1991 'Chapter I'
1984 – Dark Powers Of Attorney
-
Leo massaged the back of his neck, thankful the meeting was finally over. His hand came away slick with greasy sweat and tingling with the after prickle of tiny hairs stood on end. Through the smoke and under the noise came the clock clock clocking of heels; sharps and flats echoing through the old building, moving steadily, unhurriedly away from him. The stink of Brylcreem, gin, brimstone, hairspray, cigarettes and baby powder hung thick in the artificial fog. Heavy metal music blasted from the floor below, an industrial dirge that mingled with and then swallowed whole the hypnotic swing of the fading boot heels.
He hadn't burst into flame, and had only lost a little blood, and so counted himself mostly to the good. He gathered up the scattered parchment amidst the many empty glasses littering the small table and stuffed them into a battered but still serviceable briefcase. One of the pages drew a razor thin cut across the tip of his left index finger, spilling more blood onto the contract, inadvertently initialing some clause or other. He'd have to look into that, but just now all he wanted to do was get the funk out.
He scraped the chair out from beneath him as he stood, sending a deep tickling vibration through his calves and up his spine; a high harmonic echo to the bass thump coming up through the floor, shot up through the soles of his shoes, pulsing from feet to skull. A sudden black dizziness washed over him and he staggered to a stop, head hung low. He reached blindly for something solid and found the wall. Was it the booze or the stink or the cacophony? A virulent combination of all three perhaps. Black birds swarmed and flies crawled, a thousand dim voices conversed – laughing or screaming, all was one – and the machine droned on. Subsonic bass and drums, teeth shattering guitars and screaming high vocals scored and serrated, battered and bludgeoned. He was a rag doll in hurricane, untethered from the world, Lord help him. Ten seconds of swirling, sludgy darkness held him, sucking quicksand. Mountainous heavy fatigue locked him inside himself, sleep paralysis with echos of shrieking madness.
The storm passed just as quickly as it had blown in, and he was once again just another hustler on the rock and roll scene, a man in his early forties in a rumpled grey suit, weathered briefcase in hand. Flies crawling and blackbirds flying, yeah, it was time to get gone, step out into the warm LA night and come the fuck down.
The deal was done. Again, Lord help him.
He headed toward the stairs, twisting through the maze of bodies, posed in tattered cool just so. Leather and cleavage, bandana's and cut up rock shirts, sex and stink. And hair, hair everywhere.
Leo wasn't out of place here, business types were always peppered among the ragged twenty something glory of the scene. The little doll faced girls with blood smeared lips and cat eyes smiled his way, the statuesque pouting scarecrows looked on coolly. Who was he and what could he do for them? Baby, you don't wanna know.
The stench of hairspray now ruled over all other previously stated old factory sensations, and the blackness hit him once more as he descended the twisting stairway into the main room, this time accompanied by a gut wrenching nausea. Was it the stink or was it the man, the aftertaste of close proximity to..? To whom? The face of the man from five minutes ago eluded him, was just a blur.
Ridiculous.
The man he had met with had been a tall, very intense Indian man with deep set eyes and a bushy beard. No, that wasn't right. He was tall, a skyscraper stick insect, a redhead with pale green eyes and thinning hair. He wore a black suit, that much was right.
Yeah, he needed a little fresh air. He'd walk a few blocks before grabbing a cab, get back home and put on Sticky Fingers or Strange Days, crack a beer and chill.
He found Renfield at his preferred corner booth, surrounded by smoke and acolytes and empty bottles. He was the ringmaster, the center of attention as was his lot and his need. The apostle's to his Jesus were two lavishly painted groupies, two sycophantic fan boys, the drummer of another band on the scene. and Dirk, the greasy blonde, barefoot mellow bass player for Pale Horse Pale Rider, the band fronted by Renfield, and managed by Leo lo' these last three years.
“Armani brother! What's the good gospel, dude?” said Dirk.
“Leo! Captain of my fate, love of my life. Do a shot, man.” slurred a dazed Renfield.
A shot girl in skimpy glitter top and mini skirt materialized out of the bacchanal haze, a tray of test tubes brimming with dark liquid held steady.
“Sambuca or Liquid Cocaine?” she offered. Shots were chosen, passed out and held high. It was the last thing Leo needed just now, but what the Hell.
“Rock and roll”, toasted Renfield, the Metal equivalent of 'Mazel Tov', test tube held high.
They clinked as best they could from their places in the semi-circular booth, Leo leaning in and toasting Renfield last, holding the kid's bleary eyes a moment. Renfield had spiky black hair, sprayed high and hung low, black painted eyes and fingernails, and a ripped AC/DC concert shirt, Highway To Hell tour. He was pale, he was lost. He was also at once jovial, brooding, and the Lord Of All Creation. That was his charm, a charismatic coinage which paid for a myriad of beers, dope, sex, and the occasional pair of boots or a couch to crash on. For a kid who lived in Leo's attic, jammed in his basement, and no doubt had the lovely ladies here paying for the drinks, he was on top of the fucking world. He was a riddle wrapped in a bandana. Pale Horse Pale Rider had a decent local following, some buzz, and nothing much besides. But the dream, the dream sustained all, made the moment sweet. Did Renfield know it wouldn't last forever? Sure he did, he must, but he lived right smack dab in the moment. Leo could give the poor doomed kid a few years, that much at least.
Silver bracelets jingled as everybody slugged back their shot.
The glitter top girl collected the test tubes and swung back into the murk, tight little ass swaying.
“So, you take care of your thing, whatever-fuck?” slurred Renfield.
All eyes appraised Leo with reverence and greed, in various combinations and to greater and lesser extent. Had some magic deal been struck that would somehow lift all of them heavenward, peripherally or spiritually if not in actual fame and fortune?
All through this exchange Leo had heard maybe one word in three.
“I'm good. And I'm outta here. Later, dudes.” he shouted.
“Bye, Leo.” one of the girl's shouted back, then broke into a fit of giggles with the other, Renfield deep in that one's neck, bloodsucking or dozing, who could say?
“Later, brother.” said Dirk, flashing a peace sign and a slow cool smile. He was surfer mystical, counterpoint and complimentary to Renfield's mania. Like any good bass player/lead singer dynamic.
Leo nodded, returning the smile, then got gone. The Liquid cocaine body rush eased him along, his steps through the glitter parade were light and sure, and eventually he found the door
.
He felt a budding sense of freedom, a lurking sense of accomplishment, and a lingering dread.
Sweet night air, and darkness ahead.
Done deal.
Rock and roll.
--
1991 on Amazon
1991 on Goodreads
Dave Mercel
-
Leo massaged the back of his neck, thankful the meeting was finally over. His hand came away slick with greasy sweat and tingling with the after prickle of tiny hairs stood on end. Through the smoke and under the noise came the clock clock clocking of heels; sharps and flats echoing through the old building, moving steadily, unhurriedly away from him. The stink of Brylcreem, gin, brimstone, hairspray, cigarettes and baby powder hung thick in the artificial fog. Heavy metal music blasted from the floor below, an industrial dirge that mingled with and then swallowed whole the hypnotic swing of the fading boot heels.
He hadn't burst into flame, and had only lost a little blood, and so counted himself mostly to the good. He gathered up the scattered parchment amidst the many empty glasses littering the small table and stuffed them into a battered but still serviceable briefcase. One of the pages drew a razor thin cut across the tip of his left index finger, spilling more blood onto the contract, inadvertently initialing some clause or other. He'd have to look into that, but just now all he wanted to do was get the funk out.
He scraped the chair out from beneath him as he stood, sending a deep tickling vibration through his calves and up his spine; a high harmonic echo to the bass thump coming up through the floor, shot up through the soles of his shoes, pulsing from feet to skull. A sudden black dizziness washed over him and he staggered to a stop, head hung low. He reached blindly for something solid and found the wall. Was it the booze or the stink or the cacophony? A virulent combination of all three perhaps. Black birds swarmed and flies crawled, a thousand dim voices conversed – laughing or screaming, all was one – and the machine droned on. Subsonic bass and drums, teeth shattering guitars and screaming high vocals scored and serrated, battered and bludgeoned. He was a rag doll in hurricane, untethered from the world, Lord help him. Ten seconds of swirling, sludgy darkness held him, sucking quicksand. Mountainous heavy fatigue locked him inside himself, sleep paralysis with echos of shrieking madness.
The storm passed just as quickly as it had blown in, and he was once again just another hustler on the rock and roll scene, a man in his early forties in a rumpled grey suit, weathered briefcase in hand. Flies crawling and blackbirds flying, yeah, it was time to get gone, step out into the warm LA night and come the fuck down.
The deal was done. Again, Lord help him.
He headed toward the stairs, twisting through the maze of bodies, posed in tattered cool just so. Leather and cleavage, bandana's and cut up rock shirts, sex and stink. And hair, hair everywhere.
Leo wasn't out of place here, business types were always peppered among the ragged twenty something glory of the scene. The little doll faced girls with blood smeared lips and cat eyes smiled his way, the statuesque pouting scarecrows looked on coolly. Who was he and what could he do for them? Baby, you don't wanna know.
The stench of hairspray now ruled over all other previously stated old factory sensations, and the blackness hit him once more as he descended the twisting stairway into the main room, this time accompanied by a gut wrenching nausea. Was it the stink or was it the man, the aftertaste of close proximity to..? To whom? The face of the man from five minutes ago eluded him, was just a blur.
Ridiculous.
The man he had met with had been a tall, very intense Indian man with deep set eyes and a bushy beard. No, that wasn't right. He was tall, a skyscraper stick insect, a redhead with pale green eyes and thinning hair. He wore a black suit, that much was right.
Yeah, he needed a little fresh air. He'd walk a few blocks before grabbing a cab, get back home and put on Sticky Fingers or Strange Days, crack a beer and chill.
He found Renfield at his preferred corner booth, surrounded by smoke and acolytes and empty bottles. He was the ringmaster, the center of attention as was his lot and his need. The apostle's to his Jesus were two lavishly painted groupies, two sycophantic fan boys, the drummer of another band on the scene. and Dirk, the greasy blonde, barefoot mellow bass player for Pale Horse Pale Rider, the band fronted by Renfield, and managed by Leo lo' these last three years.
“Armani brother! What's the good gospel, dude?” said Dirk.
“Leo! Captain of my fate, love of my life. Do a shot, man.” slurred a dazed Renfield.
A shot girl in skimpy glitter top and mini skirt materialized out of the bacchanal haze, a tray of test tubes brimming with dark liquid held steady.
“Sambuca or Liquid Cocaine?” she offered. Shots were chosen, passed out and held high. It was the last thing Leo needed just now, but what the Hell.
“Rock and roll”, toasted Renfield, the Metal equivalent of 'Mazel Tov', test tube held high.
They clinked as best they could from their places in the semi-circular booth, Leo leaning in and toasting Renfield last, holding the kid's bleary eyes a moment. Renfield had spiky black hair, sprayed high and hung low, black painted eyes and fingernails, and a ripped AC/DC concert shirt, Highway To Hell tour. He was pale, he was lost. He was also at once jovial, brooding, and the Lord Of All Creation. That was his charm, a charismatic coinage which paid for a myriad of beers, dope, sex, and the occasional pair of boots or a couch to crash on. For a kid who lived in Leo's attic, jammed in his basement, and no doubt had the lovely ladies here paying for the drinks, he was on top of the fucking world. He was a riddle wrapped in a bandana. Pale Horse Pale Rider had a decent local following, some buzz, and nothing much besides. But the dream, the dream sustained all, made the moment sweet. Did Renfield know it wouldn't last forever? Sure he did, he must, but he lived right smack dab in the moment. Leo could give the poor doomed kid a few years, that much at least.
Silver bracelets jingled as everybody slugged back their shot.
The glitter top girl collected the test tubes and swung back into the murk, tight little ass swaying.
“So, you take care of your thing, whatever-fuck?” slurred Renfield.
All eyes appraised Leo with reverence and greed, in various combinations and to greater and lesser extent. Had some magic deal been struck that would somehow lift all of them heavenward, peripherally or spiritually if not in actual fame and fortune?
All through this exchange Leo had heard maybe one word in three.
“I'm good. And I'm outta here. Later, dudes.” he shouted.
“Bye, Leo.” one of the girl's shouted back, then broke into a fit of giggles with the other, Renfield deep in that one's neck, bloodsucking or dozing, who could say?
“Later, brother.” said Dirk, flashing a peace sign and a slow cool smile. He was surfer mystical, counterpoint and complimentary to Renfield's mania. Like any good bass player/lead singer dynamic.
Leo nodded, returning the smile, then got gone. The Liquid cocaine body rush eased him along, his steps through the glitter parade were light and sure, and eventually he found the door
.
He felt a budding sense of freedom, a lurking sense of accomplishment, and a lingering dread.
Sweet night air, and darkness ahead.
Done deal.
Rock and roll.
--
1991 on Amazon
1991 on Goodreads
Dave Mercel
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