It wasn’t until he was a dozen blocks away that he pulled over and scrambled from the car, barely making it to the guard rail before spewing his guts onto the side of the road.
The Jack had tasted better going down than coming up. He stared at the rancid spew on the asphalt and fell to his knees, memories assailing him. Watching Oswald and Jon die hadn’t been the worst thing he’d had to endure for his deal with Satan, but it was close.
He didn’t want to think about everything else he’d done—they’d done—but kneeling there, on the side of the road, steam wafting from his vomit, he couldn’t help but remember.
9
The Number of the Beast - 84
Interlude - Summer of 1984
A darkened room. Smoke rose toward the ceiling from four cigarettes that all shared one over worked ashtray. A pile of ash, which had grown progressively taller over the last few hours, threatened to topple. The bet was that whoever disturbed the priest’s ashes was doomed to a fiery death.
Fiery Death being a drink concocted by Sunny. She'd come up with the atrocious cocktail while baked out of her brain. She had been testing various strains of weed that were laced with cocaine. “Fiery Death” was also the first song she had penned as the newest member of damaged.
The room was in the back of the Saturn Inn, which featured a small stage in a tiny room with shitty sound and a floor that hadn’t been cleaned in decades, judging by the way boots stuck to the surface like wading through tar paper.
Five or six years ago, the hotel portion of the building had closed and the club had knocked down a few walls and become the cool spot for local bands. Then a fire had erupted one night and the back of the room had burned through to the front of the building. The owner was said to have paid to have the damage repaired but the room still smelled like smoke. There was a rumor someone had died in the fire. Michael thought that was cool. Gave the venue a haunted feel. He wanted to write a song about the club but Sunny had beaten them to it with “Fiery Death.”
He shifted his feet on the couch and hit the side of the table. It rattled forward but the pile of cigarette ash barely moved.
“Oh fuck, dude. Thought you were about to suck down some pain,” Seth said.
“Close call, Michael.” Sunny nodded at the ash tray with a wink.
They were spread out on a cracked vinyl couch that wasn’t even cool when Mr. Roper, from Three’s Company had owned it. It was a throwback to throwbacks and perfectly suited Michael’s mood. There was a foot long slit that had frayed on the edges and tufts of old stuffing projected out. A hole half that size on the other bright red cushion spilled out like sofa guts. The trick was to find your place early and not move if at all possible.
The room had an arched entry way that was done up in fake gold foil that was peeling away from the surface. A water stain on the ceiling seemed to be increasing by the second, although that could be because Michael Blackstone was drunk and stoned.
There was no lack of clubs in LA, that was for damn sure. Nor metal bands for that matter. While guys were dressing in drag and wearing makeup, Damaged was all about the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Fuck those posers and their power chord heavy songs.
Damaged’s roots were in the burgeoning thrash metal scene, although Wex, being obsessed with occult, LaVey and others, brought a distinctly evil feel to the songs he contributed to the band. Michael was cool with that and had even purchased a used copy of the Satanic bible. One of his next songs would be based on the writing in the book, although that song probably wouldn’t be with Damaged.
After the night they had just experienced, the band was on their last leg. You could only take so much rejection and so many nights of playing to a few friends. Tonight had been a special hell because only eight people had shown up. Damaged had an opener. A local band called Space Cowboys and they were pure shit. But they had also brought in almost half of the crowd. Damaged had taken to the stage to find these few folks standing around, or in the one fat guy’s case, sitting in an ancient La-Z-Boy he’d dragged front and center.
The stage wasn’t even three feet tall, and it was so tiny he and Wex had nearly shared the same space. But fuck it. They’d put on a blistering set of original material that had left a few jaws on the floor. Then the guy in the La-Z-Boy had yelled, “Play “Shout at the Devil.” Damaged was a long way from doing covers, but Michael was halfway into a bottle and had winked before spitting out the opening power chord to Mötley Crüe’s anthem.
Then they’d played a new song, Sunny’s “Fiery Death,” and called it a night. The fat guy had left in a huff because he didn’t hear his favorite pussy song.
“That was some bullshit,” Sunny said.
She wore a black tank top under a Levi’s jean jacket with the sleeves ripped off. The left side had spray painted anarchy symbol on the front. The other side had a spiked pentagram worked into the material. The tips were painted with crimson.
She had on black leather gloves and completed the image with camouflage spandex and a bullet laden belt. Sunny had hair that hung nearly to her waist and wasn’t shy about bouncing the locks around her forehead while she headbanged through a set.
“Did you guys get the flyers up?” Michael asked the others.
“Yeah, man. I put up at least a hundred,” Wex said.
He had one leg cocked up on the table. Wex reached for the bottle of jack and downed a swig.
“We can’t keep this shit up,” Sunny said. “Sick of playing for a dozen losers.”
“Shit. Weren’t that many on the floor. It sucks ass,” Seth said. “I just blew my last six fucking bucks on gas to get us here and we didn’t make shit from the show. Probably owe that promotor money.”
“Hey,” Wex said. “Who was that creepy old man in the back of the room?”
“Record exec. Probably here to sign us to a three record deal. I’m going to buy a house in Maui with our royalties and have topless babes serving me Mai Tais,” Seth said, shaking out his long hair before running his fingers through. He winked at Sunny.
Sunny shot him the bird. “Toothless hags dressed in hula skirts. Heroine addicts, every one of them.”
“I love it when you talk mean,” Seth said.
Sunny looked like she wanted to stick a knife in his temple, yet she was still smiling.
“He was a weirdo. What was that long jacket he was wearing?” Michael asked.
“Duster. Leather, too. Probably costs more than my guitar,” Wex said.
“Creeped me the fuck out,” Seth said and took another swig of Jack and coughed once. “Had an old face. Like he’s been in the sun for too long. Lines so deep I could see an equator.”
“He creeped me out, too,” Sunny said. “Reminded me of a step-father who liked to get grabby.”
“I can be your Daddy,” Seth told her. She raised an eyebrow and ignored him.
Michael shuddered. He eyed the bottle of Jack and thought about taking it and draining the rest.
“He stared at me like he knew me,” Sunny said.
“That’s it. He’s got the hots for our drummer,” Seth said. “Can’t say he’s got the wrong idea.”
“Seth. You ever tried to play bass with two drum sticks shoved up your ass?”
“No but I’m always up for new experiences?” Seth shot back.
Sunny flicked cigarette ash at Seth.
Sunny had been a late addition to the band. Wex had bitched and moaned that they would not be taken seriously with a female in the band, Michael had insisted she deserved a chance.
Michael had known Sunny since high school. While other girls were dressing in prom dresses and watching Sixteen Candles, Sunny was on the strip watching bands like Exodus.
“You haven't seen anyone pound skin like her,” Michael had insisted.
“She pounding your skin?” Seth had asked.
Michael had shrugged the comment off. “You should say that shit to her face.”
“What’s she going to do, “In-A-Gadda-Da
-Vida” across my face?”
Then Sunny had arrived and torn the hell out of a drum solo that left Wex speechless, Seth drooling, and Michael awed. It took them about five seconds to offer her the spot in the band. For part of the try out, she’d been hitting the drums so hard she had to flip the drumsticks over and play, full John Bonham style. She’d setup a second bass drum and and her feet had bounced up and down while she’d teased the crash symbols with one drum stick. The sound had been fucking wicked. It wasn’t even that she was an amazing drummer with technique for days. She genuinely loved the music.
Karl Drax had been their drummer before being killed in a car accident a few months earlier. Karl and Michael had been friends for a few years and had spent many nights working on songs. The problem had been that Karl wasn’t a very good drummer. But he had the look of a metal head. His jean jacket, sans sleeves, was covered in band patches and had short spikes along the lapel and sleeves. Michael had requested the jacket from Karl’s mother, after his death, but she had said no. The woman had known Michael for years, but she was cold with him after her son’s death, like she blamed Michael.
But Karl had been a hellion and didn’t think much about drinking a half dozen shots of tequila before getting behind the wheel. Now his Camaro was a heap of metal covered in its owner’s blood. Word was that Karl had been completely decapitated. Dumb fucking luck.
“I don’t think this is going to work out, guys,” Sunny said. “I heard from a friend’s band that they need a drummer. I’m thinking about trying out.”
Michael nodded. He had suspected this had been coming but had been too afraid to jinx them all before a gig. So he had waited for someone else to say it.
“I understand,” Wex said. “One of my buds is a guitar tech for Slayer. Said there’s another up and coming band, Mega something or other. They have some good buzz. Sucking up all the energy in the genre, it seems.”
“The fuck is wrong with you all,” Michael stood up. He got one hand on the table and then stepped on it. He was tall, and his head nearly brushed the ceiling. “We have one bad night and you guys want to quit?”
“You’re fucked, dude,” Seth said and pointed at the pile of ash. It was a fluff of ash now.
“Fiery Death!” Sunny screamed. She broke her beat up drum sticks and pounded on the tabletop.
“It’s not just one bad night, Michael,” Wex said. “It’s a lot of bad nights. Maybe Damaged’s time is up.”
“Just a few more months and I think our music is going to break,” Michael said in exasperation. “And Slayer? Our music is faster. More brutal. We could play circles around those guys.”
He jumped off the table and landed on the ground. Something squished in the emerald green carpet. He didn’t want to look down to see what it was.
“Fuck yeah we could, but they got a deal, we didn’t,” Seth said.
“Slayer rocks,” Sunny said with a grin. “I used to watch those guys down at the Whiskey.”
The Wiskey A Go Go was the dream spot. It wasn’t a huge club but it was always packed. Playing there was usually a sign that things were looking up for a band. Since Quiet Riot had broken big, record execs had started showing up on a nightly basis. The problem was, they looked for bands that looked like a bunch of fucking girls. Michael wasn’t about to put makeup on. Not even for a million dollars. It was the principle, if nothing else.
Wex shot Sunny devil horns and nodded his head. “Fucking Slayer.”
They smoked in silence for a few more minutes while Michael paced. He tried to think of something to say, some way to get the band’s spirits up. But he was also sick and tired of not making it. Not making anything, plus he wasn’t good at being a coach. He didn’t even know how to start making a speech that would rally the team.
He’d had enough of living out of his piece of shit Buick that needed to have water added to the radiator before he drove anywhere. It was so bad that he had almost missed this gig because he had been rushing to get his gear in the car and didn’t have time to add a few liters from an old Pepsi two-liter bottle he carted around.
Michael took the opportunity to grab the Jack from in front of Seth. If they were going to break up, he was getting the last of the liquor. Fuck these guys. It had been his to begin with. He’d talked a clerk into turning around to check the price on cigarettes and stuffed the bottle, cap down, into the back of his pants. His black leather jacket had covered up the evidence.
“So we’re really doing this? Six months and we’re calling it quits?” Wex said.
“Liked the show tonight,” a deep voice called from the doorway.
Michael turned to take in the figure that quietly moved into the room. Something that smelled like vanilla with a strong undercurrent of iron suffused the air.
“Um. Thanks,” Michael’s voice cracked.
He suddenly wanted to get out of there. Something about this guy creeped him out.
“I’d like to talk to you all about a special deal,” the man said.
“Are you a music exec?” Seth sat up and pushed hair out of his face.
“I’m better than a music exec,” the man intoned. “I’m the guy who makes dreams come true. You all have a few minutes?”
Michael’s unease increased as more of the man appeared. Rugged didn’t begin to describe him. He was like something out of an old Sergio Leon spaghetti western. His duster nearly touched the floor and maybe it was the fact that he was half-plastered on Jack, but he could have sworn that the old man’s clothing didn’t flex as he walked. Didn’t whisper or creak.
It was almost like the man was floating.
He came to stand before them, eye to eye with even Michael. His features were as much leather as his coat, skin pulled taut across his face. Michael shivered despite himself as the man’s crystalline gaze landed on him. For all the blue of his eyes, there was something dark behind them, something swirling in the pits that took him in.
“Dreams, huh?” Seth asked, shaking his head. “Is this where you offer us $100 to suck your dick in the alley?”
“Nothing so crass, Mr. Kilmister,” the man answered, “though if your dreams are so pathetic, you might not be the people I thought you were.” His gaze swept from Seth and took in the rest of the band, one at a time, barely alighting on one before shifting to the next. Michael could have sworn the temperature dropped a dozen degrees.
Seth popped up, fists clenched. It didn’t take much to rile him up, especially when he’d been drinking, and Michael expected him to go after the guy, but Seth surprised him. Even from where he stood, Michael spied what he thought was fear slithering across Seth’s face. The muscle at his jaw throbbed in time with the vein at his temple.
“Please, take a seat and have a drink on me.” Out of nowhere, the bartender appeared and thumped two bottles of Jack on the table. He cracked the lids and walked off without a word.
Wex didn’t hesitate. He snatched up a bottle and took a swig. When he was done, he met the man’s bold stare. “So…dreams, huh?”
“Indeed.”
Sunny coughed, blowing out a geyser of smoke. “No offense, but you sure don’t look like a metal fan?” She gestured to his jacket and the John Wayne getup. “And you sure as hell don’t look like a suit, so who the hell are you?”
The man chuckled. “Funny you should phrase it that way.” He pulled a stool over from the bar and sat, his coat enveloping the seat so it made it seem even more like he was floating in midair. “You can call me Lou.”
“Well, Lou, whatcha selling?” Seth asked, reaching for the second bottle. Michael got there first. He needed a drink.
“Your every desire,” Lou answered, teeth gleaming as he smiled, the gesture peeling back his cheeks as if they might split.
“I gotta tell ya, Lou,” Sunny said, “I’ve got a wicked imagination. I’m not sure you can keep up.”
Wex chuckled and Michael saw Seth shift his gaze to the drummer, his niggling worry morphing into something more familiar. Lust.
Michael swallowed his own laugh. Same ol’ shit.
“Seriously though,” Michael said, turning back to the man, “what do you want?”
“This isn’t about what I want, Michael. This is about what you want.” He motioned to the empty club. “Is this what you envisioned? Playing to the staff and a couple of drunks who wandered in off the street? Hauling your gear to a different dump every weekend to walk away without enough money to even pay for your gas?” His gaze rested on Michael. “This isn’t truly the life you want, is it?”
“Fuck no!” Wex sucked down more Jack and slammed the bottle on the table. “Fuck. No.”
“Then here’s your opportunity to do something about it.”
“You’re telling us you can make us stars?” Sunny asked.
“The biggest. Forget about Sabbath, Ozzy, Priest. You want to be the gods of metal, I can make that happen.”
Seth laughed and dropped to a seat beside Sunny. She grunted and eased over to give him room, avoiding the arm he tried to slip over her shoulder.
“So what, you just snap your fingers and we’re rocking stadiums?” Seth shook his head.
Lou did exactly that—snapped his fingers—and the bartender appeared out the gloom and dropped a half-dozen bundles of cash on the table alongside a long, wavy silver knife. Everyone’s eyes shifted to the money and Michael could see the crisp hundreds gleaming in the dim light. He’d never seen so much cash.
“Nothing so dramatic,” Lou said, his grin threatening to stab his eyes. “I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Famous. You can have everything you ever wanted.”
“This is some Faustian shit, man.” Wex snorted. “And if we’re to believe any of it, what the fuck do you get out of it all?”
Lou picked up the knife and slid the blade across his palm, crimson welling in the shallow wound. “Just a little blood.”
Damaged Page 8
