Disclaimer: The story is not true and no malice or impeachment was intended.
Note: BIGGEST AND VERY SPECIAL THANXX to Claudia for actually taking her time to proof-read this for me! If anything doesn't read all that smoothly, that's only because I had the nerve to neglect some of her recommendations... so blame me and only me!
Note 2: This is a long one. I wouldn't say that it's completely boring - I rather like this one. But it unwinds pretty slowly - unhurriedly, you know? - so you have to be in a certain mood to read this all. Also, you'll have to read it to the very end to find any wings in it at all.
Note 3: I'm aware that Tommy's band and CoF played different Ozzfest, two years apart, but I don't think I care. Devon Meade is an actual Alice Cooper back-up singer and as such shouldn't be considered either an OC or a Mary Sue (although in fact, she is both, because I don't know shit about her anyway). Oh, and since I'm Russian, I can't get British slang right, so Dani speaks more or less general American - hey, at least I kept him from saying 'dude', dude! And yes, I do know it doesn't sound credible... but shit, guys like Poe, Lovecraft or King didn't give a fuck about credibility either, and still had fun. :-)
WARNING!!! The story contains references to some Satanist outlooks, books and practices, so do not read on if you find such stuff offensive.
All credits and references at the end of the last chapter.
____________________
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Dani hated this place. Hated this crowd. Hated this day, these people, this event.
This career-making event.
Fucking Ozzfest.
As if they fucking needed this! They were huge in England. Huge! For a black metal band, of course, but they were the biggest, the hugest black metal band in England! Fuck that, even in Europe.
But some fuck, a long-ass time ago, had decided that a band was no real thing until they made it in America.
Some sick fuck.
Dani was going to write a song about this very person. Something nice. With a sweet title, like "Love You With My Chainsaw".
He rushed into the empty trailer, grabbed an uncorked bottle of whisky from the table and plopped down on a couch, biting his lips.
They shouldn't have done this. They shouldn't have done this bloody concert. But the thing is, they'd done America before. They had toured American clubs, and people dug it. Sharon had decided they were good enough for this. Ozzy personally told them to "quit fooling around and play my fuckin' fest". An invitation they couldn't have turned down.
Dani kicked the table. Bottles jingled. Dani snarled.
Ozzfest wasn't their audience. Okay, they hadn't known this. And likely enough, Ozzy wouldn't care to think of it. But Sharon! Hadn't she been aware?
Dani just couldn't believe it.
They had suffered two shows in Texas, telling themselves that the problem wasn't their music, that the problem was the 'shitkicker attitude'. Comforting themselves with thoughts of shows in bigger cities. Thinking California would be more understanding. Well, tonight had been their second show in California. A San Francisco show.
Not a single song. Not a single song of theirs had hit it with the crowd tonight. Not even "Her Ghost In The Fog" that was sooo pop, blacksters back in England refused to listen to it. And towards the end of the set, just to top it all, it began raining.
Magnificent. Abso-bloody-lutely magnificent.
Dani took some pride in the fact that they had done their set to the end. They hadn't stopped when the crowd booed them and tried to hiss them off the stage. They hadn't stopped when the rain grew heavy, pouring down cats and dogs, causing a few power contacts to sparkle dangerously. No, they had played it to the very end of the very last song. Then Dani had given the crowd the finger. He had yelled to them, "Fine, fuckers, we hate you too!" and rushed offstage.
To the fucking trailer. Which led to yet another question. Where was the rest of his band? Why was he alone in here?
A little chuckle let him know he was mistaken. He actually wasn't.
Dani started and jerked his head up, almost giving himself whiplash. Then scowled at the man who stood in the doorway. Who had probably been standing there for a good few minutes, watching Dani snarl, and bite at the neck of the bottle, and kick the items of furniture unfortunate enough to be within reaching distance.
The man was tall. Not just taller than Dani - hell, almost everyone was taller than Dani. But this one was really tall. Over six feet. Wild black hair. Helluva lot of tattoos over his tanned skin.
Typical California biker trash.
"Temper tantrums?" he asked lazily, leaning against the doorpost.
"Get the fuck out!" Dani hissed. "Whoever you are!"
The guy didn't get the fuck out. Instead he walked over. Sat down on a couch opposite Dani. Picked up a bottle that had fallen off the table after one of Dani's kicks. Looked at Dani and grinned.
"I don't think so."
He had a weird voice. A low voice. A really self-assured, cocky voice. And yet there was an edge to it that made it sound almost... nervous? Not exactly. But it sounded as if its owner was on the verge of a breakdown. Not a nervous breakdown.
A Charlie Manson kind of a breakdown.
"Fuck you," Dani spit. "It's my fucking trailer, so get out before I call the security guys."
"First, you just have to be a vocalist, with that much bitchiness." The man gave a half-smile, showing a glimpse of a fine set of snow-white teeth. "Second, this is not your trailer. You're drinking Tommy Lee's whisky."
Dani winced and bothered to look around for the first time.
Shit!
The T-shirt hanging from a front seat definitely wasn't his. If he put it on, it would probably cover his knees. A big poster of Pamela Anderson on the wall wasn't his either. And the strangest touch was the mirror. The pics of two little boys taped to it instead of his daughter's portrait.
Oops...
Well, this just wasn't his day.
Dani looked back at the guy sitting on the opposite coach. The fucker gave him another half-smile.
"You don't look like Tommy Lee to me," he said. "Even when he was in jail, he didn't shrink that small."
"You're not Tommy Lee either," Dani grumbled.
"No," the stranger agreed easily. "I'm not."
He stared at Dani, his gaze shifting lazily from his wet slick black hair to his eyes - now that the rain had gotten his make-up, he must be looking just like Alice Cooper. Down to his lips - Dani must've bitten off most of his lipstick. Then back to his eyes.
And then all of a sudden he stretched out a hand and grabbed Dani by the chin.
Dani froze. Froze as those fingers dug into his jaw bone. Froze as these steel-blue eyes suddenly drew closer. Froze, feeling nervous, uneasy...
Afraid.
When Dani had just seen him in the doorway, he had thought he was in his early thirties. Now he realized he must be older. Not because he saw his face close now - it was one of those faces that weren't giving away the age of the men they belonged to, all straight lines, almost annoyingly regular.
It was because of his eyes.
Impossibly blue. Impossibly deep. Two magnetic whirlpools, sucking your soul right out. These eyes were old. They were ancient. They had seen it all. Lies, dishonor, treachery. Mayhem, rape, murder. Love. Hate. Life. Death. They had seen it all and forgotten none of it.
These eyes stared deep into Dani's. Intensely. Then the fingers let go of his jaw, and the voice said, breaking the charms to ringing shimmering splinters:
"Nice lenses."
The stranger moved away and leaned back on his seat. Dani held back a sigh of relief. He put the whisky back on the table. When had he drunk as much as to start seeing things? There he was, that tattoo bloke, sitting on the couch across the table, and there was nothing impossible about him, if you didn't count his being impossibly cheeky. His eyes sparkled through the tousled fringe, but they weren't so scary. Perhaps it was a little startling to see that cold blue from under his raven-black strands, but nothing impossible at all.
"I take it, you're in a band," the guy said and smiled again. Was that ageless face disfigured or something? Could the other corner of his mouth move at all?
Dani looked at him perplexedly, and the guy explained:
"I'd think you're a groupie of some kind, but you said it was your trailer... so I figured you had one."
The bitterness came back with double force. A groupie. A fuckin' groupie. That was all he was in this country.
"If I were a groupie," he said, icily cold, "I'd never be Tommy Lee's groupie all the same. See ya, sunshine." He got up from the couch and tried to withdraw with dignity... but it was impossible to save any dignity, constantly stumbling over different junk piled up on the floor.
The voice - lazy, half-amused - cut his stumblings short.
"You got lipstick on your teeth."
Dani stopped, shut his eyes and sighed deeply, trying to brace himself.
"Come on," the voice sounded almost sympathetic this time. "You almost made it to the mirror. Use a Kleenex or two, he won't care. He won't be back for at least an hour. His set is about to begin."
Dani sighed again and followed the advice.
The stranger watched him while he rubbed the blood-red lipstick off his teeth with a Kleenex, cringing as the bland, papery taste began to fill his mouth.
"You are that British blackster kid, aren't you?" the guy asked suddenly.
He hadn't even bothered to remember the band name. Dammit, it was a good band name!
"Well, I wonder who the fuck you are, mister," Dani parried.
And flinched back, involuntarily, when a fist shot out and stopped an inch or two away from his face. The knuckles right before his eyes.
Letters tattooed on the knuckles.
"Read it."
Still startled, Dani obeyed and read aloud:
"Sixx..."
And was more surprised than he would admit, seeing a wide, genuine smile on this face. A real smile.
"That's my name, kid," the man said. "That's who I am."
***
The Osbournes held the aftershow party at a restaurant they hired downtown. The band didn't want to go there, and Dani went alone. He had to. Partly because Ozzy was his childhood hero, partly because he didn't want to piss off Sharon. If there was a single chance they could improve the situation, it was only with her help.
Besides he really, really wanted to get really, really drunk.
He'd be ashamed of this day for the rest of his life, he thought gloomily, resting his elbows on the table, eyeing his glass almost hatefully. Failing the show. Mixing up the trailers - and picking Tommy Lee's of all, holy shit... And then, to crown it all, getting scared shitless by Nikki Sixx. By the Motley Crue bassist!
Motley Crue, junkie glam losers. Four posers singing about sex, sex and more sex. Crashing cars and beating up their wives.
He, Dani Filth, got scared to death by their bass player.
Shame, shame, shame.
Dani cast a dirty look in Tommy's direction. He was at the head of the table, obviously enjoying the privileges of the crown prince tonight. Dani knew he had taken part in a few of Sharon's shows. Plus he knew them from "way back then". Way back when Dani had been a school kid, playing "Bark At The Moon" over and over in the evenings.
"Dani!"
Ohh, balls. Sharon caught his stare. She was motioning for him to come over.
"Dani, come on over here, son!"
Dani obligingly got up from his chair and made his way to their seats, his trot a bit unsure, his trajectory a bit too winding.
When he came up, Sharon gave him a slap on the ass that almost sent him sprawling among the platters on the table. Then held on to his waistband while introducing him to Tommy. Mighty Lucifer, this woman was mean.
"Dani's our little pet this year," Sharon explained to Tommy with a little smile, nudging Ozzy with her elbow. Ozzy nodded. He looked ungodly old and seemed half asleep.
"Dani is upset. He thinks he failed tonight," another friendly slap on the ass. She had a lot of strength in her hands, that little woman. Dani suspected he would have problems with sitting for the rest of the evening.
"He thinks he fucked up. Tell him about your first Donnington, Tommy."
Oh yeah. That was all he needed to make the day complete. His nightcap. Tommy Lee's Donnington story.
"Yeah, dude, it was wild!" Tommy was full of enthusiasm. Such a bundle of energy. "We went there in 1984, you know, dude, back then. Iron Maiden was huge then, dude, not us..."
Dani struggled to stay on his feet and not get lost in numerous 'dude's that poured onto his head in a hailstorm.
"They called us 'queers'," Tommy grinned. "Cross-dressing queers. There were us and Twisted Sister, both from US, so they shouted 'American queers!!!' at us both," Tommy suddenly laughed. "Ha, so there was that dude, Dee Snider, the Sister frontman. And they were shouting right in his face, these first rows, real badasses. So you know what he did?"
"No," Dani said, and inquired with sudden interest, "What?"
Tommy smiled at the memory and finished his whisky before going on.
"He's, like, seven foot tall, that dude. Taller than me. Bigger, too. So he snaps his mike stand in two, and he jumps right into the first row. People back away, you know, they're like, 'What does this fuck want?!'. And he yells at the top of his lungs, which is really fucking loud, man, he yells, 'You know what, motherfuckers? I think I really am queer a bit! Anybody here willing to be my baby boy?'" Tommy laughed hard, bringing his fist down on the table. Bottles jumped up. "That fucker. He's tough."
"You had it harder than Dani," Sharon said, covering her yawn with a hand. Wow, Dani thought, Queen Mother is out of fuel. Must be well over midnight by now. "You had it harder. You had people throw shit at you."
Dani flinched.
"Yeah," Tommy grinned even wider. "They were throwing shit at us. Different shit. Body parts."
"Body parts?" Dani raised his eyebrow.
"Yeah," Tommy nodded. "Like, cow legs. A bull's eye, it stuck in my drum riser." He laughed again. "We couldn't get it out for a week, dude. It was totally wild. But it wasn't the worst shit. They were throwing darts, too. One got my tech in the shoulder, I had to pull it out while fuckin' drumming, dude, how convenient is that?" another drunken laugh. "They threw bottles, too."
"Bottles." Dani cautiously seated himself on the edge of the table. Maybe he was too drunk for a good judgement, but Tommy wasn't half as bad as he had thought him to be. He was a celebrity here, yet he was much less of a snob than their audience that day. He was... instantly likeable.
"Bottles. With piss." Tommy shook with laughter. "Nikki got two, I think. But he didn't stop playing, not that dude, no. He once had his left hand almost sliced in half, a bottle splinter, but even then he never stopped. So he plays on, and we play the complete fuckin' set, and then he winks at me and goes, 'Y'know, dude, tossing things mus'be their national sport!', so he swings his bass over his head and - whooooosh! - it flies right out into the crowd, and BAM-CRASH! - some poor fucker's head is cracked open!" Tommy poured himself another whisky. "Good ole times, duuuuude..."
At the mention of Nikki, Dani sobered up a bit.
"So did he meet you?" he asked.
"What?" Tommy stirred from memories.
"I met Nikki today," Dani said uncertainly. "Ran into him... umm... near your trailer. He was going to wait for you there. To meet you after the set."
He couldn't understand the change in Tommy. He could only feel it. He had always been pretty sensitive, and now he felt Tommy change. He kept smiling, and Dani could swear that his smile was sincere. He even let out a little chuckle when Dani called Nikki's name, and this chuckle was genuinely good-natured. But Dani felt, just felt sudden tension building up inside him. Sudden reservedness. It was as if you knocked upon a covered cage with a canary. The cage stayed the same, but you could feel the fluttering inside it.
Weird.
"Ahh, Sixx," Tommy drawled, the smile still on his lips. "Yeah, he waited for me. Had a talk."
Sharon yawned again.
"Tell Dani how Nikki fooled around with Necronomicon," she said. "Dani's gonna love it. He's into such stuff."
And there it was. The cage went uncovered. Tommy hunched over his drink.
"Naw, he doesn't want old tales like that," he muttered. "Just stupid old tales."
"Oh come on," Sharon laughed. "Tell'im about those gothic paintings he made up the walls with. I say, Dani, when you see the guy, the last thing you could think of him is that he could paint..."
"Sharon," Tommy nursed his drink.
"Tell'im about them pentagrams. About that damn book. About how he swore that it was written on skin with blood."
"Sharon..."
"Tell him about the time when knives and forks went flying after him and Lita," Sharon giggled. "That's my favorite part! Or about that girl who wanted to be sacrificed on Hollywood Hills, and then Sixx..."
"SHARON IT'S NOT FUNNY!"
Dani popped up on the table, brushing a couple of plates off to the floor. Ozzy started and woke up. Sharon stared at Tommy, gaping.
Tommy looked at her. The look was dark. There was no more enthusiasm in him. No more energy. It was if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him.
"You weren't there," he said, low and distinctly. "I was. It's not funny."
And then, for the first time in his life, Dani saw Sharon thrown off balance a little.
"Ahh, I forgot you took it like this," she said. And then, attempting humor unconvincingly, added, "But come on, Tommy, you're making the whole thing sound as though your Nikki were Satan in the flesh."
Tommy gulped down a fifth of Jack Daniels. Just one big gulp. Dani, mesmerized, watched it roll down his throat in a ball.
"I don't think he's Satan," Tommy said, and his voice sounded unbelievably sober. "But I'm more than sure that he's related to that guy."
Silence that broke out was heavy. Troubled. Pregnant. And Dani, who had never - and he'd been in a punk band! - never been that drunk in his life, eased the strain in a most charming way.
"What's this stuff?" he asked, blinking. "I thought Motley Crue were about women, hairspray and fire?"
Tommy stared at him for half a second. Then he burst out laughing.
It was like a sign. Everyone around laughed. The whole place was vibrating with laughter. It even swayed a little... or maybe it was Dani who swayed a little, but he didn't care, because for some reason unknown to him he was laughing, too.
Tommy got up, walked up to Dani and placed his arm around his shoulders. Dani felt as if he were a midget next to him. I'm his armpit height, he thought, and that made him laugh even harder.
"You know, dude, you're fucking right," Tommy said, squeezing his shoulder. "That's what we were about. Let's drink to it."
"But I can't..." Dani protested weakly. "Another drink, and I'll throw up..."
Tommy's laughter echoed between his temples.
"That's the ticket, dude," Tommy's voice rang in his ears. "Throwing up is the shit. You're going to be really good at it by morning."
***
When he slowly drifted towards reality from his heavy, dreamless sleep, he was aware of three facts.
Fact one. His head was aching. Badly. So badly, he almost wanted someone to chop it off.
Fact two. It wasn't dark in the room. Even through his eyelids he could feel there was some light in here.
Fact three. Yet another thing he could feel was a warm body pressed against his left shoulder.
Oh no.
Dani gathered up his courage and flung his eyes open.
It wasn't as bad as he had feared - the room wasn't actually sunlit. Just a few stray rays coming in through the curtains, and even those weren't too bright. The cozy semi-darkness was even comforting.
He cautiously turned his head on the pillow - the head definitely took it as a personal insult, because it retaliated with a wild splash of pounding pain.
He didn't remember who the girl curled up next to him was. He couldn't see her face, buried in her forearm that lay on his shoulder, and neither her blue-black curly hair, nor the little spider tattoo on her bicep seemed familiar.
It didn't really matter. Because he had fucked up again.
He had cheated on Tonya with a groupie.
Sharp regret ran through him. Such stuff happened every now and then, and he couldn't help feeling bad about it. He could tell himself a thousand times that he was a star, that it was part of the lifestyle, that Tonya probably didn't even expect him to be a good boy. But he still hated himself for that.
Maybe he wasn't bad enough for this job.
He turned away and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He couldn't, and it scared him a bit. What had he been doing? He remembered they'd failed the Ozzfest set...
Wait. He's in the US, he failed the show... he's with a groupie?
What fucking groupie?!
The girl squirmed, rose up on her elbows and yawned. Then tilted her head and gave Dani a look that was half-curious and half-interested.
And then his memory unlocked.
She wasn't a groupie.
He had been to Ozzy's aftershow carousal. He had gotten roaring drunk with Tommy Lee. And then Tommy had gotten a private jet somewhere and flew him to LA, because he had taken a liking to Dani and wanted to show him "the real Tinseltown, dude!", and Dani was happy to get educated. So they ended up in some strip bar, and Tommy ran into an old friend there.
She was that very friend.
Now, if he could only remember her name...
"Devon," she said, chuckled and gave another yawn.
"Pardon?"
"I can just hear those little wheels in your brain turning, searching for my name. Don't hurt your head. It's Devon."
Dani sighed.
"Sorry."
"No big deal. I don't remember yours either. I know you're a celebrity, but I just can't remember it. Janey? Laney?"
"Dani."
"Cool. Nice to meet ya, Dani." She sat up. Ran her hand through her tangled hair. Yawned again and jumped off the bed. Her body was ripe, yet slim. Lean. Her hips, maybe, a bit too narrow, her breasts not overly big, C at most. Firm buttocks. Strong legs.
Dani didn't remember ever getting between these legs. Just didn't.
He slowly, with great effort forced himself up into a sitting position. Whimpered softly. His head was killing him.
Devon looked at him with sympathy. She was older than he had thought. Probably older than him. Thirty-five or so. That was good. Dani would go insane if he had to deal with little girls now.
"You're gonna puke again?" she asked.
Dani blushed.
"No, I don't think I will."
"Great. Then I claim the bathroom for a few minutes. I really needa take a piss."
Dani nodded and buried his face in his hands, trying to get his brain to work.
Finally, cold realization came creeping over him. He was in a hotel room. He was in LA, and the rest of his band was in San Francisco. He had slept through the better part of the day. It was very late afternoon at best. He was alone and, as far as he knew, he had no money, no documents and no spare clothes.
He didn't even know how to get in touch with the guys.
He was fucked.
A hand on his shoulder made him flinch.
"So bad?"
Dani looked up. Devon patted him on the shoulder. Dani sighed.
"I don't remember getting here," he said. "I don't know where I am, and I'm not sure I can pay for the room."
She laughed.
"It's Franklin Plaza. If you can't pay for the room, I will. Hell, I think I already did. You need a chaser?"
Dani did. But he couldn't even think of pouring anything else alcoholic into himself. He'd die.
"Hey, you okay?"
"No," Dani answered honestly. "Why are you asking?"
"You turned green."
Dani managed to produce a short croaking laugh.
"Devon?"
"Yep."
"Can we get some coffee here?"
"I'll call room service," she stretched her hand toward the phone on the bedside table.
"Hey... you don't wanna get dressed first?"
Devon smirked.
"It's Hollywood, baby."
She called room service while Dani scrambled out of bed and squeezed into his black leathers. It might be Hollywood, or Bollywood, or Purgatory itself, but he had no intention of treating the bellboy to a free striptease.
Devon put the phone down, looked at him and sighed.
"Maybe you do have a point here."
She picked up a t-shirt with cut-off sleeves from the floor and put it on. NOT ALL PEOPLE ARE ANNOYING, the slogan on the t-shirt said. When she turned to pick up her jeans, Dani read the second part of it which was on the back: SOME ARE DEAD.
Maybe she did have a point there.
Five minutes later they were drinking coffee. Devon had ordered it black. It was awfully bitter, but it did clear Dani's head a little.
"You know, dude, you have the strangest little smile on your face," Devon noted. "Penny for your thoughts."
"It's so messed up, it's even funny," Dani snickered, putting his cup down. "It's like I'm stranded on a desert island. I'm here in LA and my band's back in Frisco. I either missed a show or I am going to miss it because I don't have any money for a long-distance call. If a policeman stops me in the street, I'm fried, because not only do I have no ID, I have no US citizenship as well," he gave a bitter little smile. "And I've just cheated on my daughter's mother with an Alice Cooper back-up singer."
He thought she might get pissed. But she didn't.
"A former Alice Cooper back-up singer," she said and smiled back. The smile was friendly. "So you're beginning to remember."
Dani nodded again.
"Well, then remember this, too. You didn't cheat on your chick with anyone this night. Unless you humped the bed while I was asleep."
Dani stared at her unbelievingly. She grinned.
"Ooh, Dani-boy, you think you can fuck anything at all after drinking as much as you did this last night, you think too much of your pretty self. You were wasted, babe. You couldn't fuck your own hand."
"W-what am I doing here, with you, then?!" it sounded rude, but Dani was just astonished.
Devon just grinned wider.
"When I brought you here, I thought you could. Hell, what do I know, you're Tommy's friend..."
"But we were... we were... undressed!"
Devon shrugged.
"I always sleep naked. It feels better this way. And yes, I did undress you. Because you fell asleep. And if you had slept over in your leathers, your body would be aching all over now," she smirked. "Couldn't let this happen. That's a nice little body."
"Thanks," Dani sipped on his coffee and gave her a grateful smile. He felt relieved. Almost too relieved, considering how many problems he still had left.
"Hey!" Devon suddenly put her cup on the table. "I forgot! You had a little bag with you. Such a small black bag, and you refused to let go of it. Tommy said you had dragged it all the way from Frisco. It must be here somewhere. Check it - maybe you do have your documents, after all..."
She broke off, because Dani was laughing. With a hysterical hissing laughter. Shaking almost violently.
"Hey... what's up, dude?" her voice was worried.
"N-n-n-nothing," Dani managed, laughing. "B-b-but there's n-n-no d-d-documents there..."
Just to think of it. They had dropped into their hotel before flying to LA, and what had Dani grabbed? A wallet? A passport? A pair of socks? No way, baby, it was his little black bag.
"The lady's bag", his bandmates called it.
Bravo, Dani, bravo!!!
"There's my make-up kit there," he told Devon, still giggling. "My contact lenses. My jewelry. Plus one candle and one book."
Devon snickered.
"I almost love you," she said. "A man who treats his make-up kit as his most prized possession is definitely my type. What are you going to do now?"
Dani shrugged with a weak smile.
Devon reached over the table and patted him on the knee.
"I have an idea. I'm going to a little club around midnight. To hang out with my friends. It's eight PM now. Since you got nothing better to do, I suggest that you take a shower and put yourself together. And I'll pick you up, say, at half past eleven."
Dani closed his eyes for a second.
Why the hell not? Just like she said, he had nothing better to do.
Devon picked up her leather jacket from the back of the armchair. Sighed. Walked over to Dani and lifted his chin with two fingers.
"Cheer up, prettyboy. We're gonna met a friend of mine tonight who must know Tommy's cell phone number. I mean, the bum got you in trouble, it's his job to drag you back out."
"Okay," Dani said humbly. "Okay. I'd better have fun while I'm alive. Because Sharon will kill me as soon as she sees me again."
Devon made a low little chuckle and pinched him on the cheek.
"I think this friend of mine could even reason with Sharon," she said. "See... he is a very special friend. Really special."
***
Shower had done him good. He had relaxed a bit, and even his head had gotten lighter, the pain no more pounding and sharp, but rather dull. Bearable.
Late dinner did him good, too. Devon had left while he had still been in the shower, and when he finally got out of it, he found two hundred bucks on the bedside table with a little note that said:
RETURN'EM LATER. WHEN YOU GET HOME. NEVER RECEIVED A PAYCHECK FROM ENGLAND."
Dani took the cash, amused, and ordered dinner. A girl paying for him. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. There had been a time in his life when he was penniless. After he had left school and chosen his band over a journalist college. Tonya had taken up three jobs to pay their bills then. But it had felt much worse then. Then he had felt a total shit.
Now he felt an expensive tart. A two-hundred-bucks-per-night whore.
Whoo-fuckin-hoo!
He found his 'lady's bag' under the bed. Smirked. If he was going to party, he'd better look good. He took the bag to the mirror. Opened it. His make-up kit lay on top.
Dani sighed, threw his wet hair back and got down to work.
When they had just begun performing, they hadn't worn make-up. They had weird little masks that they would put on for the show and then sweat in them all through the set. The sweating part was, in fact, what made them drop the masks. And then came corpse paint. That was fun for a while - learning to paint yourself bruises, and festered wounds, and post-mortem seams. Making a grotesque black-and-white drawing out of your face. But Dani never was too happy about classical corpse paint. Partly, because so many other bands were using it.
But mainly, because it was ugly.
The other guys didn't care. But Dani wasn't much into uglifying himself. He didn't like feeling ugly at all. He had spent most of his teen years considering himself a half-pint. All his idols, from Ozzy to Iron Maiden to Venom, were big guys. Good-looking in that rough, essentially male way. And there he was, 5'7, slim, with an elfish face, his eyes too big and his chin too pointed. He was no Ozzy for sure.
He learned later there was a different kind of attractiveness. A subtler, witchier kind. Dani possessed it. He was handsome in that delicate way that girls usually loved in cinematographic vampires.
It was actually vampire movies that brought about his new look. Snow-white skin. Blackened eye-sockets. Blood-red lips. Shortly afterwards he bought his first lenses, also red. A couple of years later, when he already had some money, he had his incisors slightly extended to complete the image.
That was what he liked about it. It still looked scary, it still freaked out 'normal' people in the streets, but it looked good.
He added the last touch of lipstick, as usual, careful not to ruin the foundation of deathly pale toner and powder. Reached into his bag and brought out a little plastic box with his lenses. His current favorites, crystalline with catlike vertical 'pupils'. He hesitated for a second. There would be cigarette smoke in the club for sure and it always hurt his eyes when he was wearing lenses. But then he put them on anyway. He was so deep in shit, it was even nice to be consistent in it.
Next came his jewelry. Claw rings; what Tonya called 'claw thingies' and he himself called 'finger nozzles'. A chain bracelet. A little pentagram necklace.
Dani looked in the mirror. A lean young guy with long black hair looked back at him. Dressed in black - black fishnet shirt and black leather pants. Coal eyeliner lying heavily around his eyes made them look even bigger. Red lipstick outlined his mouth nicely, and when he sneered at the mirror, his teeth flashed unnaturally white against the scarlet of his lips. Make-up refined his face. Made it seem almost sculpted.
Dani gave his mirror twin a triumphant smile. As a rockstar vampire, he was streets ahead of Ann Rice's Lestat any day.
He stared at his reflection some more, pondering over that secret question of his: did he look thirty already? Did he look his real age?
He decided he didn't. Not even without make-up. And make-up obscured age marks. Made them unreadable. Made his face look practically...
Ageless.
Dani frowned, fingering his pentagram. Thinking of another ageless face he had seen yesterday. Nikki had had no make-up on. And yet he didn't look his age. He must be in his mid-forties now. He didn't look that old. Nor did he look young. His age was totally indefinable.
Dani's fingers traced the angles of the small five-point metal star.
Tell him about them pentagrams, Sharon had said. About that damned book.
Why would Motley Crue, who were about women, hairspray and fire, care for pentagrams?
Or Necronomicon.
About how he swore that it had been written on skin with blood.
Oh, come on. Everyone knew Necronomicon had been written by Howard Lovecraft. Skin and blood, eh? Sixx had been putting on some first-class drama if he claimed that. What a fucking poser...
Dani remembered the eyes scrutinizing his face and shuddered. These weren't the eyes of a poser. Not by far. These were the eyes of either a wiseman or a total fucking psycho, but not a poser.
All these thoughts about Necronomicon, though, had led him to think of the book that lay in his bag. One of the two items it held that he hadn't touched yet.
Dani reached into the bag uncertainly, running his fingertips over the leather cover. Glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was two minutes to eleven.
Dani's mind suddenly cleared. He nodded to himself. The time was perfect. And, maybe, in the state he was in, he really needed that.
He would pray tonight.
Among different opinions expressed about Dani at different times by different people, a few stood out as most common. Dani Filth was a heartless sadistic bastard with a penchant for cheap mystique. Dani Filth was a typical dumb blackster. Dani Filth was a capricious bitch who changed his musicians as often as his underwear, absolutely impossible to work with. Dani Filth was a devil-worshipper.
Most of it wasn't true. Dani wasn't sadistic. Oh, he did play with the pain theme a lot in his lyrics and during their shows, and yes, there were gallons of blood in their videos, but he would never hurt Tonya. He cared for the people he loved much more than some respectable men he knew. And he knew he had a heart, because every now and then it would ache. People would make fun of him because he held on to his family like that, but it was all he had, and he would die before he broke it.
He wasn't dumb. He had learned to read pretty early in his childhood, when he was three or four, and, like many of such kids, he had started to read everything within his reach, loading himself up with all kinds of useful and useless information. Also, like relatively few of such kids, he had managed to process that information successfully. His mind had gotten accustomed to intensive work early on, and it rarely failed him since. He had been known as 'bright but irregular' in school, and he had finished it, excelling in language and art. He might be not a genius, but he wasn't as dumb as people liked to think he was.
He wasn't a bitch either. Although in part it was true - he wasn't the easiest person to work with. But he wasn't a bitch. He was a perfectionist. Besides, well, it required a certain amount of bitchiness to keep the job of a band leader. You had to be cruel at times and you had to be a dick, and to act as an insensitive fuck, because otherwise things started falling apart. But he never liked that necessity. He just couldn't help it. A dirty job, and someone had to do it.
Only one thing about him was one hundred percent true.
Dani really was a Satanist.
He never talked much about it, and it puzzled interviewers. They couldn't understand that for him it was too personal. As personal as, he maintained, one's faith should be. Oh yes, their image just screamed of it. But when he had to face really personal questions about his beliefs, he always recoiled. That led some people to think his Satanism was nothing more than a posture, when the real reason was quite the opposite. It even surprised him. The way people believed you when you told lies and refused to believe you when you were frank with them.
One of many little things that made the world such a tricky place to live in.
He took his bag to the bedside table. Cleared the table off, putting the clock and an ashtray on the bed. Took out the candle. Black wax. There were matches in the ashtray, and Dani used them to light it up. Then he got up and turned off the light.
It was his own little ritual. He had thought it up. He believed that if Satan was listening, He heard even his thoughts, but Dani himself was a human being. He was weak. He needed rituals. Symbols. Like pentagrams.
Like the book he now took out of his bag and put on the table.
Anton LaVey's "Satan Bible".
The book he used to keep in his bag before "Bible" was a volume of Aleister Crowley. But ever since LaVey died, he started paying more attention to his works and finally switched to "Satan Bible". Maybe it was how institutional necrophilia effected him. The cult of the dead that the society imposed on everyone. If Kurt Cobain had been made a martyr after his death, surely LaVey could be made a prophet.
Dani kneeled before the bedside table. It must have looked comic from the side. Dani didn't care. Thankfully, he didn't have an audience.
He opened the book. Gently leafed through it. Found the passage he was looking for.
Jealousy is good for you, as it is your reason to conquer. Never say: I suffer, for he possesses this and that, and I do not. Do not suffer. Do not tear yourself. But do tell yourself: He possesses this and that, and I shall struggle, and fight, until I have it, too. That is what jealousy should be.
Dani put his palm on the smooth page. Closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. To chase all thoughts out of his mind. Leaving only darkness. And burning bitterness that refused to go away. That was what he was now. Darkness and bitterness.
He slowly opened his eyes. Stared into the small flame on the tip of the candle. Swallowed. His voice was low and steady when he started talking.
"My Dark Lord..."
The standard prayer. The Satanic equivalent of "Our Father Who Art In Heaven...". Dani would have to admit he didn't understand all of it. But reciting it always built up some strange feeling inside him. Something like awe. Like anticipation of some dark miracle.
"... I summon Thee..."
The flame was trembling, shivering. It seemed bigger now, maybe because Dani had stared at it for a while. Fire always mesmerized. It was primal.
"... demanding the sacred right to burn in Hell..."
The paper grew warm under his palm. Skin temperature. Now he could feel that it wasn't entirely smooth. Could feel little pock-marks of letters in its surface.
"... ride up on Hell's hot wind..."
And in this moment he felt the wind. It wasn't hot, though. It was sharply, bitterly cold, and it swept through the room, making the curtains flutter, making Dani's hair wave.
Turning a few pages onto Dani's hand.
I should've closed the window, Dani thought, then chased this thought away, like the other ones. He went on reciting his prayer.
"... face one more evil than Thou..."
The wind came back. Brushing Dani's face with its cold touch. Turning more pages onto his hand.
As if it were trying to close the book.
'... take my lustful soul... "
As the words were leaving his lips, the candle flame caught his eye again. It was dancing, throwing fancy shadows on the wall, on the bed, on the book...
But it wasn't bending.
"... drink my blood as I drink yours..."
With so much wind, it should be bending with it, catching the slightest air movement.
But it wasn't.
It just danced.
"... impale me on the horns of death..."
The wind hit him in the face, sent pages into flutter.
The flame danced, undisturbed.
"... cut off my head, release all my evil..."
Dani's voice trembled. What was going on? He believed in signs, such as a book falling off, or a few words on a street banner that answered his thoughts, but nothing like this had ever happened before. He was scared. He didn't even try to lie to himself about it. But he was going to finish the prayer.
"Lucifer is King."
He began to realize the paper touching his palm wasn't skin-warm anymore. It was warmer now. Warmer than his hand, because he was actually starting to feel the heat coming from it. It was beginning to get really hot.
"Praise Satan!"
And, momentarily, the heat under his palm grew unbearable. It hurt. As if living fire bit at his skin.
Dani gasped and pulled his hand back.
The rush of wind almost knocked him to the floor. His hair flipped into his eyes and mouth. His pentagram strained the chain it hung from, almost choking him.
And he watched, looked on, awestruck, as it lifted the heavy cover from the table and shut the book closed.
CRASH!
It wasn't a clap. It was a rumble. As if something heavy were dropped from a few miles' height. Dani screamed, covering his ears with his hands. The wind tore through the room in a storming gust, knocking the armchairs over. The clock, swept off the bed, rolled over the floor, and the ashtray hit Dani in the chest.
The candle didn't even sway.
How far does your faith stretch? Millions of people say they believe in God and God's miracles, but what would they feel if one day their own crucifix started bleeding? Reverential delight? The joy of love for Christ? Or banal fear? What would they do if answers to the questions they asked in their prayers came burning in fiery letters right through the pages of their family Bible? Would they drop to their knees and thank God?
Or would they run away, screaming?
In the darkened hotel room, alone in a strange city, scared out of his mind, Dani did the bravest thing in his whole life.
He didn't run. He spoke up.
"Father?"
The wind brushed over his face again, but it wasn't so harsh now. And it grew warmer.
"Father, you are here."
Dani had never felt so small. So afraid. And so high.
"Father, please listen to me."
Wind in his hair, flames dancing before his eyes. They seemed to have filled the entire room.
"I have a request."
Did the flame get closer? Dani was searching for words desperately, struggling to come up with proper, impeccably built phrases and failing. His only chance to talk to the power he had prayed to face to face... or was it?
"I have a family, Father. A beautiful woman and the best little girl in the world. Please let them live long. And in peace. Please, let somebody else suffer instead of them. Ever."
The wind was caressing his skin now. Warm, feathery touch.
"And my music... it's my life, Father. I don't want much. Just don't let me break. Don't let me fall. I want it to be my only job. For the rest of my days. Please, Father. Help me."
The flame was changing. Vague, dim shapes were forming in the core of it.
"If I had done something against your liking... forgive me. Guide me. Father... my soul belongs to you."
His words rang around the room, and for a second, he saw strange things within a candle flame. He saw walls painted with pictures that seethed with terrible, poisonous beauty. He saw giant wings spreading endlessly, layer over layer, hiding the rest of the world from sight. And over it all, he saw a strange sign burning with formidable, dazzling light. A symmetrical cross locked in a circle.
Then the candle was out, leaving him in the darkness.
The last echoes of wind whispered in his hair and died away.
Dani rushed to the light switch, stumbling, falling to his knees, getting up, stumbling again. Searching all over the wall until he finally felt the switch under his fingers.
Bright light blinded him for a few moments. Then sight slowly returned to him.
The room was in perfect order. Not a spec of dust had moved. The clock and the ashtray lay on the blanket where he had put them.
Only the black candle on the bedside table had fallen over and lay on its side, smoldering.
Dani made a step back to the table, not taking his eyes off it.
Had it all been a play of his imagination? Had he watched the fire for too long? Had it been fire and night wind that tricked him into this vision?
He came up to the table. And sighed deeply.
The book lay closed. Its black leather cover was deformed. Melted.
Scorched.
Dani lifted it from the table. And peered at the spot it had lain in.
There was a slight dent in the table surface. Rectangular. Ten inches long and seven inches wide. The size of the "Satan Bible" special souvenir edition. The wood gave in under a monstrous blow.
If Dani hadn't pulled his hand back in time, he'd have only one left now.
"Okay," Dani whispered. "Okay!"
He walked over to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Stared. Sighed.
"Quod erad demonstrandum," he said softly.
The window was latched closed.