Nope. The faker hangs around to act.
‘Doesn’t he know I still need him?’ The hard shower undresses his chin of each false golden strand, his actors glue redundant. Lance sways without a teleprompter.
There isn't enough evil in me to lie to him, to tell the fool that in all my symbiotic happenings that he's the most pathetic. He is the lowest. No, not enough darkness in me to do that. Thoughts remain thoughts. Still, I'm fortunate. I manage to squeeze out a little something. I offer Lance the most cryptic smile my bleeding cheeks can affect,
‘No Leonard Cohen After world, no sighing eternally.’
And he grins back at me all childlike, as if the crap I’ve spun actually makes sense.
Lance the actor, ankle deep in the sludge, he’s wanting more. I display my row of brown gnashers singing more of Kurt’s lyrics:
Lance wants an explanation for the last few weeks of his body-snatched life, this actor who would spill no blood for me. This infidel that doesn’t even know my name.
I ignore the questions I have for him. I hold them deep in my gut. Lance won’t get the satisfaction of knowing that this little adventure is pockmarked with plot-holes. Was Lissie a minion working for Eros? My conscience would love to hear that. And hey, the giant’s tooth masquerading as a trailer – who brought it here?
What’s the name of the fucker who gave Eros a protective hub from the god-hex? Which of her servants now tops my shit list? But naturally, I don’t ask Lance about any of this. No, I just hold all my anxieties inside my belly. I’ll have to make-do with theories of my own. I’m not giving this human-trash any satisfaction.
Every now and then my eyes would open themselves to the night, my enhanced vision spying ‘Kurt’ coiled up tight. My god facing the wall, whimpering.
At some point, I had to get up and plonk myself on the bed’s edge, utterly determined to be straight with my friend the facsimile. The anguish being so much that my right foot dissolved a little, threatening to melt into a barely held together idea. I remember reaching out to nudge his attention toward me. That’s when Sid Vicious flamed out of his black rectangle stand-by mode.
Sid had become the solar flare that’d attacked me previously, ready to protect his master, and so I had to pull myself together and head back to my space on the floor, empathy for my grunge god replaced by the perversion of listening to his cry-fest. All this whilst my link to the world of shadow tightened python-like round my left ankle.
'I’m not for real.’ said a voice piercing the perfect dark.
‘You got the blonde hair, you play guitar with your left hand you're Kurt Co-‘
And with that I closed my mouth, fully resolved to drift off, back to sleep.
I took the deerstalker off my head, the light of my hair spreading the room immediately. I made my empty apology.
Her short blonde hair matted, her blood coagulating her short crop into slimy mucky dreads. She’d been tied up in jade colour strips of what used to be her jacket. This was ‘Kurt’s’ half dead groupie, moaning, delirious. Rooenn, the fucker.
On her chest he’d dipped his finger in the twin blood-wells he’d made out of her nipples. ‘Spider woz ere’ read the message on her chest.
No. Chains lock. Keep the black whole.
When dark holds, High-father, see! Terror breeds.
Evil Ignite, ignite, ignite.
Rooenn damned Terrorsmith has bite, will bite, must bite.’