I

It was 11:45 p.m. when Mark asked the bass player again if he'd seen any sign of Charlie.  At the 9 o'clock break Mark started asking around to see if anyone knew where he had gone.  They were coming up on their last couple of numbers and Mark was beginning to get anxious.  He'd been looking forward all night to introducing Charlie to the audience and asking him to play the last number.  He was hurt that Charlie hadn't at least stayed around to listen to the band play.  He'd spent so much energy worrying about Charlie all night, he was beginning to think his own performance had suffered.  Tomorrow they would do their final show in Santa Cruz.  It was too late now, but maybe he should have let Charlie know about his plan ahead of time.  Mark left the Civic feeling dejected and disappointed.  On the way out he passed up an invitation to party with a ripe bunch of groupies.

When Mark got home he sat up for a couple of hours smoking dope and drinking.  He wanted to unwind.  He was too tense to go to bed just yet and he was worried that he still hadn't heard from Charlie.  After a few drinks, he got undressed and into the shower.  The hot water made his foot ache.  He looked down at the swollen front half of his foot and wondered how he had made it through the entire night without feeling any pain.  If the swelling didn't go down tonight, he might have to tone down his stage antics tomorrow.  That wouldn't go over well with his manager or with the screaming fans.  When he was finished showering, he would have to put an ice pack on it and take it easy for the rest of the night.

Mark got out of the shower and blow-dried his long hair.  His toes had started to spread apart from the swelling.  It hurt to put his weight on the ball of his right foot.  He wrapped a towel around his waist and limped into the kitchen to grab a few ice cubes and put them in a plastic bag.  He folded the bag into a towel and carried it with him to the living room.  As he sat on the couch, he propped his foot on the coffee table and placed the ice pack over his toes.  A few minutes later, Charlie came walking in quietly.

"Where the fuck you been!" Mark asked with concern.

"The Silver Dollar ... havin’ a couple a drinks .... What's wrong with your foot, dude?"

"Stepped on some glass .... How come you flaked, man?" Mark asked, raising his voice. “You missed the whole fuckin' concert.”

Charlie looked at him with surprise.  "Aw, dude, I forgot, man."

"I thought you went over early to help set up.  Wha'd you forget everything?"

"Dude.  I got there at six.  I guess I wandered off and forgot what I was doin'," he said with flat sincerity in his voice.

Under different circumstances Mark would have bitched him out.  But he could tell that Charlie wasn't bullshitting.  He didn't sound like he had intentionally avoided the concert.  He sounded confused and pained.

"You all right, dude?" Mark asked in a calm voice.

"Yeah.  I…I ... guess," he hesitated and sat down next to Mark.  He turned and looked away for a couple of seconds and then looked Mark straight in the eye.  There was desperation in his face.  He looked like he was about to cry.  Mark wouldn't be able to put up with this shit; he wasn't fucked-up enough.  If this guy got heavy on him, he knew he couldn't handle it straight.

"You been drinkin' for a while, haven't you."

"Yeah," Charlie said and looked away again.  "I don't know, man." Charlie seemed to be letting down his defenses.  "It’s weird, dude.  When you asked me about tonight ... I remember bein' at the Civic, fuckin' with the equipment ... then I’m in the bar.  I don’ t remember in between."

Mark was cautious.  "D'you have a lot to drink?"

"I don't know ... I guess so.  I feel fucked up, anyway.  I'm scared ... my whole body hurts." He looked down at his hands; they were filthy.

"This is purdy bogus, man.  You sure you don’t remember anything?"  The look on Charlie's face as he looked at his own hands was starting to make Mark nervous.

"Naw, man.  Just fuckin' around with the sticks and then bein' in the bar."  He tried to rub the dirt off his thumbnail.

"Do you remember talkin' to anybody there?"

"Just some guy drinkin’."

"Maybe you need to see a doctor or something."

"Like a shrink?" Charlie stopped rubbing his thumb and looked straight at Mark.

"A shrink’ll do.  But you could start off by talking to your regular doctor."

"I don't got a regular doctor, dude."

"My doctor's cool," Mark offered.  "He'd check you out if you want."

'Well, I don't know, man.  What do I say?  X-ray my head and tell me where I been?" Charlie sounded more frantic than sarcastic.

"Just go talk to 'im.  He's the doctor.  Let him decide what to do."

"I'm pretty weirded out, man.  You got anymore of that stuff? I wanna get fucked up tonight ... I gotta wash my hands." Charlie got up and started to pace.  He looked like he was about to cry.  He turned suddenly and started to walk to the bathroom.

"Yeah.  Why not?  I wanna get fucked up too," Mark said to himself.  He started to get up and noticed the pain in his foot.  As Charlie walked away Mark hollered, "do me a favor.  I don't wanna put any pressure on this.  Go to the top drawer of my bureau and get it."

"Right, dude."

Charlie stood over the toilet to take a piss.  He noticed that his dick was red and swollen.  The pungent smell told him he'd been fucking in his sleep again.  It was no use, though, he couldn't remember a thing.  Rather than dwell on it, he took off his jeans and his jockey shorts and carefully washed his dick in the sink.  He washed his face and his hands and slipped his jeans back on.  He stared at himself in the mirror for a few minutes wondering what was happening.  When he caught a flash of silver in his eyes he looked down at the metal buttons on his fly.  Then he turned and walked into Mark’s bedroom.  He knew he couldn't think about it anymore.  He opened the bureau drawer and picked up the small round marble surface that held a pile of white crystalline powder.  As he returned to the living room, Mark noticed that his fly was unbuttoned again.

"You always waggin' that thing in public, or what?" he pointed at Charlie's crotch. He tried to bring some levity to the situation.

Charlie looked down at himself.  "No wonder I was such a hit with the boys," he joked.

"Fuckin' fag!"  Mark laughed.  "Come over and set your ass down for a while.  I gotta talk to you."

Mark grabbed the surface out of Charlie's hand while Charlie fastened the buttons on his fly.  Mark took a razor blade from a cigarette box on the coffee table and used it to cut the powder into several small lines.  He handed the surface back to Charlie.  Charlie pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and let Mark roll it into a tooter.  He sat with the surface in his hand looking tired and confused.  Mark handed him the tooter and smiled.  One look at Charlie and he knew he had to change the subject.

"Ya know.  I was gonna surprise you tonight," he started slowly.

Charlie snorted noisily.  He seemed more interested in getting fucked up than in listening to conversation.  When he finished his second line he looked at Mark and passed him the surface.  He looked completely exhausted.  The expression on his face indicated that he wasn’t sure that he had heard Mark correctly.

"I was gonna have you come up and join us on 'Road Rash'...ya know... to help us close the show."

"No way.  You shittin' me?" Charlie came to life with a burst of energy.  The glint in his eye caught Mark by surprise.

"I wasn't sure you'd think it was such a good idea," Mark sat back.

"No way, man.  What a trip.  I would'a loved it." His eyes glistened with intense enthusiasm.  His nostrils flared slightly, almost like a horse's.

Mark was hesitant.  He held the surface below his nose and snorted a couple of lines himself.  Was he going crazy, or had Charlie just done a complete personality change?  His voice even sounded different.  He looked askance at Charlie.  It had to be the alcohol.

"We're finishing up tomorrow," he continued.  "Afternoon performance.  Finale's at 6:00."

"Yeah?  Ya mean it?" Charlie sat forward.  The light in his face eclipsed the exhaustion that weighed on his eyelids.

"Yeah," Mark answered and smiled nervously.

"I can do it.  I can do it," Charlie blinked excitedly.  He sounded like a child trying to convince himself to do something.  Then he sat back and relaxed.  The light retreated into his eyes slowly.  Mark felt better; almost relieved.

They sat quietly and partied for a couple more hours.  They drank and snorted until neither of them felt any pain.  Mark forgot about his aching foot, and Charlie's enthusiasm returned.  Charlie was happier than he had been in a long time.  He was so eager to join the band he asked if he could play the opening number.  Mark was surprised.  He had to think about it for a minute.  Then he decided it was the right thing to do.  If it worked out all right, Charlie could play the closing number as well.  Fuck his manager.  He just wouldn't say anything to him.

"Yeah, dude.  We could open with 'Road Rash'...that would be cool!" Mark’s excitement was mounting.  "We'd have to close with somethin' else, though ... something they really like."

"What about something slow?"

“... Janie's Wound,”  Mark suggested.

"Yeah!"

"You remember it, right?"

"Like the back of my fuckin' hand."

"Awright.  It’s a deal, man."  Mark stuck out his hand to shake on it.  Charlie grabbed it hard and patted it gratefully.

"If we're gonna be worth a shit, we better not make it a late one," Mark advised.

"No shit, dude."

They finished off what was left on the surface and polished off a couple more beers.  In the last hours they spent together they rekindled their old friendship.  Mark was determined to make it last this time.

II

Michael awoke to the ringing of the telephone.  The voice on the other end was strange and unfamiliar.  As the guy asked if he planned to stay another night, peculiar images raced across his mind.  Had he been dreaming about dancing?  It was 1 o'clock in the afternoon.  He wasn't spending another night in a strange hotel room.  What now?  He'd missed all his Monday classes and he still hadn't corrected that last bunch of papers.  This was the third time this semester that something like this had happened.  If his department head got another complaint about him from his students, he'd be in serious trouble.  He jumped out of bed and took a quick shower.

As he rummaged around getting dressed, he remembered Eric.  He stopped what he was doing and looked around the room.  Eric's things were gone.  There was no note.  Maybe he'd just stepped outside to load his van.  He'd be back.  There was a crisp one-hundred dollar bill on the nightstand.  Michael’s heart sank.  He picked up the money and finished getting dressed.  On the way out he'd check the front desk to see if Eric might have left a message for him there.

There were no messages.  Eric had left no number behind.  He hadn't even left a mailing address.  There was no way Michael could contact him.  He picked up his bag and ran to the parking lot.  He looked around frantically for the big white conversion van.  It was nowhere in sight.  Michael was so bummed out, he felt like crying.  He walked to his car and threw his bag in the trunk.  He stood around for a few minutes and thought about what to do.  Just running off like that without saying anything was inconsiderate.  It wasn't something Michael could easily comprehend.  He considered the possibility of heading back to San Jose and forgetting everything that had happened.  Somehow that didn’t seem the right thing to do.

If Eric were in the area he'd be off surfing somewhere.  He might have taken a drive up the beach.  There was plenty of surfing going on closer to Natural Bridges State Park.  Michael got into his car and drove up and down West Cliff Drive.  Every time he spotted a blond surfer or saw a white van parked off the road, he'd slow down to get a closer look.  Eric was nowhere in sight.

Michael had a sick feeling in his stomach.  The idea of having gotten so close to someone and then having them disappear without a word depressed him.  It wasn't so much an interest in pursuing the kind of relationship that had involved sex, it was more a matter of principle.  Michael wanted the option of making his own decisions.  It disturbed him that Eric may have decided for both of them already.  Michael wasn't about to believe it.  Eric couldn't be so naive.  He had to be somewhere close by.  If he'd gone off to surf alone, maybe he would end up at The Silver Dollar later.

Michael couldn't believe his own reaction.  Last night he wouldn't have cared if Eric disappeared.  This sudden onslaught of sentimentality was confusing.  Somehow it had crept up on him in his sleep, like a viral infection.  One minute he was fine, the next he had broken into a cold sweat.  It was infuriating to feel so helpless.  He was drowning in a sudden rush of emotions; feelings he never dreamed existed.  In a fit of anger, Michael headed back towards the city.  He was going to sit in the bar until Eric showed up.  If it took sitting in that fucking bar all day and night, he was going to do it.  He'd occupy his time writing.  Purging always made him feel better.  A good dose of the Blues would have cured him almost immediately.

III

Mark felt a jolt and sat up in bed.  He woke up to see Charlie getting up and heading for the bathroom.  He thought he had felt an earthquake.  He wasn't used to sharing his bed with anyone anymore.  He rolled over and looked at the clock.  It was 10 a.m. They'd have plenty of time to wake up and get ready for the concert.  It didn't start until 2 p.m. anyway.  Mark lay still for a few minutes and listened to the shower run.  It reminded him about his injured foot.  The hot water had made it ache last night.

He carefully pulled his foot out from under the covers and inspected it.  It was still a little sore, but not as bad as it had been last night.  He propped it up on the side of the bed to get a better look at the small wound.  It looked like there was something stuck inside; a piece of glass.  He touched it with the end of his fingernail and winced from the pain.  The glass was working its way out.  If he left it alone, it would be all right.  He probably just needed to put a little more disinfectant on it.  He wasn't sure if he had the guts to try the isopropyl alcohol again, but it was all he had in the house.

He walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.  Charlie was singing "Gash Bashing," one of Mark's popular songs.

"You're killin' it, dude!  Stick to drummin'...leave the singin' to me!"

Charlie started laughing.  "We're doin' a concert!  We're doin' a fuckin' concert today!" he yelled over the sound of the running water.  I’m so happy I could shit!"

"Fuckin' shit!  God damn fuckin' shit!" Mark yelled as he poured the alcohol onto his foot.

"I didn't mean it literally, dude," Charlie responded.  He opened the shower door to take a look at Mark.  "What the fuck ya doin' anyway?"

"Disinfecting my god damned foot!"

"Ooh whee!  Sounds kina painful, dude.  Think its gonna be all right?"

"Yeah, yeah.  I’ll be fine," Mark answered with pained annoyance in his voice.  "A couple of these oughta do the trick."  He took his painkillers out of the cabinet and popped a couple in his mouth.  "Now I'll just need a little something to wake me up."

Charlie went back to his shower.  "Gimme some a whatever you're havin', dude.  It sounds like fun."

Mark walked back into the bedroom and cut a few lines of the white powder in his bureau.  Charlie came out of the bathroom drying himself off.

"How's it feel."

“What?”

"Your foot, dude!"

"Oh.  It's fine.  Just the initial shock of burning it out gets to me .... See!  I can walk on it." He stood up and stepped across the room a couple of times.  He went back to the bureau and snorted some lines off the surface.  Charlie walked over behind him and waited his turn.

"Help yourself.  I’m gonna take my shower."

"Awright.  You got an extra toothbrush, dude?  I forgot to bring mine," Charlie said as he bent down to snort a line.

"On the shelf above the towels."

"Cool.”

The hot shower made Mark's foot ache again.  Tomorrow he'd have to call his doctor to see if he needed a tetanus shot or something.  Maybe he could fish out the piece of glass that was lodged inside.  The thought of it made him queasy.  He tried to think about something else.  He started singing his own version of "Gash Bashing."

"Nice, man.  Good control!"  Charlie encouraged as he brushed his teeth over the sink.  "You sing like that today and those groupie chicks will be on their knees fightin' over your fuckin' cock."

Mark smiled to himself and kept singing.  He was proud to have Charlie saying such nice things about his music.  He could hardly wait for the show to begin.  "Shit!"  He looked down and saw the shower floor covered with blood.  He was just going to have to do something about his foot before the concert started.

Mark dried himself off and looked for a pair of tweezers.  "Cut me another couple of lines, dude," he said to Charlie.

Charlie rinsed out his mouth quickly, "you got it."

Mark walked over to the bed and sat down by the nightstand.  He turned on the lamp and adjusted the shade so he could see his foot better.  Charlie walked over and handed him the surface.

"Thanks, man."

When he was finished, he handed it back to Charlie and proceeded to inspect the area between his toes.

"This is all your fuckin' fault, ya know."

"My fault?"

"Yeah.  I stepped on one of your glass toys you left on the floor."

"What are you talkin' about?"

"You left a little glass cow or horse on the floor the other day and I stepped on it."

"Hey, man.  It wasn't mine," Charlie responded.

"Well it sure as fuck wasn't mine.  I don't even like that kind of shit."

Charlie really didn’t know what he was talking about.  He decided not to argue.  It was better to go along with whatever Mark said.  He was in a foul mood.  "Sorry, dude. It won't happen again."

"God damn it!  Come over here and help me with this.  It hurts like shit."

"It’s bleeding, man.  You’re gonna get it all over the sheets."

"Well get me a towel from the bathroom."

Charlie pulled the towel from around his waist and handed it to Mark.  "OK.  I'm gonna hold my toes apart and I want you to take the tweezers and pull out the piece of glass."

"You shittin' me, dude?"

"Come on.  I gotta get it out.  It fuckin' hurts," he said with his teeth clenched.

Charlie knelt down in front of Mark and picked up the tweezers.  He was a little squeamish about picking at someone else's wound, but Mark couldn't do it himself.  "Awright.  This is prob'ly gonna hurt," he said before sticking the tweezers between Mark’s toes.  "Keep that towel under it."

Mark pulled the towel under his foot and spread his toes apart with his hands.  He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth.  Charlie proceeded like a skilled surgeon.  "Got it," he said, as he pinched the end of the glass fragment with the tips of the tweezers.  "Hold still ... hold still."

Mark started to holler, "aaaaaaaaah."  Charlie ignored him and pulled on the piece of glass until it came all the way out.

"Fuck!  " he said.  "Fuckin' things the size of a toothpick!"  Charlie looked at the piece of glass for a minute and then walked over to the waste can and tossed it.

Mark’s foot poured blood for a few minutes.  He thought he was going to pass out.  He squeezed the front of his foot and rocked back and forth.  The pressure seemed to help.  Now instead of a dull ache and throb, it only stung a little.  What a relief.  When the bleeding stopped he put his full weight on it.  It felt as good as new.  This time he'd dispense with the disinfectant.  A little soap and water would be good enough.

IV

When Eric woke up on Monday morning, Michael was still asleep.  After his shower, Eric turned on the TV set and watched the morning news quietly.  The fire that he'd heard about the night before was still raging out of control in the mountains north of Santa Cruz.  This time they showed a map of the area and pointed out where Felton was located.  The fire had spread south and west of the little town and was moving toward the Pacific Ocean.  Eric remembered driving down Highway 1 through the town of Davenport.  The area overlooking the ocean was beautiful.  He decided he would take a drive back up the coast.  If he was able to locate the fire, he might volunteer to help fight it. As he looked through Michael's wallet to find an address and phone number, he heard that the city of Santa Cruz was in no immediate danger.

Eric turned off the TV and jotted down Michael's number in his address book.  He pulled another hundred-dollar bill from his overnight bag and placed it on the nightstand.  He walked over and looked at Michael for a while.  He couldn't get over how much Michael reminded him of his father.  Without disturbing him, Eric gathered his belongings and headed for his van.

On the way up the coast, Eric listened to radio reports describing the fire.  They advised civilians to stay away from the area and discouraged volunteers from trying to help.  Eric was anxious to see a forest fire first-hand; he was really only half-serious about trying to help.  He lit a cigarette and puffed on it slowly while he drove north, drawing in the beautiful scenery with each breath of smoke.  Davenport was teeming with traffic when he arrived.  People had streamed down from the higher elevations to avoid the smoke and flames.  The fire hadn't been visible along the coastal highway; only the roughly carved coastline and a solid line of traffic had caught his attention.  Eric stopped the van in front of a small grocery store and got out to ask where the fire was situated.  A guy with a camera told him that he had seen the flames heading towards Bonny Doon Road.

"I wouldn't drive up there if I were you, kid."

“I’m cool ... just wanna check it out, dude."

"There's a long line of cars coming down from the mountain.  I doubt you'll get anywhere near the place."

"That's cool.  Thanks a lot, dude."

Eric hopped back in the van and drove south.  The winds off the Pacific Ocean had kept the smoke and flames from reaching the crest of the coastal mountains.  The guy with the camera was right.  There was no way he could even get near Bonny Doon Road.  He drove a little further to look for another entrance.  On the left he spotted a small foot trail that ran parallel to Laguna Creek.  He followed it cautiously until he came to Smith Grade Road.  He took a right and followed it to Empire Grade.  The smell of smoke was strong.  Flames from the distant fire shot up on the horizon just behind the crest of the mountain.  Eric decided to park his van and walk toward the trees.  As he got closer he could hear the sounds of people hollering.  The unmistakable roar of the fire was in the distance.

Homes dotted the mountain on either side of him.  All of them looked abandoned.  The terrain had changed from a smooth slope to a treacherous climb.  The vegetation was thick and dry.  As he hiked further up the mountain, he entered the forest.  He heard the close crackle of the flames.  Periodically, there were crashes and explosions that echoed through the woods.  He came upon a clearing and a small road that cut a steep path up the side of the mountain.  About 500 feet ahead he saw a fire truck and a couple of cars.  Heavy smoke was rising from the roof of the house beyond them.

Eric started to run up the steep road to get a better look.  His heart was beating hard and his adrenaline was pumping.  As he approached, he heard a loud, dry snap.  An electric pole collapsed near the crest of the mountain and dropped a live wire across the top of the fire truck.  A couple of guys ran to save the two firemen who were standing near the truck when the wire came down.  Flames shot from the side windows of the small wood-frame house as Eric watched.  He ran closer to the burning house with anticipation in his eyes.

"Don't try it.  The place is gone!" one of the volunteers yelled to Eric.

Almost immediately there were shrill cries that seemed to come from inside the house.  It was the voices of young children.

"There's kids in there!" Eric yelled back and dashed off with no regard for his own safety.  He ran like a deer up the steep slope.  His long bleached hair flew behind him like white flames.  His tight blue jeans fit him like a glove as he ran towards the burning house.  His youthful innocence was evident to all who watched the grace of his supple body as he sped across the grass towards the flames.

Before one of the volunteers in the front yard could stop him, Eric had entered the burning house to try to save the children.  The volunteer chased after him with the intent of tackling him to the ground, but Eric was too fast for the forty-year old man.

As Eric entered, he saw that the living room and kitchen were in flames.  He yelled desperately for the children to show themselves, "where are you?  I’m here to help you!"  He hurried through two of the bedrooms, turning over furniture and rummaging through the closets.  The cries had turned into the faint whimpering of children in fear.  The sound was coming from the kitchen cupboard.

The center of the kitchen was engulfed in flames.  "I'm coming!" he yelled desperately.  "Stay where you are."  The flames were so intense he doubted he could stand the heat much longer.  But he couldn't let those children die without trying to save them.  Without further thought, he took a step back and dove through the flames.  He slammed facedown on the linoleum floor and slapped out the flames that burned his long hair.  He was kneeling down when he grabbed for the metal doorknob.  It raised blisters on the palm of his hand, but he ignored the pain and pulled the heavy door open as fast as he could.

A tall man in a black leather jacket and a pair of bright blue jeans stood before him in the cupboard.  He held a metal button on his fly between his right thumb and index finger.  The look on his face was breathtaking.  He smiled with his mouth half open.  The sounds of children's voices emanated from deep within his throat.  His golden hair floated around his head and the light from the fire reflected in his eyes.  Eric could see that he had no pupils.  His metal button shined silver, as if illuminated from within.  Eric was struck silent by the unexpected sight of the beautiful man.  Even though he felt his own clothing ignite from the heat of the flames, the light from the button kept him from moving a muscle.

The man in the cupboard took one step forward.  He placed his left hand above Eric's head and held it steady.  Eric felt intense pain as the fire burned through his clothes and into his flesh.  There was terror in his unbelieving eyes as the man pressed the metal button to Eric's trembling lips.

"Taste the light," the man whispered over the sound of the raging fire.  "See the changing forms," he urged with the voice of a child.

Seconds after Eric had entered the burning house, a violent explosion shook the ground.  The front door of the house flew off its hinges and the back portion of the roof blew into fragments high in the air.  Eric's pursuer was thrown backwards by the blast.  He scrambled to his feet quickly and ran back to help the other volunteers.  They dragged the injured firemen down the steep road as fast as they could to escape the heat and chunks of burning timber that showered down.  The badly shaken volunteer watched in tears while the small house burned to the ground.

V

At 2 p.m. Charlie was waiting in the audience.  After Mark finished the intro to "Hairless Peach," he would introduce Charlie.  Charlie would have to climb on the stage and take his place behind the traps.  Mark would give the signal, and then the band would start to play in unison.

As soon as the crowd had simmered down, Mark made his announcement.  Charlie didn't realize that he was running.  He felt as if he were flying towards the stage on ice skates.  His head was filled with so much noise and so many lights, he thought he was going crazy.  The anticipation of getting behind those drums kept him focused on what he had to do.  Before he reached the stage, he leapt with all the grace of a young stag.  He managed to land on his feet without breaking his stride.  On the way past Mark, Charlie landed a high-five across his palm.  Then he got behind the drums, stripped off his leather jacket, and picked up the sticks.  They fused to his hands like extensions of his palms and tapped out a perfect rhythm on the metal rim of the snare.  The fans were hysterical.  Mark was blown away by Charlie's precision.  He didn't even care that Charlie had started without him.  This guy was better than Mark remembered.

The band had no trouble following Charlie's lead, he knew exactly what he was doing.  Their regular drummer stood in the wings while Charlie played.  Even he was impressed by Charlie's performance.  When they got to the chorus, Charlie stood up and drilled the plastic skins with a long descending roll.  Mark came in on the final stroke and wailed to the sound of his own guitar.  The bass took over the rhythm while Charlie accompanied on tom-tom and high-hat.  Mark's head was in the clouds.

Fast movin' hands

She set his balls on fire

Fast curves too drunk to try to save it;

Two-handed stroke

That nasty gal so fine

Just had to gun it ‘ fore he faded.

She keep him howlin', keep on talkin'  trash

She look so good

Tight little piece a ass

She keep on pumpin', keep it pumpin’ fast

Road rash, road rash

He made it.

Mark staggered across the stage in his usual style.  The pain in his foot was completely gone.  The band had never reached such a high level of energy during a day performance.  Charlie's presence had made all the difference in the world.  Before returning to the lyrics, Mark turned and faced Charlie, wiggling his ass at the crowd.  The fans screamed at Mark's butt and at Charlie's shit-eating grin.  Mark spun around and straddled his guitar in an obscene gesture.  He plunged back into the song with a new burst of energy.

She keep on pumpin, now she's pumpin' mean

She got him hoppin' like a love machine

He gun it hard and she just squeeze on tight

He got it screamin' through the traffic light

She keep him pumpin', gruntin' pumpin' fast

Fast humpin' dream tight little piece a ass

He pushin' hard he jammin' on the gas

Road rash, they crash

He faded.

The crowd was going nuts.  Charlie took one bow and picked his leather jacket off the floor.  He walked into the wings with the drumsticks in one hand.  The regular drummer greeted him with an enthusiastic hug.  Charlie smiled with a vacant look in his eyes and handed him the sticks.  Neither of them noticed they were smeared with blood.  Charlie was so high from the experience, he kept walking.  He walked toward the rear of the auditorium without thinking about what he was doing.  He paid no attention to the world around him as he pulled his jacket on.  The sounds of the concert were still racing through his mind.  The feeling of flying amid sounds of music disintegrated in a squinting glare of sunlight that streamed through the opening door.  The colored floodlights that obscured the faces of the crowd were washed clean from his head.  The ultraviolet rays of the sun had suddenly cut through his consciousness and obliterated the memory of his performance.  But a part of him remained behind, refusing to pass into the light.  It hovered above the stage, watching the band and changing shape, while Charlie walked through the streets of Santa Cruz feeling as though he were waking from a deep, disturbing sleep.

The heavy lethargy had dulled his senses.  He walked into a public restroom and ran cold water over the back of his head.  The sound of the running water was distant, like a river flowing toward the sea.  The cold water on his head kept him from losing himself in the seductive sound.  He resisted it.  He pushed himself away from the sink and shook the water from his hair defiantly.  The water dripped down the mirror distorting his reflection.  He unbuttoned his jeans with one quick motion and listened to his piss stream into the porcelain lavatory.  The sound was irresistible.  It drew him in like the physical need for sleep.

Charlie fastened three of the buttons on his fly when he was finished pissing.  The one that he had left unbuttoned he held between his thumb and forefinger.  He looked at it carefully, rolling it back and forth; watching it reflect the light.  When someone opened the door, he stopped what he was doing and headed back into the streets.  The faint smell of smoke that hung in the air reminded him of the woods.  He didn't want to think about that right now.  He didn't want to think about the sound of running water either.  He wanted to focus on something else; on something that wouldn't make him feel so dull and crazy.  He felt like having a drink.  He felt like kicking somebody's ass for the hell of it.  Maybe just talking to someone would help him relieve his pent-up aggression.  Maybe what he needed was to get laid.

He headed toward Seabright Avenue to see if an old friend of his was tending bar at the Owl's Nest.  He'd have a few drinks and shoot the shit for a while.  Charlie hadn't seen him in years.  He hadn't anticipated that Jerry would wig out in front of all those people when he saw him again.  Even though it had happened five years ago, Jerry hadn't forgotten what he had seen.  Right now Charlie just felt like talking to him.  Then he'd head over to The Silver Dollar.  That place was always good for a laugh; maybe a blow-job.  When he started to run across Ocean Street, he missed the curb with his right foot and twisted his ankle pretty badly.  He was too much of a jock to give in to a little bit of pain.  He ignored the injury and ran the rest of the way to the bar.

VI

Mark had gone back stage after the last number to change costumes and get his face painted red.  It wasn't unusual for him to use props and theatrical effects to enhance his interpretations.  He had a talent for conveying meaning in a decidedly crude way.  His strict repertoire always included an unrehearsed rendition of at least one of his pieces.  The band never knew which one he would choose until they were on stage.  In his mind, it balanced the group.  It kept them from becoming overly practiced and prescribed; and it protected them from the pitfalls of habitual improvisation.  He figured the best way to avoid becoming either of the extremes he hated was to incorporate elements of both.  His private nemesis was the groups that rejected discipline entirely.  They tried to pass off their actions as philosophy.  He saw it more as an excuse to avoid their responsibility as artists.  The result of their philosophy was evident in their predominantly ill-educated fans.

It would have been ironic that the majority of Mark Chappell's fans were as ill educated as those of his rivals, but his art was designed to attract them.  He wanted those young, impressionable minds.  He wanted to captivate them with what they thought they wanted to see, and then he wanted to tear everything open and show them what really lurked inside.  He was very good at it.  Those who were capable understood.  Those who were not were entertained; not handed a specious philosophy of art.

After the break, the rhythm guitarist watched as Mark ran out on stage in a full black body stocking.  His face and throat were covered in red paint.  Red silk spheres, stuffed with foam rubber to the size of volleyballs, covered each of his feet and hands.  A small red hemisphere was attached to his crotch and another to his buttocks.  Small holes in the hand spheres allowed him to pop out his fingers.  When he started to sing, the crowd joined in.  "Gash Bashing" was one of their favorite tunes.  So far, this was one of his tamer improvisations.  For some reason, he had decided to stick to a single spot on the stage.  He had deliberately left his guitar back stage, giving his rhythm guitarist the opportunity to display his own talents.

During the guitar solo, Mark pulled the two hemispheres off his crotch and ass and threw them to the crowd.  One had covered his brightly painted naked buttocks; the other, his penis, which was coated in dull black paint.  The noise from the crowd almost drowned out the sound of the music when Mark started to twirl his dick in quick circles.  He fell on his back and dragged himself backwards with wild kicks in the air.  The guitarist noticed that his movements were strange and erratic.  He was no longer moving to the beat.  Instead, he was acting as if he were completely fucked up on drugs.  He obviously had something unusual in mind.

Oddly enough, he ignored his regular cue and continued to thrash around on the stage.  The keyboardist was forced to take over the melody.  The rhythm guitarist didn't dare attempt the vocals.  God only knew if Mark had planned to break in unexpectedly.  The band played all the way through to the chorus while Mark flailed around the stage floor like a fish out of water.  They were about to break into the melody again when Mark pulled his right knee to his chest and grabbed his foot with both hands.  He tore at the red sphere that covered his right foot.  As he pulled the silky material apart with his finger nails, the guitarist watched him force his head backwards to stare at him upside down.  He had arched his back completely.  The expression on his face was inscrutable behind all that paint in the shadows of the footlights; the guitarist observed Mark’s hands instead.  Their quick steady movements mesmerized him.  His fingers moved quickly and adeptly, like a spider spinning its web.

His hands had torn through the silk sphere effortlessly and had latched onto his toes.  It looked as if he were pulling his big toe to the left and forcing the rest of his toes backwards.  What kind of message was that?  What the hell was he trying to say this time?  Those ridiculous spheres were masking one of his expensive props.  No one could lie on the floor in front of thousands of fans and split his own foot apart with his bare hands.  The visual effect was impressive, though.  The gushing of fake blood certainly caught him and the crowd by surprise.  They were so distracted by the realism of the scene, they didn't even care if Mark got up and sang again.  As the guitarist became more and more entranced by Mark's theatrics, the crowd rose to its feet and cheered wildly.

Mark pulled his head up slowly and looked up at his struggling hands.  His fingers were clenched tightly around his toes.  He was pulling as hard as he could, trying to rip his foot apart and tear his puncture wound open.  The pain was so great he could feel it all the way up to his groin.  The guitarist decided that Mark wasn't faking it.  Somehow he had really managed to split his foot as far up as his instep.  He was beginning to froth at the mouth and convulse as the music came to an abrupt stop.  Half the crowd waited in anticipation for something spectacular to happen.  The other half believed they were starting to hallucinate.  The drugs and alcohol they had consumed had affected their perception.  They were feeling paranoid; starting to get physically ill from watching Mark’s realistic performance.

Mark suddenly let out a chilling scream and released his grip.  He collapsed heavily on his back with his arms spread apart.  The guitarist watched his right leg become erect and rigid.  A bulbous protrusion emerged slowly from the wound in his foot amid sounds of breaking bone and tearing muscle.  It jerked forward in sudden angry thrusts as it steadily shed Mark’s stocking-covered leg like an empty snakeskin.  It was turning him inside out.  When two pink orbs emerged from Mark's bloated crotch, someone in the audience screamed out, "motherfucker!  We're all gonna die!"

The audience whirled around in unison to escape the thing that emerged from Mark's foot.  They tore at one another to get to the exits.  The guitarist was captivated by two golden spots that appeared on the lumps that used to be Mark's testicles.  A pair of eyes was forming, extricating themselves slowly from Mark's deflating groin.  The eyes darted around clumsily before locking on to the guitarist.  He stared back, frozen with fear, as the area beneath the eyes jerked itself loose from Mark’s rhythmically contracting abdomen.  None of the other band members could move.  They found it virtually impossible to resist the urge to play "Janie's Wound."

The guitarist watched Mark's eyes suddenly pop open.  His head bent backwards unnaturally as his fingers clawed into the stage floor.  "Help me!" he howled in a hyperpitched voice, "it's killing me!" A putrid stench emanated from his gaping mouth.  As the creature emerged, minute cracks appeared in its newly formed hide, oozing thick yellow pus.  The guitarist couldn't move from his spot.  He could do nothing but play as his stomach convulsed from the smell, and his head grew dizzy from the unbelievable sights and sounds.

The lower half of Mark’s body had already begun to transform into the head and neck of a badly disfigured horse.  The lower half of the emerging horse was an agglomeration of Mark’s internal organs that pulsated obscenely to the rhythm of the music.

Mark gurgled blood from his nose and mouth.  He could no longer scream.  All he could do was blink and shake his head from side to side to keep his air passage open.  He was still alive when his left leg began to bend away from his right, paralleling the side of his body with a loud crack of pelvic bones.  It split lengthwise into two independent appendages that thickened and bent painfully at their newly formed joints.  The appendages became the front legs of the rapidly growing horse.  They sprouted large hooves at the ends and struggled for footing on the stage floor.  Mark's arms stiffened and reached above his head.  His hands folded back at the wrists and his palms pressed against the floor.  His elbows raised and his upper arms elongated, trembling amid the audible snap of expanding bone and muscle.  His fingers fused and curled downward, stiffening into enormous hooves that were adorned at the ankles with red silk spheres.

The band kept playing "Janie's Wound."  They were forced to watch the hideous transformation of their band leader into a mass of black stinking flesh that resembled a horse.  Its huge golden eyes had set into its well-formed skull.  They remained fixed on the guitarist as the band played in unison.  Each band member was certain that he would undergo a similar transformation.  Each was powerless to escape the will of the thing that emerged before them.  It controlled everything about them; but it let their fragile emotions run free.  The band members cried hysterically as they watched and played.  The guitarist knew that each would have his chance to solo.  And when the music stopped, each would undergo some excruciating metamorphosis.

The guitarist watched Mark's pectorals swell into two enormous mounds of parting flesh.  The hairs on his chest grew long and silky, covering the hole that had opened to form the beast’s anus.  An enormous veined horn grew from the creature's forehead as it pushed itself into a standing position and shook its massive head from side to side.  It stood with its hind legs parted and turned to stare at the guitarist.  When it snarled, it revealed a set of jagged, yellowed teeth.  A foul rush of noisy gas shot from its rectum and ruffled its long silky tail.  The single horn on its head had taken the shape of an erect human phallus.  As it balanced itself on all four hooves, the guitarist watched Mark's head dangle upside down from between the beast’s hind legs like a malformed scrotum.  His long hair hung to the floor while his eyes remained open and his mouth formed a circle, like that of a dead fish.

The black horse stood seven feet high at the withers.  It flicked its tail from side to side as it walked backwards, revealing a wrinkled and swollen anus that oozed a putrid yellow slime.  The guitarist felt guilty, but he was relieved when the creature approached the hysterical keyboardist first.  The animal snorted and pawed at the stage floor with its front hoof.  As soon as the music stopped, it kicked the electric keyboard out of the way and straddled him with its powerful hind legs.  The keyboardist sat paralyzed as the beast squatted, planting its distended anus in his face and positioning Mark's dangling head between his legs.  He let out a heart-rending scream when Mark’s head bit viciously into his crotch.  Then the beast forced its anus over his horrified face until it had sucked in his entire head.  The keyboardist pounded ineffectually against the horse's huge rump as the animal raised its back end.  It dangled him from its anus like a human tail.  The keyboardist kicked and pounded wildly as blood poured down his legs.

The guitarist watched the animal turn its horned head to the right and stare straight into the drummer's trembling face.  He started to pray out loud.  When it pointed its phallic horn at him menacingly and bared its teeth, the drummer collapsed backwards over his stool.  His feet remained planted firmly on the stage.

The crowd had turned on itself in confusion.  A scroungy Jesus Freak was running up and down the aisles screaming about repentance.  He held a lighted stick of dynamite in his hand and waved it over his head.  All the exit doors were locked from the outside.  Those who had reached the doors first were getting crushed against the doors by the desperate throng.  Their only recourse was to turn and fight with whatever they could get their hands on.  The guitarist watched the beast approach the bass player with its lips curled back over its rotting teeth.  The guitarist saw the bass player's screaming face before the beast bit into his stomach.  Then everything exploded into fragments of bone and putrefying flesh and daylight came pouring into the auditorium through the smoke and haze.

The rhythm guitarist lay in a daze on the floor of the stage.  Through the acrid smoke he saw bodies of fans strewn throughout the auditorium; some looked dead, others lay groaning and bleeding on the cement floor.  The walls and ceilings dripped blood and pungent yellow pus.  Hundreds of dismembered survivors poured noiselessly into the streets.  The guitarist tried to protect his bleeding nose from the smell.  He was stone deaf and partially blind.  He looked around him in complete shock, no longer aware of what it was the crowd was fleeing.