Damaged

by Timothy W. Long

Wex snapped out of his reverie as he cruised past Del Mar Heights. He had no destination in mind. He just wanted to get out and drive his Ferrari 458 Spider and enjoy the sound of 572 horses. The window was down to get a breeze. The clouds had rolled in early but were burning off, leaving the coast around seventy-five degrees. Another day in paradise and him living the dream. This was what it was all about, right?

  Or was it about going on the road and playing for millions of people. They were scheduled for a European festival tour next year and stood to make millions. The largest venue promised at least 200,000 fans. On stage, guitar in hand, thousands of watts hurling crunchy guitar chords, it was better than sex. Nothing said giant fucking hard on like standing in front of that many people while they screamed your name.

  He’d trade it all in if he could get out of this fucking contract.

  Or would he? Wex knew that he could go back to his old life. Living out of a van or on whoever would spare a sofa. Life hadn’t been so bad when they had all crashed at Michael’s apartment, right after signing the deal.

  Money hadn’t exactly flowed in overnight, but they had seriously elevated their lifestyles. Buying a loaf of bread and some packaged ham no longer made them scramble for pennies.

  They ate out a lot more, mainly fast food. Sitting in a McDonalds, ordering a large French fry, instead of sharing a small, was a big upgrade. He remembered a night when he had dug in his pocket, came up with a few bucks, and treated the rest of the band to apple pies.

  Wex could pretend like playing shitty bars for fifty bucks was cool. But even when they played surprise shows at tiny venues, he knew the staff hated their jobs. Security wading into a pit to toss assholes out. Bartenders yelling at drunks over the music while they struggled to keep everyone in well drinks. The whole damn thing had been depressing as hell.

  Thinking of the old days, he made a run through a McDonalds and bought a quarter pounder with cheese. He shouldn’t be eating this shit. He should be eating whole foods, something that Payton preached. He had actually started to feel better now that they ate organic meats and vegetables. One thing he missed was greasy food. He had lived on burgers and fries for years.

  The girl at the drive through, couldn’t have been more than seventeen, stared at him like he was a movie star. Her hands actually shook when she handed him his bag of food. He had smiled at her and even tossed her a twenty.

  “You’re like on TV or something, right?”

  “Something like that. Horns up,” he said, offering her the metal salute with index and pinky finger up, then screamed out of the parking lot.

  He dug out the burger and managed to slop a little ketchup on his black T-shirt. Wex slowed and dug the dollop off with his finger and sucked it clean. The burger was heaven but he knew he’d have horrible gas for the rest of the day.

  Wex slowed a few times and admired the city. It didn’t hurt that when he breezed through intersections people recognized him and called his name. He pulled up to a light and ended up taking a selfie with an older couple while their kids stood on the side of sidewalk, rolling their eyes. He quickly tossed the empty burger container in the bag, crumpled it up, and tossed it on the passenger side floor.

  “I love your music. There’s something so visceral about it. I know you guys aren’t evil or anything. Just part of the act, yeah?” the man said.

  He was dressed in khaki shorts and sported a bright red T-shirt with some corporate logo front and center. His wife was cute and rocked a little skirt that flapped in the breeze. Wex knew for a fact he could whisper a few words in her ear and she would go back to his place and fuck his brains out. She’d have a story to tell into her fifties.

  Wex kept his dick in his pants and grinned at the man. “Dude, we’re evil as fuck. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  Then he roared away from the light and took a hard right at the next intersection. He made one more pass at the family so he could scope out the girl’s legs again. When she met his eye he stuck his tongue out and flapped it up and down.

  Her husband actually lifted his hand to flip Wex off, then thought better of it and turned the motion into a half wave.

  Wex had gotten out to clear his head. He needed to make a call and he hated to do it.

  But things were not normal and there was only one person he could talk to about it.

  Wex scrolled through his phone contacts and hovered his finger over one. He kept one eye on the road and contemplated clicking the icon. There was a chance his old friend wouldn’t even answer.

  He went over a speed bump as he coasted into an electronics superstore and accidentally hit the icon. The phone started to ring. Fuck.

  He could hang up but that would look lame as hell.

  Wex found a parking spot fifty feet from the store and rolled up the windows.

  The phone rang three more times and just as he was about to give up a voice answered.

  “Hey,” Michael said.

  “Hey, man,” Wex said then sat through an uncomfortable silence.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dude. I got a problem,” Wex said.

  “Go to urgent care and get a shot,” Michael said.

  Wex actually laughed. “There’s that sense of humor.”

  “What do you want, Wex?”

  A kid wandered past his car, looked inside, and then gave Wex the devil horns before going into the store.

  “I got an envelope.”

  “Yeah. Saw it on the Skype chat the other day.”

  “No. I got a different one.”

  Michael went silent for a few seconds.

  “You still there?” Wex asked.

  “Are you sure it’s from you know who?”

  “Who the hell else would it be from?” Wes said in exasperation. “Payton asked me about it. I blew her off.”

  “Who?”

  “Girl who’s living with me. Cute little thing,” Wex said with a half grin.

  “That’s great that you have a plaything of the month,” Michael said.

  “Hey. I like Payton,” Wex protested.

  A little Nissan pulled into the space next to him, a little too close for Wex’s comfort. If they hit his car, he was going to beat the shit out of the driver. He rolled down the passenger side window and leaned over. As the other car’s door opened Wex yelled. “You bump my car and I’ll set yours on fire.”

  The woman who started to get out, a grandmotherly type, looked Wex in the eye. She got back in her car without a word and backed out of the parking space. Then she drove away.

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked.

  “Nothing. Just some granny about to ding my 458.”

  “Set her car on fire?”

  “Dude. I’m Damaged. Attitude.”

  “We’re damaged,” Michael muttered. “In a lot of ways.”

  “Truth,” Wex said. “I’ll email you guys in a day or two about the studio time.”

  “Cool, we’ll get some caviar and shit up there,” Michael said.

  “Haha. Keep that fancy shit to yourself. I’ll live on fast food and take out,” Wex said.

  There was no way he was going to let Michael in on the fact that he was running out of cash at an alarming rate. He shouldn’t even be at an electronics store but he wanted a new and faster laptop. His was almost a year old. He always had credit cards even if half of those were maxed out. It would be cool soon. New album. New tour. He’d be rolling in dough before he knew it.

  “So this letter?”

  “Yeah. The letter.”

  “What was in it?”

  Wex studied the steering wheel. Leather wrapped and black. Everything about this car was top quality. The best money could buy…

  The letter. What had been in it? He couldn’t remember to save his life.

  “It’s nothing, man. Never mind,” Wex mumbled.

  “Did you get a fucking letter, Wex?”

  “Nah, man. Just fucking around with you,” Wex said.

  What’s going on with
you man?”

  “I gotta go. I’ll send word about band meeting,” Wex said.

  “Whatever, Wex. Later,” Michael responded and clicked off.

  Wex wore a pair of sunglasses and a Pabst Blue Ribbon ball cap. He picked out the most expensive laptop at the store and had the clerk ring him up. She kept looking at him like she was trying to remember an old friend but was polite enough not to ask him anything about it. Instead, she stuck to the business at hand.

  “Did you want the protection on the laptop? Two years is only a hundred and nineteen dollars. A top of the line piece of hardware like this needs it,” she said.

  “Yeah. Whatever,” he said and handed over a credit card.

  She ran it, her blue eyes under thick black bangs, still focused on his face.

  “It didn’t work. Let me run it again,” she said and zipped the card through the magnetic reader.

  Wex nodded and studied his phone. Payton had texted him a naughty picture a few days ago. She was laying in his bed and had her shirt pulled up so he could see the underside of her boobs. She had her tongue stuck out and one hand ran down into her shorts.

  Wish you were here, the text read.

  Now she was being cold and he still didn’t know what in the hell had happened last night. They got into some kinky shit, but he wouldn’t seriously hurt her or the other girl. Must have been too much alcohol. She wasn’t remembering things clearly.

  When he got out of here, he’d stop at a jewelry store and pick her up something. That always made her smile.

  “Sorry. I ran it three times,” she handed the card back.

  “Here, try this one.” Wex offered her his American Express.

  She handed it back after three tries.

  “Maybe it’s our equipment. We can try another machine,” she said.

  He handed her a MasterCard and was disappointed when it didn’t go through.

  “Try splitting it between the cards,” he said.

  She half-smiled and then ran them. After another minute, she printed the receipt. She studied his name on one of the cards and shook her head.

  “Wait. I thought so. You’re an actor, right? I saw you on that new zombie movie.”

  “No I’m not a fucking actor,” he said in frustration and grabbed the laptop box off the counter, snatching the receipt out of her hand.

  “Sorry,” she said, but he was already headed toward the door.

  His phone buzzed with another text message. He checked and saw Payton’s name.

  He waited until he was back inside the Ferrari before he opened the picture. What was she up to this time?

  Wex clicked on the message as he started the car. Wex. Come home. Something horrible happened.

  What’s wrong?

  I can’t even.

  Baby. What is it?

  The next message contained an image. Wex stared at the screen for a full five seconds before he opened the car door and choked up the quarter pounder he’d eaten a half hour ago. It splattered onto the side of is car. He sucked in a deep breath and then fought down his nausea. Wex grabbed his soda cup, sucked up a mouthful, and then spat out the remains of his puke.

  He roared out of the parking lot and headed straight home.

  12

  Shroud of False

  Michael

  Bruno’s Guitars was an old shop that had been recently renovated. When Michael was a teenager, he used to stop in to drool over the latest Les Pauls. He had made friends with the owner, and even talked Bruno himself into giving him guitar lessons. That had gone on for a few years until Michael had surpassed his teacher. It wasn’t a big deal to Bruno. He was competent with the basics but when Michael got into the metal scene it was necessary for him to study classical music. He’d developed his sweeping arpeggios quickly, before moving into sweep scales and skipping strings during runs.

  Michael had begun to hang out with other bands when he was seventeen and got a real lesson in how to play metal. It was nothing against Bruno at all. Bruno always treated Michael with respect and encouraged him to seek out other instructors.

  Bruno had been in a band in the 60s that had made a few waves. But psychedelics had gotten the best of him and he’d gone into seclusion for years. When he returned, he was a different man, or so Bruno had told Michael over drinks one night. He’d found a that the spirit of the earth spoke to him. He swore he was able to touch a guitar and find it’s flaws.

  To this day, Michael took all of his axes to Bruno before he took them on tour. Today, he had been scheduled to do an in store appearance to promote a new line of Schecter’s he was endorsing. The latest, the DMG 17, was a sweet piece that featured EMG active humbuckers, a sweet Floyd Rose tremolo system, and was constructed of Mahogany. When Michael had struck the deal, he’d had the trademark Damaged pentagram engraved on the back of each axe. The corporate types had been thrilled to include the symbol. Little did they know how much power it actually carried into the world.

  He entered the back of the building and was treated like a king. Bruno himself was waiting in a room for Michael and set him up with sparkling water, a fruit bowl, and some SPAM. Michael had laughed at the sight of the canned meat having been sliced into wafer thin guitars and laid out on a plate over a bowl of ice. Back in the day, Michael didn’t have a dime to his name but Bruno, through some contest he had won years before, had cases of SPAM and told Michael to help himself.

  Michael hugged his old friend and they sat and shot the shit for a half hour while the line built up outside the shop.

  Bruno was portly, to put it nicely. He sort of looked like Danny DeVito on a good day. Other days, he appeared like a grumpy band manager who was willing to kick ass if anyone looked at him wrong. Bruno had a huge shock of puffy white hair and a beard to match. His eyes were closely etched together and he had one thick unibrow that was darker than the hair on his head.

  He wore a Damaged shirt from the last tour. It was brand new and had probably been ordered from eBay a few days before the appearance. Michael appreciated that his folk music loving old friend would bother with a Damaged shirt at all.

  “I got fifteen of those fancy new axes out on the floor. I’m betting they sell out today. You want a cut of the profits? Say the word.”

  “Bruno. You can’t pay me for this. If it weren’t for you I never would have gotten decent on the guitar. The stuff you taught me as a kid was priceless.”

  “I was a shit instructor but it’s nice of you to say,” Bruno said.

  “You taught me how to play Bridge over Trouble Water. I still play that when I’m practicing with a new acoustic, man.”

  “Don’t tell those guys out there you play fucking Simon and Garfunkel. They’ll burn this place to the ground. Bunch of pansy-ass metal heads.”

  “Hey, those pansy-asses keep me in nice cars,” Michael chuckled.

  “Yeah and pussy. You always got a ton of pussy even when you were a nobody.”

  “I’m a devoted man now, Bruno. You’ve met my wife.”

  “Giselle’s the best. Better than you deserve,” Bruno said. “She’s going to leave you for a Brad Pitt pretty boy one of these days.”

  “And give up all of this?” Michael pointed at his tall skinny frame.

  Michael missed Bruno and wondered why he didn’t call his old friend more often. No one gave Michael shit the way Bruno did.

  “Just saying, brother. If you want ten percent, it’s yours,” Bruno said as he puffed around the room.

  Bruno wasn’t intimidated by anyone. Michael had once asked him why. Bruno had said, “Son, once you’ve sat in a room, smoking Sensimilla with Led Zeppelin, you’ve already met the gods.” Which only got Michael thinking about what kind of deal they had signed. Since Zeppelin had broken up in 1980, they had stopped making music. Would Damaged ever be able to do the same thing?

  “How’s the asthma?”

  “Not bad. It’s the COPD that’s going to kill me,” Bruno said and lit up a filterless Camel.

  M
ichael waved smoke out of his face. “Really?”

  “What. I’ve had this for over a year and I’m still alive and kicking. Gonna take more than a little lung disease to kill old Bruno.”

  Michael laughed and shook his head. They chatted for a few more minutes, then Bruno left him to warm up.

  Michael tore through a blistering solo and hit the tremolo to show off the action. At least a hundred fans had packed the store and heads nodded to the music. The showroom wasn’t any larger than a big practice space, but Bruno had done a good job of organizing it for the appearance. He had even constructed a small stage to the right of the repair shop so Michael would be seen by everyone in the room.

  Bruno had even brought in a small set of lights to make it look like a show. Half of the overhead florescence’s were turned off just before Michael was introduced. He took to the little stage to ear-numbing clapping and shouts of, “FUCKING DAMAGED!”

  It smelled like a concert hall. As much as Michael loved metal music, the atmosphere, the headbanging, it was a stretch to say that most Damaged super fans bathed on a regular basis.

  He had talked up Bruno’s shop, the new line of guitars, and avoided the subject that was probably on everyone’s mind. When would a new Damaged appear?

  Michael went into a little bit about why he’d chosen Schecter for his new line. How he had a long running relationship with them. He showed off the newest model and was met with a round of applause. While this was not the guitar he’d play on stage, it was still pricey at a little over fifteen hundred dollars.

  Michael would have a similar model, but with a lot of upgrades.

  While he played, he kept glancing out at the kids in the shop. Most were into the music, some even had their eyes closed as their heads bobbed. One man, in the back row, was quiet and kept his eyes glued to Michael. He had a long mane of jet black hair. The bangs on the left side of his face covered one of his eyes. He was pale skinned and creases rode his face like an interstate road map.

  Michael hit a pedal and went without distortion for an arpeggio piece he had worked out a few weeks ago.