Without any other options, Kris went and sat down across from him.
“You shouldn’t even be here,” Terry said. “But when I heard you in the hotel room saying you had a new Troglodyte, that gave me this brainstorm. See, there’s two ways this can go, Kris. The first way, you’re a rock-and-roll suicide, a sad, washed-up, bitter old has-been, hanging from her showerhead, another answer to a trivia quiz. But when I realized you’re still writing—good job keeping that secret, by the way—when I realized that, I mean, look, the past is the past. We’re better together than we are apart. Write for me.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kris said, so genuinely taken aback that it just popped out.
“Do you know what it’s like not to be able to make anything new?” Terry asked, in the desperate tone of a junkie hard up for a fix. “Do you know what it’s like to have nothing but sand inside your head? To create something you have to dream it first, but Black Iron Mountain ate my dreams. I’ve parceled my soul out, and I made them pay for it, and I got so much in return, but that’s the problem with selling something: eventually it’s all gone. Why do you think I released a greatest hits album? Why do you think 9 Circles bombed so hard? Why do you think I’m retiring? I pay a guy whose only job is to listen to what I lay down these days and tell me who I ripped off.
“I’m dry, Kris, and I still haven’t gotten the one thing that matters. I don’t even want the money anymore. If the money mattered, we’d all still be going on about Liberace. He had more hits than me, but now he’s a punch line. I’ve got all the money in the world and it doesn’t mean a thing because I’m not a legend.”
Kris felt the spit in her mouth go dry.
“People are dead,” Kris said. “People we know. Just so you can be famous?”
“Legendary,” Terry said. “There’s a difference, and you know it. Legendary leaves a mark, it creates a myth that lasts forever. Don’t you dare make this sound small. It’s what you wanted your entire life, too.”
He was right, and for the first time since contract night, Kris could see the future. A house. Respect. A cell phone bill that always got paid. Playing in a studio again.
“They lied to me,” Terry said. “Back in ’98 when I went to LA with Rob and learned what Black Iron Mountain could do, they demanded one soul to make me a star, and I gave them four. I thought you guys would be happy with the deal, I thought we’d keep playing together, but you went and fucked it all up. So, I adapted. But they kept wanting more and more and more.
“When I went dry, I asked them what else I could give them, and they laughed. Or I think they laughed. It’s hard to tell. But I kept asking, and finally Black Iron Mountain told me they’d give me my dreams back if I got them more souls. A lot more. All at once. And so I did the farewell concerts, and all those kids who signed up for tickets, when the show was over, when they all went home, they fell asleep, and the Special Ones ate for days.”
“How can you do this to us?” Kris asked. “Tuck, Scottie, me, all these people?”
“I’m where I am because I’m willing to do what no one else will,” Terry said. “It’s not like anyone misses their souls. And it doesn’t matter because they lied!”
He smacked the tabletop with the flat of his hand.
“I was supposed to be singing new material tonight,” he said. “I did what Black Iron Mountain asked, and they gave me nothing. Nothing! So now I’m doing this, I’m giving them even more—hundreds of thousands of souls, all tonight—and this time they have to give me what I want.
“But when you started talking in that hotel room I realized that you weren’t a problem to be solved, you were a sign. You came when I needed you, like you always used to. Troglodyte freaks them out. They didn’t make it. They can’t control it. They don’t understand it. And it’s about them. Give me the new one and I’ll finally have some leverage. We can ask for anything we want. This is what we dreamed about back in your basement when we were kids. It’s a win-win.”
“Not for JD,” Kris said. “Not for Scottie.”
“This is the omelette,” Terry said. “They were the eggs. Black Iron Mountain keeps getting hungrier and hungrier, they keep pushing me for more, and all they give me in return is money! But you wrote Troglodyte. You made it out here despite everything they did. There’s something that doesn’t fit in about you. And if you’re writing for me, I finally have a weapon. If they’re lying to me again, I can finally push them back.”
He had the same high-pitched whine in his voice he always got when he didn’t understand why everyone wasn’t giving him his way.
“You’re out of your mind,” Kris said.
“What is your problem?” Terry asked, eyes wide. “There’s no heroic fight here, no war between good and evil. The war is over. They won. We’re just hiding in the ruins and trying to survive. Let me protect you.”
“I want my soul back,” Kris said.
That wiped the smile off his face. He leaned forward.
“Jesus Christ, Kris,” he said. “We’re friends. When Troglodyte is around reality gets crunchy around the edges. Things happen that they don’t like. You and I, we’re on the same team.”
“You sold Scottie’s soul,” she said. “You sold Tuck’s soul. I don’t give a shit about Bill, he’s an asshole, but you sold my soul. And it wasn’t yours to sell. I want it back.”
Ice shifted and settled in the cooler behind the bar. Terry looked embarrassed. He looked away.
“That’s not how it works, Kris,” he said. “It’s gone.”
She’d made her way out here in the unspoken hope that the deal could be reversed. That hole in the center of her world, the one that gobbled up all the joy, all the hope, that sucked in all the light, that kept her poor and crushed her down, she’d dreamed that maybe she could finally fill it, that seeing Terry could finally heal the wound. But now she knew he wasn’t lying and in an instant, her world came undone, and all her anger came rushing back.
Kris stood and picked up her chair and raised it over her head to bring down on Terry’s face, to wipe that expression of pity off it, but he looked the same as he used to, and they were in the Sporting House and it felt like years ago and suddenly she felt stupid and overdramatic, the one still screaming when the argument was done. So she turned and hurled the chair across the Sporting House, over the bar, sent it crashing into the mirror. The sound of exploding liquor bottles was a small satisfaction, but it was something.
“You sell-out motherfucker!” Kris shouted. “You took what I had and used it to build your kingdom of bullshit. You’re the reason everything in this world feels so secondhand and shitty, not me. There’s a hole in the center of the world, Terry, and it’s you.”
Quietly, Terry got up and walked over to the bar and surveyed the damage. Then he reached behind it and pulled out a clear plastic bottle. He cracked the seal and took a long pull. Kris’s legs gave out and she dropped into one of the chairs.
“Give me my life back,” she said, and her voice cracked.
Terry took another long gulp from his bottle of Pedialyte, and wiped his mouth. Then he put on his salesman’s voice, thick and slow with sincerity.
“It went to a good cause,” he said. “Look at what I’ve built: the world’s biggest concert, the Koffin brand, Shroud, this whole empire, and in some small way, you helped. And now we’re so close. I just need that album so I can make Black Iron Mountain give me what I need to make people remember this forever.”
“You took my music,” Kris said. “You stole our lives. You killed Scottie and JD. I’ll keep fighting you, I’ll fight them, I’ll—”
Terry talked over her.
“It’s over, Kris. There’s no one left to fight.”
“We’ll see about that,” Kris said. “I can pick a fight in an empty fucking elevator.” Kris paused. “ ‘No one left to fight.’ Fuck you.”
> “I can protect you, Kris,” Terry said, full-on wheedling now. “All I need is the album. I need to know if you really have it.”
“It doesn’t exist,” Rob said from behind Kris. “It’s just more of her bullshit. That’s her whole life, right? One big line of BS.”
Terry’s shoulders slumped.
“Can I not get any privacy even in my own bar?” he asked.
Rob had slipped in the door at some point while they were arguing and he stood there, hands in his back pockets, grinning, hair perfect, looking exactly the same as he did when Kris signed her contract, way back in 1998.
“There’s a face I never thought I’d see again,” Rob said to Kris, walking over to their table. “Sorry you wasted so much effort getting here.”
“I’ve been hearing you on the radio,” Kris said. “A manipulative fuck, right down to the end.”
Rob raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“The end?” he asked. “What’s ending? I’m not aware of anything ending tonight, except you.”
“I’m working with Terry,” she said, and that wiped the smug smile off his face. “I wrote a new album for him.”
Terry looked up in surprise and Kris felt the power she had. The escape she offered him from Black Iron Mountain was something he wanted more than anything. Rob carefully kept his reaction neutral.
“You need to get ready,” he told Terry. “It’s almost eight, and you have to head over to yoga, do your warm-ups, I’d love it if you had some meditation time, then you’re getting a massage, and you need to be backstage by nine thirty.”
Terry reached over and put his hand on Kris’s arm.
“Play it now,” he said.
“You actually believe her?” Rob asked.
Terry ignored him.
“It’s now or never, Kris,” he said.
Rob pulled out a chair and dropped down, slapped his palms on his thighs.
“All right,” he said. “I raise and I call. If you’re really going to do this, let’s hear it. Show us what you got, or shut up.”
No more excuses. Kris needed to play. She stood, grabbed a heavy bar stool by the seat, and dragged it to the stage where the little Hummingbird glowed golden on its stand. She hated acoustic guitars—they reminded her of Mr. McNutt, her first teacher back in Gurner.
But she picked it up now, amazed at how light it felt in her hand, and sat on the stool. Terry shot Rob a look, and the two men watched her, both of them hiding how scared, how eager, how needy they were. It wasn’t just Terry, either. Rob wanted it too. He didn’t believe her, but he wanted what she was about to play so bad that his naked hunger overcame his doubts and charged the air with electricity.
Kris strummed an open chord, and Terry practically leapt out of his shoes, then settled down when he realized she was just warming up. After a moment, Kris stopped, took a breath, closed her eyes, and she prayed. She prayed to Troglodyte, to holy coincidence, to Viking magic, to anything and everything that was the opposite of Black Iron Mountain. She prayed for inspiration. She emptied her mind and waited to be told what to do.
“We really have to get—” Rob began.
“Sssh!” Terry slapped at him with one hand.
Kris sat there, guitar balanced on her thigh, and did nothing. Terry looked at her, and instead of looking away, she met his gaze, and she realized that this was it. She didn’t have to hide anymore. She let him see it all in her eyes: his betrayal, the years of fear she’d lived, watching her best friend kill himself, hiding in the closet while the UPS men murdered Scottie’s family, the long mindless months of Well in the Woods, the hunger of those weeks on the road. She let him see it all. And she refused to play. After a minute, he shook his head, looking like he wanted to say something, then he paused, holding his words in his mouth, looked at Rob, then at Kris, then he shrugged.
“I tried,” he said, and turned and walked to the door.
“I knew it,” Rob said. “Just more sad little lies.”
Kris stood up.
“I’m leaving, too,” she said.
Terry stopped with one hand on the door handle.
“Sorry, Kris,” he said without turning around.
“You’re ditching me?” Kris asked. “Again?”
Terry turned to face her.
“I always tried to protect you from yourself,” he said, and put on his sunglasses. She hated him for timing the move so perfectly. “But your decisions have consequences.”
Then he pushed out into the bright backstage hall and left Kris alone with Black Iron Mountain.
(LAS VEGAS, NV)—Fires are burning, people are walking off the job, and police are saying the situation is “extremely critical” at Hellstock 2019, the music festival one hour north of Las Vegas. Headlined by Terry Hunt, lead singer for the heavy metal supergroup Koffin, Hellstock has drawn almost half a million people to this quiet desert community. Nevada State Police are on hand, but desperately outnumbered by festivalgoers, a situation that was made even more dangerous when almost two thousand volunteer security workers walked off the job Friday night. Looting, a lack of water, and a disregard for crowd-control barriers have created a situation best described as volatile…
—WABC News Radio
September 7, 2019
he moment was undermined a second later when a maid in a green Polo shirt and smock came in, plastic bucket of supplies in one hand. She stopped when she saw Kris and Rob.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I’ll come back later.”
“No,” Rob said, waving her in. “Go ahead.”
The door closed behind her and the Sporting House was cool and dark again. The only sound was the gentle tinkling of broken glass as the maid swept up behind the bar.
“Do you want to know something funny?” Rob said. “We expected it’d be you who came to us first.”
Every tendon in Kris’s body was stretched to the breaking point, every muscle vibrated, her shoulder ached, her mouth felt dry. She was a bullet, fired from a gun, ready to smash through Rob’s perfect face, tired of all this dancing around.
“Who the fuck are you?” she snapped.
The maid stopped sweeping for a moment and looked over. Rob shrugged and gave her a goofy grin. Women, his expression said. The maid went back to sweeping. Rob perched on the edge of a bar stool like he was posing for a photo.
“Who do you want me to be, Kris?” he asked. “Should my name be Louis Siffer? Mr. Beezle Bub? Did you ever see that movie where the vampire is named Dr. Acula? Genius.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Kris said.
“I’m the same guy you’ve always known,” Rob said. “The one who wants what’s best for you. The one who paid for Troglodyte out of his own pocket because he believed in your sound. The one who drew up a pretty good contract for all of you. One that, and I feel rude pointing this out, but one that you messed up because you operated a motor vehicle under the influence.”
“This isn’t my fault!” Kris shouted.
The maid paused again, Rob gave her a grin, and she went back to sweeping.
“Volume, dude,” Rob said. “Look, I don’t mean to be confrontational, but you are where you are because of one person: Kris Pulaski.”
“We are where we are because you sold our souls to those things, whatever the fuck they are.”
Rob laughed and shook his head.
“I know, right?” he said. “What are they? What is Black Iron Mountain? You’d think that if anyone would know I would, but you’ve got me. I am literally at a loss. I couldn’t even describe them to you. I’ve caught glimpses, here and there, over the years, but I make sure I’m nowhere near when they come creeping out of their corners.” He gave a cartoonish shudder. “I don’t even like thinking about it.”
“Then help me,” Kris said.
“All I’ve ever done is h
elp you,” Rob said. “But right now, there are bigger considerations. Right now, everything is riding on Terry.”
“What does he want?” Kris asked.
“What he wants doesn’t matter,” Rob said. “It’s what they want. And you want to know something funny? We don’t know what they want. But they want. The only language we have in common is commerce, exchange, you trade this for that. We don’t even understand their body language. I’ve always wanted to get a linguist in there, record the noises they make, see if they could be analyzed. I outsourced that to one of my old professors at Reed about nine years ago. I still feel guilty about what happened to his family. But there are no mistakes, only lessons. Onwards and upwards.”
“You sold us out to those things,” Kris said.
“Except for you, I don’t see anyone complaining,” Rob said. “I mean, sure, occasionally we ask a bit more of someone like Scottie, and sometimes they just can’t handle the responsibility and they go a little off the rails. But in general, everyone watches TV, argues over politics, tweets about their favorite wrestlers, watches football, goes to superhero movies, eats at Chipotle, enjoys the great taste of light beer. From time to time the hole inside of them gets a little too big and you get a dead girlfriend, or someone marches into work one day with a gun, but that’s a small price to pay for a neat, orderly world.”
“Not anymore,” Kris said. “I’m stopping this.”
“How?” Rob asked. “The only thing you’re going to do is head back to Bill’s. You’ll receive a small surgical procedure and then none of this will have happened. You’ll be on Paxator and back at that Best Western in no time, and all of this will be a hazy dream. It’s the least I can do, for old times’ sake. Although, if you really want, you can stick with the rock-and-roll suicide in a discount hotel. We held your room.”
Kris looked at the maid for help, to see if she heard, but the maid was tying up the black plastic garbage bag full of broken glass and hauling it to the back.
“Just one more dead body on Terry’s road to success,” Kris said, trying to sound cynical, but only sounding scared.
We Sold Our Souls Page 22
