The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 72: The Following Evening.

The din of voices has returned to the party, covering our conversation again. A few have started to chuckle ominously about how pathetic the little adventure really was. Some are even suggesting that SpectraCom set the whole event to rattle them.

Like a coming storm, the air rushes to silence as Joshua Solomon blows onto the patio. He’s shaved his head once more, now that he’s done with an Off-Broadway of Jekyll & Hyde. Tonight he’s wearing a red and black tartan suit that look like pajamas.

Back in the day, he called himself “Public Enema Number 1.” Stage shows included cutting himself, bashing himself, and throwing himself from heights while singing songs about society’s downfall. He performed nude and ate laxatives before shows for diarrhea that he sprayed at the audience. He fought members of the crowd, and shows usually ended when the police arrived. After Solomon got out of prison, Sado Mass went Prog Rock and I stopped paying attention. 

His eyes are on me. “Dr. Filth!” Solomon calls across the crowd, waving his arm. Guests part before him as he passes, shaking hands and congratulating, but Solomon doesn’t care. He wants to talk to me.

I’ve been a long-time fan. Not in the boy band days, that was stupid. When Solomon broke with his label, he put out the sickest, most offensive collection of ten tracks to ever hit the Internet. He called it “Sado-Massochrist,” and out-sold his first album before the end of the week. His third album debuted a month later, and he sold less than 100 copies.

 “I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” says the sickest rocker to grace the planet. Most importantly, he knows my name. This is a guy who once plunged a microphone so far up his ass it needed to be removed with surgery, and he is aware of my position as persona-non-grata. That’s fucking cool!

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. Think about the interview. I came here to do a job. “I’ve been a really big fan for years.” Should I admit I sent him several emails thanking him for all his great music?

The first Sado-Mass album was shit, the music was written in an afternoon. Solomon never intended for the songs to be enjoyed. Sado-Mass was a clean break with any fan that remembered him for his more-than-glamorous beginnings. The second album has gems, but is mostly still songs about farting and getting wasted. He wrote all his own music after that, and made his mission to be the most offensive performer to ever hit the stage. If he wasn’t wearing pants he’d try and spray his audience with shit. He broke bottles and cut himself, and once knocked himself out with a bowling ball. Before another show, he shot so much heroin, he was pushed on stage as no more than a lump. Fans spent 20 minutes smashing bottles on him before getting bored and wandering off. He consumed any drug he was handed, and most shows ended in a frenzy of violence. Still, when Solomon put his mind to it, he could write a hell of a song.

He looks confused. Nepotism and Mephis could be helping, but they are not. “I swear we’ve met.” His iron talon grips my hand and as he shakes. I’m positive I feel actual claws digging in my skin. “You were always around the shows in Metro City, right? Anyway, I’ve been watching Unnatural non-stop. Your show is crazy shit!” He releases my grip and looks at my companions. “Who’d you come with?”

Go to Part 73

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

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.

Go to Part 33

The Symbol

Music: "Don't Fear The Ghost," Crimson Brethren 

Dr. Filth Origin

Dr. Filth is a superhero with the power to convince himself anything. His alter ego is a cryptozoologist of the same name. Report your emergency at www.printisbetter.com 

Dr. Filth Vs. the Dein

"Yezov and Borbor Are Back In Town," by Steve Kusaba.