Our 'Rock 'n Roll Fantasy' begins:
Tires screeched as the sleek, black Corvette tore through the darkness blanketing the narrow two-lane road. The vast, isolated countryside was cloaked in a light fog as the vehicle rapidly descended down a steep, curvy mountainside.
The man behind the wheel steered with his knees, his arms and hands otherwise occupied. He titled his head back and took a quick gulp from the half empty bottle of Jim Beam clutched in his right hand, while using the left to gently stroke the hair of the girl leaning over his crotch. He smiled broadly, revealing gold plated front teeth with the initials “BB” stenciled in black. His bloodshot eyes darted periodically from the winding roadway back to the girls wildly bobbing head at his groin.
“Yeah, that’s it Babe. Knew ya had that special carnal talent the second I spotted ya in the crowd. Tell me again how I’m the sexiest drummer in rock and roll. Whoops, sorry,” he paused, grinning devilishly, “ain’t at all polite to speak with your mouth full. Carry on.”
He could hear the girl’s muffled groans between sporadic slurping noises, a stout stench of alcoholic beverage rising from his lap.
“Hey doll…just don’t barf on my package, dig? Had a chick do that once after a show in Philly. Disgustin’…” he frowned before taking still another lengthy swig.
The ‘Vette’s engine whined its disapproval while swerving through a sharp, U-turn like curve at close to sixty miles per hour, the rear end ascending ever-so-slightly before settling back down onto the black top. The mountainside loomed like a mammoth cocoon as their descent grew steeper and the curves more frequent.
“Sheee-iiiit, almost flipped ‘er that time,” he blurted, patting the dashboard with the bottom of the whiskey bottle while gripping the wheel loosely with the pinky of his right hand.
“Whoa, son. Just keep her in the road ‘til I get down to Parker’s cabin. The man is supposed to have some prime weed and three more lucky ladies willing and eager for me to dip the golden wick.”
The girl raised herself into a sitting position on the passenger’s side and frowned, wiping her mouth with an upturned shirtsleeve.
Despite the pancake makeup glued to her pudgy cheekbones, she appeared woefully underage in the light of the dashboard.
“Three more girls? Like, you mean I gotta share you with some other bitches? I…I thought it was just, like, you and me, Bomber.”
He had taken in a fresh mouthful of Beam a moment earlier and laughed loud and hard, spitting most of it onto the inside of the windshield.
“Damn, girl…don’t be so naive. The Bomber is waaayy too much man for a single groupie, dig?”
His laughter subsided only with the sobering realization that the whiskey upheaval had completely blurred the windshield. Scowling, he tossed the bottle out the drivers’ window with an angry grunt. They were nearing another curve, a rocky hill protruding over the road just as the white lines disappeared, giving the illusion of the road itself dead ending into the approaching boulders.
“Sommmm….bitch. Couldn’t see a muddy elephant in a snow bank. Hey babe, I got a rag in the back seat somewhere. Dig it out, will ya?”
The girl sighed, obviously depressed that her plans for a solo with her rock hero had been derailed somewhat, and leaned back into the back seat to begin searching.
Just as they reached the crest of the curve, the glare of oncoming lights pierced the spattered glass like twin lightning bolts.
With a decidedly feminine yelp, he realized a moment too late there was no time to either get back into his lane or escape to the shoulder. The girl looked around just in time to see the letters ‘M…A…C…K’ fill the clean side of the windshield.
With a vicious jerk of the wheel, Bomber Wilson attempted to cut hard to the right to avoid impact, only to watch helplessly as the skidding ‘Vette spun sideways and directly into the grille of the two-ton truck.
Both driver and passenger managed but a garbled scream just before impact.
A blackness thicker than the darkest of nights engulfed him. He felt as if he were floating in a veritable cloud of fog, unable to command or control his bodily movements. His only wish were that his hands had been spared any major damage; the hands that were his lone meal ticket. He wouldn’t mind losing a leg, an eye, or heaven forbid even a testicle if fate dictated. The hands and attached digits, however, were the lifelines he could ill afford to lose.
He awoke with a start, knocking over a frosty glass mug sitting on the bar in front of him. The ice rolled onto his lap and then slid to the tiled floor. The smell of vodka and orange juice hit his nostrils like a stiff jab, and his eyes were suddenly very open and acutely aware.
A bearded, chubby man with a raspy, faintly familiar voice greeted him from across the bar, sporting a wide, toothy grin.
“Not to worry, man, happens to all upon arrival,” the man quipped with a wink, “allow me to pour you a fresh one, on the house.”
The barkeep then lined up two shots of tequila and a foaming draft beer at the elbows of the man, whose eyes were still adjusting to the surrounding sights and sounds.
“Bomber Wilson, right? Drummer for the Blood Brothers?”
The man knocked back both tequilas before shooting the barkeep a quizzical glance.
“You got it, Ace. What the hell was in those shot glasses anyhow? Caught a scent of tequila, but I didn’t taste a damn thing.”
He then sipped tentatively from the beer glass before wincing in disgust.
“Shit, dude…tap water has more flavor. What’s the gag?”
The bearded man laughed hardily, his ample gut quivering in delight.
“No taste here, Bomber. Against regulations, ya understand. On the bright side, you can guzzle all ya want without ever worrying about a hangover.”
Wilson stared hard and long at the tubby, perpetually jovial man, unable to shake the vibe of familiarity. The raspy voice and meticulously trimmed, pitch-black beard reminding him of a framed photo he’d once viewed, perhaps in a former producer’s office or mounted on a recording studio wall. The vagueness of the recollection chewed into his brain like a burrowing parasite.
“Man, who are you….and more to the point, where the hell am I? Last I remember…” he paused, his expression a blank slate; his mouth hanging agape as his lips began to quiver.
The bartender leaned over the bar and whispered through teeth so unnaturally white they appeared recently bleached.
“You won’t be able to recall it, Bomb. Don’t sweat it though. The King will explain the whole shebang to ya soon. For now, just chill and enjoy the perks. Check out the sights while ya can. Your time here in paradise is limited, ya know.”
Leaning back with a strained sigh, Wilson calmly sipped his beer and grimaced. Though the bubbling brew held the distinctive smell of hops and barley, any semblance of actual flavor was completely nonexistent. Scanning the murky room with inexplicable caution, he was unable to draw a clear bead on any of the shadowy figures lurking about. Flinching at the sudden intrusion of what sounded like a baying wolf at his back, he quickly whirled about to see the area behind the bar completely deserted save open cabinets filled with dust-covered empty glasses and assorted whisky bottles cocooned in cobwebs.
The club’s smoke-filled interior resembled countless others he and the band had frequented through the years, most notably during their early years. The stone walls held various abstract paintings that looked as if someone had spilled various buckets of paint onto canvas and had attempted to wipe them clean, only to give up and subsequently peg them ‘art’. The place might have held two hundred bodies on a busy night, two-fifty at the most. The minuscule stage had a marble backdrop of some kind. Overall, it reminded him of a tiny dive the band had played semi-regular in St Louis before hitting it big.
Wilson spotted an empty table in the rear and stumbled towards it, his legs visibly shaky. Frowning, he noted that each table he passed held no more than one customer. Only a few tables were totally vacant, but of the twenty or so being used, no more than one body took up space. He couldn’t help but be reminded of school children strategically separated during testing to prevent cheating. The room was still far too gloomy for Wilson to clearly make out the faces of those he passed on his way to the nearest empty table, and he practically collapsed onto a high-back chair upon arrival.
Massaging his wavy mane with both hands, he bowed his head and sighed deeply before looking up to visualize an older woman wearing a halter top at least three sizes too small and faded, flare-bottomed blue jeans. She glared silently at him through caterpillar thick eyelashes while holding a large brown tray in her hands and smacking chewing gum loud enough to drown out the noise of the band that was jazzing it up on stage. After a moments pause, Wilson instinctively ordered a whiskey and coke and watched her stroll slowly away, an expression of total indifference masking her overly decorated face.
Glancing towards the stage, Wilson briefly locked on the jazz trio performing, although his tattered mind was beyond comprehending whatever juke-joint tune they were laying down. The three tall, lanky black men wore bight yellow suits and two-tone shoes, and all were cultivating huge Afro haircuts. Wilson was just about to lay his head atop the slickly waxed tabletop when a voice from the table behind him snapped his mini-daze.
“What’s your dislike, man?” the voice spat in a deep, deliberate southern drawl.
Wilson replied without turning, his voice raspy with fatigue.
“What do ya mean, dislike? Besides a bartender who talks in riddles, tasteless booze and that psychedelic waitress from Saturday Night Fever? Hell, this place is Shangri-La.”
The other man snorted laughter and Wilson could hear ice clink in his glass.
“Naw, I mean what kinda noise makes ya crazy? Me, it’s that damn rap garbage. I mean, in my day it was disco, but that was classic rock compared to this horse hockey they pass off as music now, dude, am I right?”
Turning gradually about to face the source of this latest annoyance, Wilson felt the air hang in his throat like a sizeable chunk of burnt toast. His neck, chest, and arms instantly grew moist with cool sweat as the stranger’s face swam clearly into view to reveal features so very familiar. The chiseled, well lived-in features of a man he’d spent the better part of his life idolizing.
Patrick ‘Bomber’ Wilson had been no more than thirteen when he’d first hung the poster of that particular band on the inner door to his bedroom, and could still view that particular still as crisply and clearly as the very day he’d replaced it around age fifteen with one of Ozzy and Black Sabbath.
The band’s charismatic lead singer still held the same stoic, defiant look. It even appeared he wore the exact same hat as in the poster. In his mind’s eye, Wilson could envision a fiery Phoenix engulfing the band from behind in what would turn out to later be a macabre premonition of future tragedy.
“B-But…this just…can’t…I mean… you’re d-de..dea..” was all Wilson could manage before the waitress stepped between them and sat his drink down with a look of terminal boredom.
“Tell me, man. You’re fresh from the world. What’s up with the lack of southern rock these days? I mean, where’s Molly Hatchet and ARS? Where’s Thirty-Eight Special? I hear through the vine that a few ‘em are still touring, but album sales are in the crapper, and where does the quality jam go to get airplay in between all that hip hop and teen-pop shit?”
Wilson swallowed hard and wiped his drenched forehead with a napkin.
“I..uh…not sure, but…um… your..”
Scowling, the man turned abruptly away, leveling his sights on the jazz trio and nodding silent approval at their efforts.
“Enjoy your drink, kid. May not have a helluva lot of flavor, but you’ll be dreaming for it’s like soon. Me, I enjoy every respite I can get. Then again, I always have been a simple man.”
Wilson started to reach out and grab the man’s shoulder and demand an explanation when a new voice bellowed out to him from his left.
The man was slim and short with pitch black hair that was thinning in the front and long in the back. He spoke in a thick cockney accent that Wilson could not identify. A ninth grade education didn’t exactly hone one’s talents for dialect recognition.
“I say, feeling a tad confused, my boy?”
With a silent smirk, Wilson scooped up his drink and downed it in one gulp before slamming it down on the tabletop, sending glass and ice flying in every direction.
“Confused? Why should I be confused, asshole? I have no clue where my happy ass is currently parked, though I did just have some serious face time with an old idol of mine. Problem is, the country-fried SOB has been worm dirt for over thirty years. Now you tell me…what could possibly be confusing about that”?
The man, whose words escaped in a lightning-quick, nasal whine, grinned to reveal short, jagged, grotesquely uneven teeth. As with the bartender earlier, Wilson began to feel as though there was something familiar about this one as well.
“It’ll pass soon enough, my brother. Enjoy your time here in the Onyx. It’s the middle ground, y’know. The one gift the King was allowed us in between sessions. You, like all that have come before ya, best learn ta treasure it.”
The man’s rather hideous smile grew ever wider as he too whirled about to better ogle the jazz band as they kicked off a new number. Squinting through the scent-less haze, Wilson was allowed a clear shot at what was stenciled on the back of the man’s black tee in bright red letters.
The whisper escaped Wilson’s lips in a harsh, hardly audible whisper, and his eyes widened with the revelation.
“Highway to Hell? Wasn’t that before Brian Johnson’s time? Yeah, yeah, it was that other dude…Brian…Braun…no, Bon…B-Bon…”
Wilson’s babbling fizzled into stunned silence as the jazz band departed the stage and a very familiar figure emerged with a six string acoustic guitar hanging by his side. Wilson instantly recognized the face, as well as the thick, bushy mustache that adorned it. He heard the first few cords of "I Got a Name" played with such perfection that no pale imitation could have possibly done it justice. He caught himself drumming his hands on his thighs with the acoustic beat, and a tiny smile forced its way onto his weary visage. Moments later, he didn’t see as much as feel the presence of the newest stranger at his table.
Wilson was prepping to shout ‘play Bad, Bad Leroy Brown’ when the man standing next to him placed a large hand atop his right shoulder, the fingers of said hand adorned in diamond rings of seemingly every shape and size. Wilson glanced slowly upward and instantly felt the silly smile plastered across his face freeze in place. His bladder attempted to release itself but found it no longer had the capacity to do so. Like a man entranced, Wilson stood without speaking and followed the man out of the Onyx club, his face slack and pasty, his shoulders slumped.
While departing, he passed other tables with their lone inhabitants, the faces of each vaguely familiar, although their exact identities remained shrouded in a hazy fog within his fast-faded memory banks.
He saw the legendary crooner who’d sang "White Christmas" on countless holiday/seasonal albums. He spotted the woman whose LP he’d once bought at a flea market at the tender age of twelve, her earth-shaking rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee” ringing faintly in his ears. He glanced to his left just before exiting the bar to observe his all-time idol, a man he’d patterned his own drumming style after, although the legend in question had died choking on his own vomit years before Wilson had ever picked up a stick. Still, that very entity matched Wilson’s bug-eyed stare and shot him a brief, playful wink, briefly posing in the drum stance that he’d been famous for. At that exact moment, Wilson could have sworn he heard the initial cords of “My Generation” sound off in the background.
Trudging down a narrow, dimly lit hall, Wilson was led into a large office whose brick walls were layered with gold and platinum records. The ceiling within seemed infinitely high, and every inch from the floor on up was covered in glimmering LP’s. Wilson didn’t bother to read the names imprinted on each. He knew who they belonged to, and realized that a closer investigation would more than likely reveal at least a few of the Blood Brother’s early hit albums. “Crimson Waves” was their first to go Gold back in ’98, followed by “Transfusion Excursion” in 2001 and “Love in Vein” in 2004. Without a doubt, he and the mates were well represented here.
Settling down into the plush confines of a black recliner, he sat directly across from a freakishly huge oak desk, hesitant to breathe aloud, much less speak. Unlike so many of the bizarre, quasi-familiar faces within the Onyx, there was little reason to question the identity of the man perched behind said desk.
His host's chair, shaped and styled like a King’s throne, was massive; all-engulfing. There was even a gold, diamond-riddled crown bolted to the top in a permanent mount.
When the man spoke, the right side of his mouth tilted upward in a slight scowl. At the mere sight, Wilson was forced to fight off a building erection.
“I’ve seen your record, Patrick Wilson. There’s no doubt you’ve earned your spot here with us. Of course your lead singer, Will Carter, will join you soon enough, I hear. I have sources that are…let’s just say… very reliable up top.”
Wilson’s head moved up and down slowly, his eyes as blank as a cleanly wiped slate.
The man rubbed his chubby, ring-laden hands together before adjusting his high collar and brushing back his grease-slick hair. The sunglasses he wore allowed Wilson to view his own reflection, his mouth hanging partially agape; his face a mask of wild-eyed wonderment. He quickly closed his mouth and swallowed. His uncontrollable blinking, however, continued unabated.
“Let me go over the basic qualifiers here.”
The man pulled a file from the desk and flipped through it carefully; purposely.
The man’s lip curled.
Bomber Wilson felt slightly faint.
“Intoxicated over twelve hundred times; Cocaine use at an even six hundred. Heroin; LSD; Crack; Crank all accounted for in abundance. Fine, that covers substance abuse. Now let’s take a peak at the sexual deviance on file. Sex with underage girls, one as young as thirteen. All told we have… forty-three such incidents on record. States here you even had unprotected sex with former lead guitarist Steven Green’s fifteen year old niece. Attempted to have sex with three underage groupies after a concert in New Orleans. You first enticed them into trying Cocaine and pot. They informed you, several times in fact, of their ages before your attempted seduction. When they refused the sex acts, you physically assaulted two of them and booted them off the tour bus onto a deserted road at three in the morning. It seems that you, young sir, are indeed quite the pervert.
More acts of physical violence are well documented, to include assaulting, both physically and mentally, various roadies for no apparent reason whatsoever other than receiving a sadistic kick out of doing so. And least we forget, your constant use of profanity rates a top twenty rating in the hollowed annuals of Rock ‘n Roll….no small feat, that.”
Several additional pages were flipped through before the man calmly closed the file and reached into a nearby desk drawer, removing a laptop computer roughly the size of a cereal box. As the man uploaded a tiny CD-Rom, also obtained from the same drawer, Wilson had the distinct feeling he was being studied through the comically oversized sunglasses the man sported. Wilson also feared the incessant thumping echoing from his chest cavity could possibly be visualized through his shirt, while his breathing was growing increasingly labored.
“All right, Patrick, let’s sum it up. You’ve been consistently selfish, boorish, obnoxious, devious, lustful, violently demented and at times just plain evil throughout the past decade and a half.
Therefore, I hereby rate you a…” he typed vigorously on the laptop’s keyboard, “class ‘A’ citizen.” After ejecting the disc, the man flicked off the computer with a few quick pecks. He then propped his elbows atop the desk and began to vigorously rub both hands together as if suddenly chilled. The lip curled once again, this time developing into a full-blown sneer. Wilson managed to quickly look away but was unable to refrain from giggling uncontrollably.
“Sir, w-what exactly ….does that mean, c-class A?” he croaked, clearing his throat several times in the aftermath.
“Well, Mr. Wilson, we have class A, B, and C citizens here in our little society. When your vehicle, nice Corvette by the way, was cut in half by that semi-truck on highway twelve, your soul, ragged as it might be, was turned over to yours truly.”
Leaning cautiously back in the overly padded confines of the recliner, Wilson’s felt his arms grow heavy. Unconsciously, he began to focus on the man’s consistently quivering lips, like a scientist studying a rare breed of insect beneath a microscope lens.
“I was awarded…certain privileges for being placed in charge here. The master deemed me special above all my worthy peers, both past, present and future. It’s been quite a task, a colossal undertaking I must admit, but the honor speaks for itself.
I alone decide what punishment fits the crime, as it were.”
The man stood up and began pacing behind his desk. Wilson envisioned him on stage, the fringe on the side of his tight spandex pants fluttering like a lion’s mane. A small stream of foamy spittle began to trickle down Bomber Wilson’s pointy chin.
“Class A’s are probationary citizens. They do their time here and are soon transported to what is referred to as Purgatory Hall. It is then decided by a jury of peers where they are to be sent next. Class B’s are the semi-lifers, who are punished severely for a certain amount of time before being placed on what the master calls ‘limited probation’. They are given more freedoms than the next class. Those individuals that are beyond any redemption are class C’s. These individuals are sentenced to spend all of eternity with me. Their punishments are the most severe, and are constantly being upgraded as I see fit. You being a Class A are kind of a middle of the road trustee, you might say. You and I will be working closely together to make improvements here as the master sees fit. He is a demanding boss, no doubt, but a fair one.”
Wilson gurgled, wiped the saliva from his chin and cleared his throat. His Adams apple convulsed spastically.
“What about the ones I saw in the Onyx? I saw so damn many familiar fa-…’
The man lifted a chubby hand palms up and Wilson’s lips instantly froze, his mouth falling open like a cabinet door with a busted hinge. The swift, graceful upswing of the arm had reminded him of ‘the pose’ the man had made so famous.
“Those are also class B’s, awaiting their next punishment. We like to let them out to greet the new visitors to our musical establishment. In fact, you may find yourself pulling greeter duty in the near future. Alas, I hear several classic seventies rockers are close to visiting the old bone yard very soon. Sad…we all lived hard and played even harder, and most do die relatively young.”
Wilson’s forehead creased a bit as a thought entered his foggy brain.
He sure sounds different here than he did in the movies and on TV. Must have all been an act. Talks like some kinda college professor or something. Guess pain-killers don’t rot your brain like coke and weed, after all.
The pair soon departed the office and reentered the hallway; a dark, dungy tunnel that appeared to grow increasingly narrow the further they traveled. The walls were solid rock, slick with moisture and painted in dark crimson. Careful to maintain a safe walking distance to the rear of his esteemed host to avoid clipping the man’s heels, Wilson noted that every dozen steps or so introduced the presence of matching doors on either side of the hall. The doors in question were as white as virgin snow and possessed no knobs or windows, giving them a bizarre faux look, as if they were merely outlines that had been painted on.
Several moments passed before his host halted between a set of said doors, briefly wriggling his hips in true legendary fashion before turning to face the one positioned to their right. The man then whirled gracefully about and addressed Wilson with his upper lip set in full curl mode and his right ring finger tapping lightly at the center of the door.
It swung open halfway then stopped abruptly, as if on a string.
“Mr. Wilson, both the Master and myself feel you have the potential to be of great service within the realm. First the punishment phase must be endured, however. We have tapped your deepest musical fear and have come up with the following gauntlet for you to endure. Please enter.”
The man backed away from the door and waived Wilson forward, who paused before entering and nervously stuck out his right hand for the man to shake.
The infamous sneer returned as the man took Wilson’s sweat coated hand into his own and lightly squeezed. Bomber Wilson’s eyes immediately lit up, his broad grin understandable when taken in the context of a man pressing flesh with perhaps the greatest entertainer their business ever knew. For a moment, he was an innocent youth yet again, so in awe of the greatness that stood before him that all else, however potentially horrific, paled in comparison. In the next moment, however, said potential for terror returned as the great entertainer's trademark expression quickly transformed into an angry scowl. Tossing Wilson’s sweat-coated hand away with a low, guttural groan, the man then reached up with his other hand to rip away the oversized sunglasses before flicking them casually down the murky hall.
For the second time in recent memory, a uniquely feminine scream involuntarily escaped Bomber Wilson’s barely parted lips from the reflection of yellowish flames seeping so freely from the hollowed-out eye sockets of his host.
With no more effort than a brisk waive of his right arm, the man then shoved Wilson roughly forward into the room, sending him sprawling onto his back with a muffled thump. The door slammed shut immediately behind its fresh inhabitant, who lay sprawled atop a cold tile floor, attempting in vain to refill his battered lungs.
Stumbling to his feet, Wilson scanned his new surroundings and spotted a small slit of a window on the inside portion of the door, from which he could clearly see the man’s fiery glare from the opposite side. A voice then boomed out as if from all directions simultaneously, causing Wilson to stagger back as if from a forceful slap.
“Mister Wilson, I must now confess to not being, well, completely honest. To be truthful, and it sincerely pains me to do so….there are no separate classes of citizens housed here. You are all but one class, subject to the same, if you’ll pardon the expression, hellish fate.
You’ve so casually abused those special talents awarded at birth and the many advantages gained therein. Music was created for people to rejoice in its majesty and beauty. Individuals like yourself and the rest of my little community saw fit to take advantage of the fame and fortune it provided you by delving into your own sick, twisted fantasies and self-indulgent decadences full-throttle, never concerned with the numerous lives you destroyed along the way. Well, to paraphrase a classic album title from a certain horror rocker that I hope to have in my company very, very soon…..Welcome to Your Nightmare! And, it’s all yours for infinity, Patrick Wilson….to digest and regurgitate…over and over, and over again…..”
Wilson watched in shocked delirium as the small window vanished as if it had never existed and the dark cell abruptly lit up like a blazing, full-blown supernova. Temporarily blinded from the sudden explosion of brightness, he clamped his injured eyes and lurched about in a drunken jig, and upon reopening them, wished with every fiber of his long-decayed soul for the condition of utter sightlessness to return.
Bound by iron banding to a chair forged from jagged black rock, he peered downward to the sharp-edged metal digging into the flesh of his biceps, forearms and wrists. Additionally, he discovered similar binds at his shins and ankles, and felt the warmth of his own bodily fluids begin to flow freely wherever the razor-wire banding met pasty-white skin.
A stage of sorts loomed before him, and a billowy red curtain that cloaked it began to slowly rise.
The band members on display sat utterly motionless before him, their individual instruments poised to play. They consisted of a guitarist who appeared to be holding an ancient Gibson model of some sort. There was a saxophone player; a trombone player and a figure sitting stiffly behind a grand piano. The drummer held both sticks airborne as if in mid set. The last member of the troupe was obviously the lead singer, and stood with his hands balanced lightly on the microphone stand.
Despite acquiring a rather high level of shock tolerance in the previous few moments, Wilson was still able to grow wide-eyed with renewed revulsion upon the realization that the band members in question appeared to have been recently skinned alive, their frail, mummified frames nothing more than pulped shells coated in a slick, reddish hue. Even worse, their lips appeared to have been sheered away, leaving each frozen in a permanent grimace that was the definition of grisly.
By the time Wilson took note of the frizzy, comically warped toupee sitting atop the singer’s otherwise hairless dome like a misplaced squirrel, it was simply beyond his control to refrain from giggling aloud like the cackling maniac he’d most certainly become.
By the time the first notes of the song rang out, Bomber Wilson’s laugher had transformed to the anguished cries of the eternally damned. Soon after, he shrieked for mercy until his voice grew strained and unaudible; until his pathetic pleas were nothing more than a harsh whisper…. as the song played on…
Like a permanently stuck LP rolling beneath a broken needle, the same exact refrain would continue to drone on unabated; it’s smooth, maddeningly soothing tempo seemingly without flaw, its bluesy back-beat forever exact.
Similarly, the lead singer’s lush baritone was equally immaculate, be it his initial crooning or the seven-hundred-thirtieth rendition, which was the final count Patrick ‘Bomber’ Wilson was able to calculate before his feverish mind completely snapped, making further such mathematical efforts a virtual impossibility. Squirming atop his stony throne of everlasting imprisonment, his torso and legs drenched in his own rapidly leading fluids, the former rock drummer extraordinaire eventually discovered a calm level of acceptance. As foamy droll spewed forth from lips so horribly chapped they appeared positively freeze-dried, he started to hum along and finally lip sink lyrics that would forever echo within his gradually decaying brain:
“Start spreadin’ the news……
….I’ve leavin’ today…..
I’ve got to be a part of it…New York…New York…”
Standing just outside the door, the peeking man wore a mischievous grin, tapping his heavily jeweled fingers atop a door frame to keep in beat.
Sighing contently, he eventually turned and strolled casually back towards his office, a pointy red tail swinging freely from the back of his spandex pants.
“Ah, it is indeed good…to be The King,” he whispered before breaking into a lively rendition of ‘Heartbreak Hotel.”