several roadies hauled out a large wooden cross and placed it directly in front of the drum riser. Clad in the flowing white wedding dress, Ann Marie appeared to be securely strapped to the heavy wooden cross.
Ruin stood up and placed his drumsticks together to form an inverted cross. Then he took the horizontal stick and ran it across his own neck in a throat slicing gesture before pointing at Ann Marie. The crowd loved it.
Rhain stalked back over to the microphone and pointed his dagger at Ann Marie.
“This one’s called ‘BLOODLETTING’!”
Blast beats starting off the song, red trigger lights went in time with the drum hits to create a strobing effect. A large gust of dry ice “smoke” bellowed out from the rear of the stage. A crushing riff pummeled the audience.
The singer produced the second dagger.
As the smoke dwindled to unveil the frontman, Rhain held both daggers overhead as he sang the first verse. The cut on his hand continued bleeding.
Ann Marie played the role of a frightened damsel in distress to perfection. With all of the diabolical imagery onstage, it wasn’t too hard to appear frightened.
About halfway through “Bloodletting,” the song broke down to only bass and drums. Wrath ambled over to his amp but kept a watchful eye on Rhain in case the motherfucker tried to take onstage liberties with his sister.
Rhain knew Wrath was watching him as he placed one of the two daggers back in the sheath.
Facing the audience, the crazed singer pressed the point of the dagger against his bloody palm.
&
nbsp; The blade did not retract.
“SATAN, ACCEPT MY OFFER!”
Thinking it was all part of the act, the crowd cheered Rhain on.
The singer dramatically raised the dagger over his head. Ann Marie screamed at the top of her lungs.
Rhain turned to face Ann Marie—only to see Wrath blocking his path, mouth filled with kerosene and holding a lit torch out.
SWOOOOSH!
A mixture of disbelief and terror spread across the singer’s face as Wrath blew a giant fireball. Like homemade napalm, the flammable liquid scorched Rhain’s face. His long black hair ignited immediately as his skin began to sizzle.
Arms out to his side, he threw back his flaming head and unleashed an unholy scream. As if banging his head to the music, Rhain thrashed back and forth. The flames went out and a thick waft of smoke rose from his charred skull.
Shrieking as if she too were on fire, Ann Marie tried to pull free from the large wooden cross and toppled over. Screaming for help from the stage floor, she lay trapped underneath the cross.
As the song came to a fumbling halt, Revile and Ruin could not believe their eyes. Painted face seared, most of Rhain’s hair was gone. A glob of flesh slid down his cheek like cheese dripping off a pizza.
Eyes beaming with rabid madness, Rhain slashed wildly through the air.
SLASH . . . SWIPE . . . SLASH.
Baring his teeth like a wild dog, the badly burned singer lumbered toward the girl under the cross.
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”
Wrath cut off Rhain’s path to the terrified Ann Marie.
Ready to pounce, Wrath stood defiant, almost as if challenging Rhain to come a little closer. If he did, Wrath was going to bash him with his guitar.
Another shrill shriek came from under the cross. Concerned that she might be injured, Wrath turned to look.
Seizing the moment, Rhain rushed forward and buried the dagger deep in Wrath’s chest. Agony contorted Wrath’s face as his Flying V fell out of his hand.
“Mourningstar will always be MY band,” growled Rhain’s ruined mouth.
Summoning his last bit of strength, Wrath grabbed Rhain by the back of his still-smoking head and threw a vicious forearm jab into the singer’s throat. Long, sharp spikes from his armband punctured soft flesh.
“Then sing motherfucker!”
Eyes bulging out of his horrid face, Rhain’s mouth opened but no sound came. Like a sprinkler, blood sprayed out and drenched Wrath. A split second later, trembling hands covered the puncture wounds.
Dying, Rhain dropped to his knees.
Dagger protruding from his chest, Wrath coughed up another mouthful of crimson and then fell to his knees.
Consumed by animosity and covered in gore, Rhain and Wrath stared at one another and waited for the other to die. Neither could stand or move. They just projected their rage while the mesmerized crowd continued to scream.
For one brief moment, the detestation etched on Wrath’s painted face lessened just a little, almost as if wondering: How did this happen?
Refusing to let go of his hatred, Rhain fell forward and died hoping Satan would welcome him with open arms.
Limp as a rag doll, Wrath also collapsed. As she watched her brother die, Ann Marie unleashed another bloodcurdling shriek.
Eight police officers stormed the club and began fighting their way through the terrified audience to get closer to the two men.
Revile dropped his bass and ran upstairs to the dressing room. With all hell breaking loose, the speed dealer knew better than to stick around.
Ruin saw Revile take off but he was not about to run. With a take-no-prisoners disposition, he reached into his stick bag and grabbed something wrapped up in a white towel.
From on top of the drum riser, Ruin cocked a sawed-off Remington 870 shotgun.
With one armed extended, the drummer took aim at the approaching officers.
BAMMMM!
Two police officers and several bystanders were hit by buckshot.
Before he could fire again, muzzle fire from police pistols lit up the dark venue.
A volley of bullets entered and exited the drummer’s body. Bullets that missed him hit the drum kit and sent sparks flying off cymbals and hardware.
Jerking and twitching, Ruin fought to stay upright before finally collapsing on top of the bullet-ridden drum kit.
Ann Marie’s screams never stopped, even as the police began releasing her from the cross. Miraculously, she hadn’t been hit.
Revile recoiled in terror when he heard the gunshots downstairs. Like a trapped animal, he searched for an escape route until his desperate eyes noticed a sink with doors under it.
With his knees up to his face, Revile contorted his thin body to fit into the small area under the sink. He heard footsteps approaching.
Guns drawn, two police officers quickly searched the dressing room.
In the cramped darkness, Revile thought he heard the footsteps leaving.
He thought wrong.
A determined police officer yanked him out from under the sink and threw him to the floor. Before the ghoulish bassist could fight back, the cop slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. His gun-toting partner warned, “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off!”
Revile did as instructed.
As he was being read his rights, Revile turned his head to look at the cabinet again. He probably should have jumped out the window instead.
“ . . . right to have an attorney present during questioning and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed. Do you understand?” the officer finished.
Revile grunted that he understood. Then he tucked his face down to hide behind his long black hair.
A smile he hoped no one else could see began to form because by the time this story hit the nightly news, the lone surviving member of Mourningstar would be famous.
Or, if not famous, then infamous.
Infamous enough so that when this all blew over he could probably sign a record deal as a solo artist.
Besides being a horror writer, Del James is the tour manager for Guns N’ Roses and has spent a good portion of his life on the road. James wrote the short story “Mourningstar” while on tour in Europe during the summer of 2012. James has also directed music videos for bands like Guns N’ Roses and Soul and co-written songs with groups such as Testament, The Almighty, Dragonlord, the Outpatience, Guns N’ Roses, and others. His collection of short stories, The Language of Fear, is available in mass market paperback from Random House and will soon be published in limited edition hardcover by Cemetery Dance.
Jeff Beck
Lewis Shiner
Felix was thirty-four. He worked four ten-hour days a week at Allied Sheet Metal, running an Amada CNC turret punch press. At night he made cassettes with his twin TEAC dbx machines. He’d recorded over a thousand of them so far, over 160 miles of tape, and he’d carefully hand lettered the labels for each one.
He’d taped everything Jeff Beck had ever done, from the Yardbirds’ For Your Love through all the Jeff Beck Groups and the solo albums; he had the English singles of “Hi Ho Silver Lining” and “Tally Man”; he had all the session work, from Donovan to Stevie Wonder to Tina Turner.
In the shop he wore a Walkman and listened to his tapes. Nothing seemed to cut the sound of tortured metal like the diamond-edged perfection of Beck’s guitar. It kept him light on his feet, dancing in place at the machine, and sometimes the sheer beauty of it made tears come up in his eyes.
On Fridays he dropped Karen at her job at Pipeline Digest and drove around to thrift shops and used book stores looking for records. After he’d cleaned them up and put them on tape he didn’t care about them anymore; he sold them back to collectors and made enough profit to keep himself in blank XLIIs.
Occasionally he would stop at a pawnshop or music store and look at the guitars. Lightning Music on 183 had a Charvel/Jackson soloist, exactly like the one Beck played on Flash, except for the hideous lilac-purple
finish. Felix yearned to pick it up but was afraid of making a fool out of himself. He had an old Sears Silvertone at home and two or three times a year he took it out and tried to play it, but he could never even manage to get it properly in tune.
Sometimes Felix spent his Friday afternoons in a dingy bar down the street from Pipeline Digest, alone in a back booth with a pitcher of Budweiser and an anonymous brown sack of records. On those afternoons Karen would find him in the office parking lot, already asleep in the passenger seat, and she would drive home. She worried a little, but it never happened more than once or twice a month. The rest of the time he hardly drank at all, and he never hit her or chased other women. Whatever it was that ate at him was so deeply buried it seemed easier to leave well enough alone.
One Thursday afternoon a friend at work took him aside.
“Listen,” Manuel said, “are you feeling okay? I mean you seem real down lately.”
“I don’t know,” Felix told him. “I don’t know what it is.”
“Everything okay with Karen?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Work is okay. I’m happy and everything. I just . . . I don’t know. Feel like something’s missing.”
Manuel took something out of his pocket. “A guy gave me this. You know I don’t do this kind of shit no more, but the guy said it was killer stuff.”
It looked like a Contac capsule, complete with the little foil blister pack. But when Felix looked closer the tiny colored spheres inside the gelatin seemed to sparkle in rainbow colors.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say exactly. When I asked him what it did all he said was, ‘Anything you want.’ ”
He dropped Karen at work the next morning and drove aimlessly down Lamar for a while. Even though he hadn’t hit Half Price Books in a couple of months, his heart wasn’t in it. He drove home and got the capsule off the top of his dresser where he’d left it.
Felix hadn’t done acid in years, hadn’t taken anything other than beer and an occasional joint in longer than he could remember. Maybe it was time for a change.
Rock On Page 45
