Part 2:
The Next Night, Before the Concert
Nepotism shoulder-checked me through a grey metal door and we find ourselves in a hallway lined with unused nacho trucks and snack wagons. The fire door slams closed shutting off all sounds of combat.
“We’ve got to go back,” I say. “That Scrubber is going to kill them!”
“We’ve got to go back,” I say. “That Scrubber is going to kill them!”
“We’ve got a mission,” Nepotism says. “We stick to it.”
“What’s a fucking Scrubber doing here?”
Nepotism puts a hand on my shoulder. “Mephis will lead it away. Those kids have enough firepower to keep it busy. We came here to do a job.” He kneels down and lays out the wooden case on the floor.
“The caduceus must be part of the show,” I say. “Why else would Solomon be here to present it? So many high ball whack job mystics upstairs, like it’s a fucking Magic card convention.” Unlocking the clasps, Nepotism opens the case, revealing red velvet lining within, wrapped around a broadsword with a polished blade and gold hilt. “What are we supposed to do with that?” I ask.
Nepotism lifts the blade and kicks the case aside. “There’s a careful script to the whole thing. The sacrifice needs to happen at midnight, and he can’t do it without this sword.” He holds out the blade for me to inspect. The steel is blue-white in the fluorescence. “I don’t have time to explain, keep moving.”
We get to the door. Beyond is a cold, grey, fluorescent-lit hallway. Roadies march about carrying armloads of equipment and tools. Back here, where the real magic happens, a bared sword probably isn't too far out of the ordinary. It's someone else's job to keep out the crazies.
The dressing rooms are garages, hastily swept and hosed and converted for filthy, uncontrollable rockers who can be trusted with nothing but folding chairs, beer coolers, craft service tables, and a liberal application of air fresheners. Along one wall is a clothing rack filled to capacity with with long black robes. Black robes never bode well for anyone.
No tuxes and gowns back here, it’s leather, faded black denim, and patches only. About twenty people, most barely older than teenagers. I don’t see anyone notable, no bands, friends, or any member of Sado Massochrist, and certainly not Joshua Solomon.
The kids here don’t seem to recognize either of us, and they don’t seem to care about Nepotism’s naked sword. “What’s up?” I ask, waving. The kids go back to drinking as much beer and shoving as many carrots and ranch dressing in their mouths as they can before the band comes back to give them the boot.
I budge into the line at the deli tray, choosing a place between a super-skinny goth chick with black hair streaked fire-engine red and tits like a sparrow, and some fat kid in a faded Iron Maiden T-shirt and camo shorts. He probably writes a zine.
Nepotism shoves in beside me and grabs a handful of cauliflower. “They never have broccoli at these things, I fucking hate that.” He shakes his head and tosses the cauliflower into his throat without chewing. “That’s so you don’t get florets in your teeth while you are networking.”
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