Part 77
Only a little bit earlier.
I look to Mephis and Nepotism, who is madly flaring his fingers, so tense he can’t move any other part of his body. Mephis’s face reveals no emotion. He gives me a nod. “Mephis Tyr,” I say, gesturing with my nose.
Solomon smiles and sucks a breath through his nose. “Nice to see you, my friend. Not what I was expecting, but thank you.”
Mephis says, “You did not specify a time or location.”
Solomon moves on past Mephis is no more than a smile. “And Nepotism Baldwin! What a pleasure! You’re the second to last person I would have expected to see here,” Solomon looks over the black briefcase and smiles. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought me a present?”
“Nothing you’ve earned,” Nepotism says coldly.
Solomon shrugs. “Oh well. All will come back in time.” He lets Nepotism go and guides me away from the others. Solomon has a sincere sort of distraction, eyes wandering about the rest of the guests. “This party was dreadfully boring until the three of you showed up,” he says in a fading tone. “That Mephis Tyr... I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. He might not have your best interests in sight.”
“Thanks,” I say, a little ashamed of my humbleness. “You watch the Unnatural?”
Solomon gives me a sly wink. “This is party time. Business comes after the show. Will you be staying?” I was a fan early, but it was a few years before I got up the guts to see one of Solomon’s shows. The backup band changed endlessly as Solomon evaded police between tour stops.
My first show was to meet up with this dude, Chet, that played in a band that crashed at my house. He was a vapid surfer that lived on the beach in California and slept with his head inside my cat’s litter box. After a few beers he was the life of the party, but it was clear the band was getting sick of him. He was endlessly furious about cowboys, frequently exclaiming, “Cowboy up? Fuck that! Up with... Duh!” He’d quit Solomon’s tour after losing a tooth the night before. A new guitarist was picked from the crowd who knew a few of Sado’s songs, and was better than the rest of the real members at winging it. I doubt Chet would have recalled me or my litter box anyway.
Solomon stayed endlessly on the move, writing songs and releasing albums on the Internet. I met Eva Lorraine the night Solomon broke his wrist diving from a lighting rig to a table where three out of place college dudes called Solomon a pussy. Before he was handcuffed, he attacked a girl giving her statement to the police, and lost three teeth to her boyfriend. He spent three months in a jail and jumped the bail that had been posted by fans. I gave three bucks to a girl at the bar that said she was raising money for Solomon.
Of course I will be staying. “I haven’t seen you guys live in years!” What happened between him and Nepotism back there? Have they met?
“It’s too bad though.” He gives me a wink and clears his throat and repeats, “It’s a bad time to have a message.”
“That what you got?” I ask. I should be writing this down. “A message?”
“It’s the age of the Dying God,” he says. If you say anything important, they will probably kill you for it. Look at Jesus, or Hiram Abiff. It goes back to Osiris. Human history has been spent tearing open this fish, chopping up that fish, and for what? The only way man can accept a savior is if he knows he is capable of killing it. Oh, Doctor, I’m hammered, I’m rambling. You don’t mind, do you? Great party, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’m having a blast. I haven’t gotten to the buffet table yet.” My eyes are pleading for Nepotism to help, but he shakes his head. I try to back away from Solomon.
He’s on top of me, his spine curled like a slithering snake. “Would you rather be a superhero or rock star?”
“Actually, I’m a cryptozoologist,” I say. “The superhero is just a rumor.”
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