Hollywood Cowboys

By Mike Chinakos

In the late 80's Heavy Metal ruled the airwaves and crowned MTV King of Video. From L.A. to London this musical melee couldn't be stopped. Rising to the top of the scene, the Hollywood Cowboys lived like gods of thunder and rock 'n roll. Behind the music, they saved their fans and the world from the forces of darkness lurking beneath the neon glitter of everyday reality. Addiction, sleaze, fast cars, and demonology... Welcome to the jungle and hang onto the saddle. The Hollywood Cowboys are about to take you for a ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Chinakos
• Release date: Aug 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465931139

Mike Chinakos

A self-proclaimed Metal Maniac and lover of Horror, Mike is hard at work on the next Hollywood Cowboys novel. A proud father of two, he lives in the beautiful Pacific NW.

Book preview

Table Of Contents

Prelude

Chapter 1: Still of the Night

Chapter 2: Denim and Leather

Chapter 3: Shake Me

Chapter 4: Caught in a Mosh

Chapter 5: Welcome to the Jungle

Chapter 6: Some Heads are Gonna Roll

Chapter 7: Wanted Man

Chapter 8: Creatures of the Night

Chapter 9: Take Your Whisky Home

Chapter 10: Looks That Kill

Chapter 11: Holy Diver

Chapter 12: Bark at the Moon

Chapter 13: Balls to the Wall

Chapter 14: Die Hard the Hunter

Chapter 15: Patience

Chapter 16: Hysteria

Chapter 17: Hell on My Heels

Chapter 18: Screaming for Vengeance

Chapter 19: If You Want Blood

Chapter 20: Kiss Me Deadly

Chapter 21: House of Pain

Chapter 22: Look What the Cat Dragged In

Chapter 23: The Price

Chapter 24: Into the Pit

Chapter 25: Rainbow in the Dark

Chapter 26: Screaming in the Night

Chapter 27: Care of the Devil

Chapter 28: Runnin’ With the Devil

Chapter 29: Lay Your Hands on Me

Chapter 30: Cult of Personality

Chapter 31: Highway to Hell

Chapter 32: Into the Fire

Chapter 33: All Hell’s Breaking Loose

Chapter 34: Shot in the Dark

Coda

PRELUDE

Watching his date going down on some other guy, Rich Nunnencort couldn’t believe his own eyes.

He simply couldn’t wrap his brain around what he saw.

Rich stared dumbfounded at Trina doing her best impression of a Hoover vacuum cleaner. The dude on the receiving end of her attention sat on an expensive leather couch smiling up at the stucco ceiling like he had just won the lottery.

To top it off, the guy didn’t even look like he belonged in any of the bands they had both come to see. Rich knew he should be pissed off. He should be fucking furious. But looking around at the penthouse full of rock stars, he felt too fucking elated to let jealousy rear up in all its ugly glory.

Besides, as drunk as Trina had to be, she probably had no idea at all that her effort went to waste on this guy.

Rich knew the dude had to be some sort of roadie or sound guy. The tall Mexican looking dude was no different than either one of them, just another hanger-on cashing in on the fame and fortune of the rock stars throwing this after-hours shindig.

The joke completely on his date, Rich laughed and took another swig of a Heineken beer that he otherwise couldn’t afford.

Fuck it, he decided as he savored the taste of the brew. If Trina hadn’t got them backstage at the Forum, he'd more than likely be at home and in bed by now. He probably wouldn’t have even rated a goodnight kiss let alone a blowjob. Not from Trina. Not until his band got signed and he made some sort of impact on the scene.

His date had groupie, or gropie, written all over her from the moment he had picked her up to see the show tonight. That’s the only reason he stood here right now, rubbing elbows and downing beers with some of the hottest bands in L.A. Why the fuck should he question anything at all on such an incredible night?

Most of the big boys of metal always seemed to hit the Rainbow Bar and Grill after a big show, and although the headliners weren't here at this party, Rich didn't mind at all. The supporting band was here and they had a lot of friends on the L.A. scene. Rock star friends that Rich would never have been able to hang with outside of this party.

This was the fucking coolest party he'd been to since arriving in L.A. and he intended to make the best of it.

He stood a little off to the side of a massive Alpine home stereo system blasting out Van Halen’s Drop Dead Legs. For a song a few years old now, the tune still fucking rocked. Letting the music wash over him, amping up his buzz, Rich gazed about the posh digs and took it all in.

Slash and Izzy stood by a long mahogany bar next to an open balcony, surrounded by girls and empty whiskey bottles. Stephen Pearcy of Ratt made out with some girl on a Zebra skin rug in front of the couch where Trina went to town on the roadie. Jonny Mosh and Tommy T from the Hollywood Cowboys played some sort of drinking game with Mad Dog 20/20.

On top of the long dining room table they played their game on, two groupie girls danced topless to the Van Halen song filling the penthouse’s ample living room.

The party looked like something out of that 8mm Caligula movie bootleg that Rich’s big brother always kept hidden under his bed. Rich never thought these kind of parties could be real. He always believed them to be the stuff of legend. Just bullshit stories to entertain all of the rock ‘n roll and metal fans.

Rich grinned at the scene, counting himself lucky to be here with so many of his heroes.

He watched some other dudes doing long lines of coke on the opposite end of the table from the two Cowboys. Rich didn’t dig that scene at all, but knew damn good and well that a party wasn’t a party in L.A. without blow.

Everywhere he looked the penthouse teemed with party people. Rich had watched other stars coming and going, some disappearing with women into bedrooms down a long hallway decorated with fine art in gaudy frames. Some of them he could place a famous face with, but not the names. Some were rock stars, some were movie stars, and some just looked like fucking stars.

What a fucking dream come true.

If his friends back home in Iowa could see him now, they’d shit fireflies. Not a single one of them had believed he’d make it when he moved out west with his bass guitar in hand. True, his band still couldn’t get a gig on the strip, but tonight he felt as if he’d taken a step in the right direction.

Rich had heard of many backstage and penthouse parties leading to record deals being made. They just did shit like that out here in L.A. He might still be a little green on the metal scene, but he knew sometimes it mattered more who you knew than how much your band fucking rocked.

Right now the L.A. landscape crawled with dime-a-dozen hairspray abusing wannabes. Every smart musician looked to take advantage of whatever opportunity arrived and this party had Big Break written all over it in large glowing neon letters.

Rich guessed they’d been at the party for an hour or so.

It hadn’t taken Trina long to make her move, but he knew he couldn’t rush in looking like a corn fed asshole trying to score with the big boys. He had to play it cool and for the last hour he’d kept an open smile on his face, chitchatting here and there with everyone he could. He had even shot the shit a little bit with Tommy T.

He kept an eye on the stars, but tried not to seem like an awestruck fan. Rich saw that most of them were looking pretty well lit and for the most part, friendly and open… more so with the women of course, but still approachable by anyone lucky enough to be at the party.

Patting the three or four demo tapes in the inner pocket of his strategically tattered and torn jean jacket, he decided to make a move soon.

Who should he hit up first?

Doc McGhee managed a couple of the bands here and Rich knew that might be a tough sell. The man had to constantly have tapes shoved at him, even by his own acts.

He had heard that the Cowboys had a pretty sweet deal with their manager. The guy sounded like a different breed than most here in L.A. if the rumors were true.

Then again, since the band originally came from Portland, Oregon, maybe they just did things a little different there. Plus, he had already had some contact with Tommy tonight. Maybe he could get in on their drinking game, finding a way to get even friendlier with the Cowboys.

Rich had been a big fan of the Hollywood Cowboys since their early days, around the time they released their self-titled EP. He couldn’t believe he actually stood in the same room as these guys!

He watched Jonny Mosh, long dark brown hair, goatee, and a stage presence to match his vocal chops. The guy dominated as a lead singer. Then there was Tommy T, a shredding guitar player that gave even Eddie Van Halen a run for his money. With his curly black hair, he could almost be Slash’s twin, just without the trademark top hat and shorter, kind of like a stout pit bull.

The other members of the Hollywood Cowboys, the bass player, D.C. Hunter, and the drummer, Charlie Chance weren’t at this party.

Having the full band here might have helped Rich. The more guys to befriend, the better chances he would have of getting them to listen to his demo tape. But since they weren’t all here, he just had to do what he had to do.

Making up his mind to concentrate his efforts on the Cowboys, Rich took a deep drag off his beer to prepare himself.

He noticed the roadie standing and zipping up as Trina wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. The roadie stumbled off and she smiled at Rich with smeared dark red lipstick. He casually strolled over to her and handed Trina his beer.

Thanks, she said, swigging from the green bottle and offering it back.

Keep it, he suppressed a smile.

Sorry about that, she reached out and touched his hand, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

No worries.

It’s just, y’know, he’s with the band…

Rich smiled. Trina was so drunk she had no idea who she had blown.

He hated to ruin her moment, so he said nothing about the guy being nobody important, I totally understand. It’s my turn to make my own kind of move. I’m going to get in on that drinking game over there and by the end of the night one of the Hollywood Cowboys will have my demo in hand.

That’s great, she beamed. Then her face scrunched up like a pinched poodle's as her eyes wandered up towards the top of his head.

What? He asked.

Well, your hair. I think it’s gone kinda flat. The show was sweltering. I think the humidity killed your hair.

Fuck.

He knew he should’ve spent more money on the last can of hairspray he bought, but damn, he couldn’t be any more broke. Hairspray. Beer. Food. Rent. Pretty much in that order. Lately, all he could afford were the first two.

Of course the Cowboys were more sleaze metal than glam. Sure, they depleted their fair share of ozone with hairspray, but not nearly in the epic way some of the other Sunset Strip bands did.

These days image sold videos on MTV and MTV made careers for even the lamest of no-talent bands based purely on the size of their hair and the gleam of their smile. Rich couldn’t go up to these guys and sell them on his demo unless he looked his absolute best.

Fuck, he repeated.

Wait a minute, Trina slurred, producing a bright pink handbag from a corner of the couch, I have a small can of hairspray somewhere.

After a few moments of rummaging around she dug out a travel sized can of Aqua Net.

Awesome, Rich grabbed it from her hands, bending down to kiss her on the cheek, I’ll find a john and get my look straight.

Quickly, keeping the hairspray low and out of sight, he weaved through some partiers bottlenecking the hallway leading to the bedrooms and started for the bathroom he’d used earlier.

He came abruptly to a halt, running right into a line longer than any at the Whisky. It seemed like everybody had need of the bathroom at the same time.

In frustration, he banged his forehead lightly against a bedroom door as he took his place at the end of the line.

The door clicked open, swinging slowly inward, revealing a plush bedroom of maroons and other shades of red and purple, bathed in candle light reflected from mirrors across the entire ceiling and most of the walls.

Two blond girls giggled as they finished helping each other zip up into short black dresses so tight they looked like they had been painted onto their bodies.

Some dude, Rich thought he might be some sort of record producer or maybe a studio exec by his looks, buttoned up a pair of slacks and smiled at him from in front of a large round waterbed. The middle-aged man pulled long ginger red hair back into a ponytail.

Oh, sorry, Rich stammered, realizing how lame he sounded, but not knowing what else to say.

No problem, man, the guy said, shrugging into a black silk shirt, We’re done with the room if you need it. We've got another party to get to.

Oh… No, no, he mumbled, I’m just waiting for the bathroom. Sorry.

The beautiful blond girls came to the door and Rich stood aside to let them pass.

One of them saw the line in the hall and whispered in his ear, Looks like your lucky day, stud. There’s a bathroom just off of this suite. Don’t tell anybody, though. It should be empty.

The girl smelled of beer, cigarettes, sex, and sweet perfume. Her lips brushed up against his ear and a shiver ran down his spine, Thanks, he smiled awkwardly, suddenly feeling like a virgin Iowan kid again.

Rich watched both girls walk hand in hand back down the hallway as the silk shirted business type breezed by him in tow.

The red-haired man looked back him with a slightly sardonic grin on his face. Rich couldn't tell why the hell the guy looked at him like that, but he had to get his hair fixed and get back to the party, so fuck that rich dude anyhow. The silk-shirted man put his arms around both girls as they headed for the penthouse's front door.

God damn, Rich sighed to himself. He wondered if he’d ever make enough money or be famous enough to get that lucky, God damn, you gotta love the City of Angels.

He passed through the suite that reeked of sex and alcohol and opened a door to his right.

The door led to a walk-in closet bigger than his entire apartment.

He spun around slowly, looking for another door along the mirrored walls. He spotted one on the opposite side of the room and went to it, quietly laughing to himself about the outlandishness of the whole scene. He pushed the dark teak wood door open.

The laughter died abruptly in his throat as he took a single step into an ornately lavish restroom twice as large as the walk-in closet.

In the middle of all of the gaudiness; the marbled walls, four head shower stall, Olympic sized Jacuzzi tub, plush carpeting, T.V., and stereo system… someone lay propped up against the base of a marble bathroom sink.

A needle and syringe dangled from that someone’s left arm just below loosened surgical tubing. The shirtless man had long spiky black hair hanging down his torso, hiding his face because his chin had slumped down into his chest.

Even though Rich couldn’t see the man’s face, he knew exactly who lay on the bathroom floor in front of him. He had seen the man’s tattoos in countless photos in Hit Parader and Metal Edge magazines.

He froze, not knowing what to do. Should he back quietly out of the room? Should he just take care of business and pretend he hadn’t seen a thing? Fuck, he couldn’t even tell if the guy was breathing. He might be dead for all Rich knew. Should he go get help?

For fuck’s sake, why did he even have all of these questions and indecision in his mind? Back home, if he’d found someone in this condition he wouldn’t even hesitate to make sure the dude was all right. What the hell had L.A. done to his head?

Nicky? Rich asked quietly, Nicky, are you all right, dude?

Nicky Styx, bass player for the sleaziest of the Sunset Strip bands, Leathür N' Lace, famed for his excess partying, didn’t answer back.

Hey, Rich said a little louder, hesitantly stepping into the bathroom, You okay?

Still, nothing. The rocker didn’t twitch a muscle. He didn’t give any indication that he had heard Rich at all. Rich moved a little closer, Hey, C’mon, Nicky. The party’s just getting started out there.

Christ, it didn’t look like Nicky had taken a single breath at all since he had found him. Rich took another step forward. His right imitation snakeskin boot kicked something near Nicky’s outstretched legs that clinked like glass. A small black vial rolled across the carpet.

Crouching down to pick up the vial, Rich kept his eyes on Nicky as one hand blindly searched the carpet in front of him. He looked for some sign of life but saw nothing. Now that he found himself down on the bass player’s level, Rich could definitely identify him. Slowly, he reached out with the hand not searching for the vial and shook Nicky’s leg.

Nicky, c’mon. Wake up, dude.

The syringe wiggled back and forth, clinging to Nicky’s arm like a pilot fish to a shark slicing across the dark Pacific Ocean, refusing to be left behind.

Rich felt his stomach turn and fought to hold down the Heineken he’d been swilling earlier.

His other hand came up with the vial. Looking closely at the obsidian dark glass he saw a small red emblem looking back at him. The etching looked like a bat, reminding him of the Bacardi bat he had seen a hundred times while downing 151 with his band mates.

A small red drop of viscous fluid dropped onto the carpet as Rich turned the vial in his hand. What the hell had Nicky been putting into his veins? Fear knotted up his stomach even more.

What if Nicky died here tonight? Did he want to become famous by finding another rock ‘n roll casualty instead of becoming famous for his music?

He should just go. He should just get back to the party and let this thing sort itself out. He had connections to make. Let somebody else deal with this shit. He sure as hell didn’t need it.

No. Not right. Not right at all.

He couldn’t do that. He had to make sure Nicky would be okay. He would never be able to forgive himself if Nicky died tonight and he didn’t do anything to prevent such a tragedy.

Rich reached out to shake his idol by the shoulder. The feel of cold flesh made him yank his hand back quickly.

Fuck! Too cold. Fucking shit!

Nicky must be dead. Nobody living could possibly feel that cold. Rich couldn’t believe this, Nicky Styx overdosed at the very first rock star party he had ever attended.

Nobody would care much about listening to another hopeful’s demo tape when one of the biggest contributors to the L.A. scene lay dead in a penthouse bathroom with a fucking needle hanging out of his arm.

Christ, he had to get out of here. He couldn’t deal with this shit. Rich simply didn’t have it in his make up to handle this kind of ordeal. He should just grab Trina and get the fuck out.

Holy shit! A voice gasped behind him.

Letting out a startled yelp, Rich almost sprawled across Nicky’s lap in shock. He managed to throw his weight backwards and plopped down on the ass of his acid wash jeans instead.

Fuck, Jonny Mosh of the Hollywood Cowboys said from the doorway.

I just found him, Rich stammered, I came in to fix my… to use the john and I found him. I think he’s dead.

You think? Jonny came quickly into the room, followed by the huge roadie Trina had been blowing earlier. Rich thought the roadie might be Mexican, but if so, Rich had never seen a bigger Mexican before tonight.

No matter who he might be, the dude made Rich cringe with the dark and menacing stare he shot accusingly at him.

I was about to call for help, he said meekly as Jonny kneeled down beside Styx, carefully checking his pulse.

The set of Jonny’s goateed jaw and the look in his green-brown eyes told Rich everything before the singer even said a word.

No pulse. Fuck.

The air in the room felt thick, filling Rich’s lungs with dread. The roadie sighed heavily. Jonny Mosh shook his head.

Nicky told me he had quit shooting up smack, Mosh said quietly, pulling the needle free and letting it drop silently to the carpet.

I think it was this, Rich held up the vial. He didn’t know exactly why he offered the bottle to the singer. It just seemed like the thing to do.

Jonny’s eyes narrowed, the sad look on his face melting away, replaced by something darker. He snatched the vial from Rich’s hand, examining it closer.

Jesus-fucking-me-Christ, Jonny barked, What the hell was he thinking?

He tossed the vial to the roadie, who looked at it in equal dismay, Bob, Jonny frowned, Get Tommy. Clear the party out, and grab your gear. Quick!

The Mexican raised an eyebrow at the singer.

I’ll be fine. Get going. We may not have much time.

The roadie hurried off.

Mosh turned his attention back to Rich.

The thick air felt even thicker still, this time with panic and confusion. He just wanted to go. Get away from all of this. All he wanted to do tonight amounted to meeting some people in the biz and having a few beers. He just wanted to get his demo tape into circulation with those who mattered in L.A.

Instead he found himself sitting on his ass, head throbbing as his buzz died, being stared at angrily by one of his rock ‘n roll heroes, over the dead body of another metal icon. None of this would even be happening if he’d been a little less cheap and bought some damn decent hairspray!

Did you give him this shit? Mosh grabbed up the syringe. Rich could see remnants of the red fluid from the vial clinging to the syringe’s sides.

No, dude, no. I’m no drug dealer.

"Drug dealer?" Mosh clenched the syringe in white knuckles, You better not be lying to me. I swear if you are, I’ll sure as fuck put this needle through your eye and into your brain.

Dude, I’m telling you, I just came in here to use the john and found him like this. I swear!

The singer looked him up and down, anger seething from his eyes. He threw the syringe across the bathroom into the shower stall with a clatter, What’s your name?

R… Rich.

Who are you with, Rich?

What?

Who the fuck are you with? How’d you get into the party?

Oh. I came with my date. We were at the show… I’m with the band, Ruff Ryde…

I don’t give a fuck what band you’re with.

I’m sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous sometimes.

Damn. Why the hell had he mentioned what band he played with? That’s just what he needed. Now Jonny Mosh would associate his band’s name with this mess anytime he thought about it or any time he heard the name Ruff Ryde.

This date you came with…

Trina.

Fine. Trina. How’d she get you up here to the penthouse?

Rich decided that might be a great question.

At the show she got them back stage by flashing her boobs at a security guard and giving him a fake telephone number to call her at. Things back stage had been kind of chaotic and he really hadn’t seen much of her until she found him and said they’d been invited to the after hours penthouse gig. Who knew exactly who, or what she did to get them this far?

Jonny Mosh’s eyes burned a hole through Rich’s skull. The man expected an answer and unless that answer killed his suspicions, Rich believed he might well get that needle right through the eye as promised.

She blew your roadie, he answered quietly.

What?

The big Mexican. She blew him.

Mosh rolled his eyes, He’s Hawaiian, you fucking retard.

Dude, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen a Hawaiian before, except on TV. I’m from Iowa. Fuck, there went his big rambling mouth again.

Yeah, I get it. Midwest kid comes to the coast to hit the big time metal scene, Mosh seemed to relax a bit, but the anger still simmered near the surface, Trina blew Bob. Fine, I can see that. He’s got a bit of a weakness for groupies. Sorry, kid. Guess you two couldn’t have given that shit to Nicky.

I don’t understand, Rich tried not to sound like a whiny kid, but heard a tremble in his own voice.

The shit’s expensive. Very expensive. Very hard to come by. No offense, but some wannabe glam-banger and a dick sucking groupie wouldn’t be bringing this kind of action to any party.

Rich shook his head in confusion. The explanation didn’t quite measure up to what he meant. He didn’t understand why this drug would be any different from any other drugs Nicky Styx had put in his body over his years in Hollywood.

Why would just the sight of the vial piss Jonny off so badly and send his people into action? He started to say something to that effect when another thought crashed into his head, pushing everything else out, demanding to be said.

Dude! That guy in the black silk shirt! He looked like some kind of bigwig. Like a producer or something!

What? Jonny asked, What producer?

Rich told the angry singer about the threesome he had caught the end of. Suddenly, the way the blond told him she thought the bathroom was empty seemed somehow mocking. Sarcastic. Threatening? Not to mention that menacing look the red-haired producer had given him.

What did this producer look like? Jonny seemed fired up again, ready to come across the room at Rich. He tried his best to quell the fear causing his stomach to roil and described the red-haired man he’d seen.

Sonavabitch, Jonny muttered when he had finished, J.J. Jezreel.

Do you know the guy?

Yeah. If I’d known the fucker was here, this would’ve never happened. I would’ve killed that asshole straight up, long before he could peddle this shit to Nicky.

I saw him leave with those two girls, Jonny. I'm sorry, dude. If I would've known I would've stopped him.

Jonny glared at him again, No, dude. You would've tried. And you would be lucky if Jezreel let you live.

Rich felt his insides turn to water. He felt scared shitless. He wanted to find his feet and get away from Styx’s body. What the hell had he gotten himself mixed up in? The look on Jonny’s face, the tone of his voice, told Rich that the singer meant business.

Rich believed every word Mosh said and that scared the musician more than anything he had ever known.

What did that guy give Nicky? He asked the singer.

Mosh leveled a hard gaze at Rich that made his stomach turn even more. He hoped like hell he didn’t spew beer all over Styx and the bathroom. He didn’t know what to make of Jonny’s intense stare. What did Jonny try to tell him? Did those eyes judge him? Scold him? Want to kill him?

I don’t think you’re ready for that answer, country boy.

Damn it, why did he let that Iowa thing slip? Fuck if he would be treated like some country bumpkin fresh off the bus. He had put in a hard year here on the coast, busting his ass to put together Ruff Ryde, trying to make the right connections, trying to learn the ins and outs of L.A. and the industry.

Dude. I’m ready. Tell me what the hell’s going on here, Jonny.

Again, Jonny judged him. Rich straightened up, giving an equally judging stare right back at the brown haired, goateed singer of the Hollywood Cowboys.

All right, Jonny sighed, You want the truth, hard ass? Here it is…

Nicky Styx screamed.

The bass player howled an unearthly chorus of agony, desire, and fear. His scream filled the bathroom, echoing off marbled walls and mirrors, piercing Rich’s eardrums like a banshee’s wail. The bass player’s right hand shot out, iron hard fingers digging into Rich’s throat, cutting off his own scream of surprise.

Rich pawed at the vice-like grip. Nicky’s hair danced like Medusa’s snakes as his entire body convulsed. Hair flying free, Rich could see the paleness of Styx’s face beneath, intersected with a highway of blue veins just below deathly pallor.

Nicky! NO!

Jonny Mosh threw himself at his friend, trying to pull the incredibly strong grip from Rich’s throat. With a snarl, the bass player grabbed Jonny’s long hair, snapping back his head with and audible crack of bones. Rich watched in disbelief as Styx tossed Jonny across the bathroom like a rag doll. The singer crashed through the shower’s half open plate glass door, sending sharp shards spraying everywhere.

Choking, feeling helpless, Rich tried in vain to pull free. Nicky whipped his black hair about with a snap, looking at Rich as if he just realized he held someone in a killing grip. His fingers felt icy cold as they dug into Rich’s flesh. Styx stared at him with eyes glazed milky white, drained of all color, but alive with a primal rage like nothing the Iowan upstart had ever seen.

Nicky snarled. Rich caught a glimpse of gleaming razor like incisors just before they pierced his throat with a wet crunch.

His world spun.

He tried to cry out but couldn’t seem to find his tongue. It felt as if a wet woolly blanket smothered him. Blood rushed from his jugular as Nicky’s lips slurped greedily. Rich moaned. He felt the bass player’s tongue teasing the huge holes in his neck and beneath all of the pain, confusion, and tunnel vision, felt somehow aroused.

He was no fag, plenty of platinum blond groupies could attest to that, but this felt so strangely orgasmic. So intensely intimate. He knew he should struggle, but it felt so right, no matter how weird. He came in his acid wash jeans, still trying to cry out, still trying to work up the means to break free of Nicky’s attentions.

Rich felt dimly aware of Jonny pulling himself up off the shower tiles. The singer ignored large chunks of glass protruding from his body here and there and charged across the room. Even though he felt as if underwater, Rich watched Mosh muscle his bloodied forearm around Nicky Styx's pale throat. Jonny yanked back hard and Styx’s lips made a sickening popping sound as they left Rich’s shredded throat.

The pale, shirtless bass player landed on top of Jonny as they both crashed to the bloodstained carpet.

Bob, the huge Mexican… No, the huge Hawaiian, appeared in the doorway, Tommy T right behind him. Both the Hawaiian and the guitar god rushed Nicky Styx.

The three musicians and the roadie turned into a tiny, chaotic, mosh pit in the middle of the bathroom floor.

Rich reached up for his ravaged throat. His hands came back slick with his own blood, but it just didn’t seem to matter. The haze surrounding his mind told him not to worry about it. Fuck it. This must be some sort of very strange dream.

Maybe he sat on his own couch in his spartan apartment right now, smoking pot with Trina from his favorite bong. Maybe he’d just got his hands on a G laced with opium. It wouldn’t be the first time and he knew what kind of fucked up rides those nights could be.

Out of the whirlwind of violence in the middle of the bathroom floor, Bob emerged, pulling Nicky free from the scramble of flesh and blood by the scruff of his spiky black hair. He whirled the bloodied bass player by the hair into the shower stall. Broken glass crunched as it embedded