Part 32
The Following Night, At The Beginning of the Concert.
Solomon’s first tour was spent sleeping on couches and in garages, playing in bars and small clubs. The hired band quit by the third show, and Solomon named his new band Sado-Massochrist. That name continued through his entire career regardless of band members passing through a door that revolved through cities across the country. Solomon never contacted the stadiums that wanted him, and never hired a road crew to carry his amps. His advertising was flyers and word of mouth as he passed through town. His contract was officially revoked the first time he cut himself on stage. After that, smashing a bottle became a regular part of the show.
Solomon smiles broadly, dancing again, taking the microphone off the stand. The people are standing now, lost in trances of their own. He turns left, getting his body into the rhythm and sings, “Ye hooo wauu,” then turns back to the crowd and croons, “Ahh-Donai!”
I narrow my eyes. This is a ritual. Nepotism and I once attended only three meetings of the O.T.O because five of the other six members were D&D nerds looking for the secret to casting magick missile. They talked at length of the naked orgy sex-magick rituals we would perform. Only one female was in the group, and I wasn't sure which she was, so I lost interest before the clothes came off. Through Nepotism, I still accumulated a mass of Crowley texts in the process. I recognize the steps and chants. Solomon is casting a spell!
Some people are already so ecstatic that they jump up and down in place, dancing still in mid air. “Eheiehhha!” Solomon wails as he turns right, and immediately back to the crowd, screaming “Ahhhhh-Glaaaahhh!” He throws his arms wide, resembling a cross. It seems everyone in the audience knows the words, shouting right along with Solomon as he sings, “Before me Raphael, be-hind-me Gaaabriell! On my right hand sits Mich-ael, on my left hand seated Aur-iel! For a-bout-me flames the Pent-a-gram! And in the col-umn stands the six-rayed star!”
The music fades to clapping, and Solomon puts the microphone back on the stand. “How is everyone doing tonight?” Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett are strumming their guitars, bobbing their heads. David Meyers is tapping his snare drum. “It’s a pleasure to have you all here with us tonight.”
The ghouls are standing in the pews. I don’t believe I’ve been seen, but I also have no idea where Nepotism could be. All eyes are on Solomon. If I keep in cover, I can get myself out.
“I’m sure by now you know we are Sado Massochrist,” Solomon says, allowing a moment for applause. “Standing on my left and right are Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett, and that’s Dave Meyers back there on the drums.” Behind him, the band is still playing, drowning out most of the crowd noise. “Now, I hope you aren’t all here just because you are my employees.”
A communal chuckle rises above the music and Solomon looks to his band-mates. “Because we have something very special in store tonight, and it’s a pleasure to have such a close family here with us.”
I make a dash for the door and find myself looking up in the eyes of a horrendous thing. The horselike face wears a perpetual scowl and the eyes radiate hate. The jacket is black and stiff as cardboard. The thing reaches out with long, knobby fingers that crackle with blue energy. It is Armitage, a Scrubber crafted to appear as H.P.Lovecraft.
I roll before it can get a hand on me, but its attention lingers only a moment. It advances on the audience of unsuspecting ghouls holding their hands out to Solomon.
Blue energy lances from Armitage’s fingers, burning the back row. The discharge bounces about like electricity, igniting clothing and charring skin. The kids are screaming, but the web of energy has spread to immobilize them all. Sado-Mass is playing a drawn out introduction, loud enough to cover the screams.
Undeterred, Solomon passes through the scorching discharge. It arcs above him, creating a path for the band to follow. Guitar and bass continue playing but David Meyers has abandoned his drumset. Fingers reach out for one last caress against Solomon as the flesh is burnt to ash. By now all have recognized their role as sacrifice and have embraced it whether they chose or not.
The blue fire dwindles as Solomon passes Armitage and the Scrubber turns to watch. The band passes, and I don’t believe any have seen me. I don’t know where Nepotism is. If Armitage should get his hands on either, we’ll be left like the smoking pile of charred cloth and bone spread across the broken pews.
Armitage fades into the shadows, following Solomon to the stage. If I don’t do something, no one else will.
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