The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 82

Shortly prior to that.

“I’m torn,” Solomon says. “As a superhero, you expose truth, fight for justice, and make life better down throughout the course of human history, but my god, this fucking party has got to make you regret not learning guitar.” His voice becomes casual, eyes surveying the cooling chaos. “Anyway... I guess I’d just like to know what it means to be a rock star. Would you say I’m a rock star?” He looks from me to Mephis.

“Definitely,” I says.

“And I don’t even know what it is. What if I was also the CEO of a major multinational corporation who could buy and sell and change the fate of small Pacific islands I would never visit. What name would I prefer to go by?”

“Rock star,” I say with a casual shrug.

“And that’s just it, Filthy,  if you have something important to say, they are going to kill you for it, just like Jim Morrison. Did you guys come to party? Or are you just here for the show?”

“I came to see the Alarm Clock at the End of the World,” I say.

I can tell he is caught off guard, but impressed nonetheless. “You’re a fan of my music, I understand?” he asks. “I remember the letters you sent me in prison.”

“You sent back a zine I hung onto for years.”

He grins. “Probably worth a fortune by now.” Solomon watches Mephis and Nepotism for a moment. They are pretending to have another conversation I can’t hear over the din. “Tell them it was a good show,” Solomon says. “I nearly came watching all these pompous old sycophants running about like decapitated birds.” He lets go of my shoulder. He’s vicious now. “If you thought that was funny, stick around a few minutes. Will I see this conversation reenacted on the Unnatural?”

I study his expression and come up empty. “Mephis Tyr brought me to do an interview. Something about trilobites?”

Solomon’s eyes light up and he smiles broadly. “Dr. Filth, you’re a terrible liar! Trilobites! Remind me some day to tell you about the civilizations they created, but no, tonight has nothing to do with trilobites.” He pats me on the shoulder and pushes me back to my companions. “I’ll pretend you’re on superhero business. Anyway, I must go network. I’ll see you later.” He ambles toward a set of stuffed suits and evening gowns. Sado-Mass has been on SpectraCom Records for three years now, but he’s still a terrible risk for a dignified party.

“That was fucking close,” I groan, returning to Nepotism and Tyr. “Let’s fucking go.”

Nep yanks open the crystal door and steps in. Mephis and I following in succession. The scene is cast in the dim, warming glow of a thousand candles. Moonlight and the dancing ebb of the Tiki torches filters through he crystal door, facets projecting on the opposite wall, almost as if it were a motion picture, telling some obscure story that only the most advanced of readers could even begin to understand.

For the most part, the chaos outside has done little to bother the mood of the library. The attack was outside, in an entirely different section of the party. Just ignore it, the smell will go away eventually. One or two refugees were displaced by the attack, along with us, of course, but nothing to get excited about.

These people memorized the guest list, to recite who was above and below them, or what famous person they have always hated that they finally got the opportunity to meet. Every single person in the room has already come to the exact same conclusion: The longer we spend at this party, the less likely they are to get positive press.

I try to assuage their fears with my eyes, let them know we don’t want to upstage them in any way, that we don’t even want to be at this party. If they afford us a quick in-and-out, unmolested and no questions asked, we will be out of their way in no time! Consider us gone!