Thank You and Goodnight, Page 2

rubbed his eyes. He went to put his leg on to the floor when reality hit. He jerked his head around. There was nobody on the bed. He got up and went to the door.

  "Hey man! Holy shit, you look like shit. What happened to you?" Stevie said stepping back.

  "Ah nothing. I, I ah. I don't know!' Damon slurred and put his head down.

  "Well, bus is leaving, you gonna make it?"

  Damon shook his head in a quick jerking motion, "Yea, I'll be there."

  Damon closed the door and walked to the bathroom. A question kept lingering in his mind. How did she get out of this room if the door was locked from the inside? He looked in the mirror and couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes were as red as stoplights and his pupils were no bigger than a head of a needle. His skin was pale-white with lines of blue veins on his face and arms. He threw his body over the toilet and began to throw up. Sick! Incredibly sick, but at the same time he could feel a little ball of anger building deep down inside. He somehow managed to get himself together long enough to make it down to the bus and crawl in the back bunk. He slept all the way to Wisconsin, which was only about a three and a half hour drive. Baldy, Stevie, and Crazy Carl thought nothing of it. All of them have woke up with a killer hangover on this tour quite frequently, but by the looks of it, Damon must have really tied one on. Hell, he literally looked like the walking dead.

  The band's agent had informed them they would be doing a interview with Rolling Stone magazine before sound check. After practically dragging Damon to the room, he sat through the interview acting almost incoherent.

  Cynthia Barns, the interviewer, had a few uncomfortable moments when Damon would burst out with obscenities like someone with turrets. The band, looking at each other confused, tried to answer the questions and get it over with. Damon sat through the rest of the interview with his dark glasses on and his elbows in each hand. He was rocking back and forth like a person in a padded room.

  It was two hours before the show. The band was doing their sound check. They made it through about half the routine when Damon dropped his microphone and started walking out.

  "You better get your shit together before the show." Stevie yelled after him.

  "Go fuck yourself!" Damon replied as we walked out and slammed the door. The band finished up sound check and stood around backstage waiting and having a few drinks as the crowd started filing in. There was no sign of Damon.

  It was now twenty minutes until show time and still no sign of Damon. The band was starting to panic. Five minutes before they were to take the stage, Damon came walking up.

  "Are you sure your ready to do this?" Baldy asked him.

  "Oh, I'm sure. This is gonna be one hell of a show." Damon said. It seemed to Baldy that he was perfectly fine. Even though he was far from it.

  Damon had been sitting in a quiet bathroom down a lonely hallway when the band was finishing sound check and waiting backstage. His body was going through these surge's of hate and uncontrollable anger. He was pounding on the stall doors with his fists and kicking the side walls, screaming and coughing.

  "What's happening to me. I hate everything! I hate everyone!"

  A police officer came in to see what all the commotion was about and without even thinking twice, Damon leaped on him and snapped his neck. He knew the officer was already dead but he kept punching and kicking him anyway. At one point, he ripped the paper towel holder off the wall and slammed it down on the poor dead officer's face. Breathing heavily, Damon took the officer's gun and stuffed in his pants. He walked over to the mirror and cleaned off the spots of blood on his face and hands. Then he stepped over the dead officer and walked out.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen. Are you ready? The band you've been waiting for. The ass-kicking, in your face loudest band in the world. The one, The only, The WARLOCKS!" The announcer screamed as the same thud, thud pumped through the stadium. The band ripped through their set with Damon right on key before walking back stage and waiting to go back on for the encore. A fan lingering backstage had told Damon that they fucking rocked.

  "Wait for the encore. It will be a mind blowing experience." Damon responded and started for the stage.

  The song was about over and Baldy wasn't paying any attention as Damon pulled the gun from his pants. He held the gun a inch from the back of his head and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on to a giant speaker as Baldy fell over in a heap. No one saw this accept a few fans up front. The lights were going in a strobe effect. Damon walked slowly to were Stevie was noodling on his guitar. Once he had noticed there was no bass playing he looked up. Bang! Stevie's world went black. The guitar gave out a piercing feedback and the drums played for about four seconds before coming to a halt. Crazy Carl was standing up behind his kit trying to absorb what was going on. Why were his guitar players laying on the ground? As soon as his eye's met Damon's, he felt a burning pain in his gut. He looked down and saw a red spot forming on his white shirt. He looked up once more before a bullet entered his forehead blowing his brains all over the back curtain. Damon turned to the crowd. The stadium was almost dead silent. The house lights had turned on. A few security guys were rushing toward Damon from both sides of the stage, but before they could reach him Damon put the gun to his temple and spoke into the microphone with the other hand.

  "Thank you and goodnight." He pulled the trigger.

  The worst tragedy in rock and roll history made news all over the world. The entire industry and fans were in complete shock. What would posses a very successful man to do such a horrific act. Why? Why? Why?

  Thank you and goodnight By Matthew David Stephens 2008