Friday, February 13, 2015

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World


Part 10
Two Nights Later, Shortly Before The Concert.

“Dudes in Sado are all whack-job mystics,” Nepotism says, looking at the goth girl until she can’t even ignore that he’s checking her out. “They spend too much time smoking pot and reading history books.” A Baphomet tattoo pokes out of the hem of her vinyl skirt.

“I’m just here for the band,” she says, curling her lip.

I pat Nepotism on the shoulder and collect a bottle of water from the cooler of melting ice. “This from the guy carrying a broadsword. How do we go about finding the Alarm Clock?”

“It’s all part of the ritual.” Nepotism tosses a handful of carrots into his mouth and grinds them up.

I hold out my hands in confusion and start pacing. “No more of this esoteric bullshit. It’s not real, dude...”

“It is real,” Nepotism snaps. “It’s real if Solomon makes it real.” Nepotism’s eyes are glowing. “It only takes one person to make a conspiracy. One person to want it, and ten million people to not know they are giving it to him.” Nepotism grins. Human beings are the only animals that bare their teeth to signify friendship. “Tonight, Joshua Solomon is going to perform one of the oldest rituals in the history of mankind.”

The room goes silent and all heads turn. Joshua Solomon has entered the room. I’ve been a fan nearly all his career, except when he was in the boy band. I started listening when set out on to be the most reviled, dangerous rock star in the world.

His performances were full of blood as he attacked his audience and slashed his own flesh with broken glass. His pain tolerance was dulled with drugs that turned Solomon to a wild animal on stage.

The kids line up to greet him, eyes glazed, waiting for Solomon’s command. The zine kid is off in the corner writing down everything. For the second time tonight, Solomon has eyes only for us. “That sword looks familiar,” he says. “Like something that was supposed to be mine.”

Nepotism holds the sword before him with two hands. “They only way you get this is buried in your guts.”

Solomon cocks an eyebrow and leans in close, cold reptile eyes examining every wrinkle, every follicle. He shrugs and waltzes back to the protection of his fans and admirers, sitting in one of the folding chairs. All of the kids seat themselves criss-cross-applesauce around him. “All I care is that you brought it.” With that he gives us a pass, and his fans are given time to talk, all at once, drowning out our private conversation.

I grab Nepotism’s shoulders. “What is that sword? Why does he want it.”

“It came from the Old Priest,” he said.

“The same Old Priest that kicked us out of Metro City?” I eat a carrot off the deli tray.

“Before that,” he says, looking down.  “I was called to meet him in a rundown motel outside of town. He shot heroin and we drank whiskey.”

Hands caress Solomon and he is fed liquor and olives. “It’s going to be a good show,” he announces to the room. “I ate an entire box of laxatives. I should peak somewhere around the third song.”

Nepotism glares at Solomon a moment before continuing. We are ignored. “The Old Priest received this sword when he became Grand Master, and swore to pass the blade to the next.”

“Grand Master of the Piscean Knights?” I ask, emphasizing that ‘Piscean’ part. It’s important.

Solomon is on his feet, mouth frothing. As a lifelong Sado-Mass fan, I can’t help but have a fanboy erection, despite the danger to my life. Taking a black robe from the rack, Solomon wraps himself. “I don’t need a sword to convince anyone.” He moves toward the door and stops his followers with a wave when they try to follow. “Venus led us through the Age of the Mother, Osiris through the Age of the Father, we are standing in the gates of the Age of the Child, the Avenging Horus. Tonight, I will die in stage and be reborn as a god!” Solomon turns in a fan of black robes and whisks out of the dressing room.


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