This is my attempt at a fanfiction! I have a Satan Boss, so I'll probably update either every week or every other week. Looking for a beta! Hope you enjoy!

December 20, 1994

"Hey, man, turn that fuckin' camera off."

Jasper Whitlock cringed and quickly averted his eyes from behind the lens to staring right into the face of the ugly club owner with a long scar down one cheek, a reminder that he was a dangerous man with dangerous friends.

Jasper turned the camera around to record his own narrative soundbyte. "Once again, strip mogul James Hunter foils my master plans to accurately depict life in Alphabet City."

"Turn the fuckin' thing off or I'll fuckin' shove it so far down tour goddamn Jew throat that the only thing you can tape is the view out your asshole!"

Jasper turned his camera off.

"Aw, Pookie, you can film vagina plenty of places," soothed his girlfriend, Alice Brandon, resident small-time performance artist and large-time jailbird. She stretched her arm around his shoulders and the light from the stage caught her dangling navel ring. "You don't need to settle for this shithole just because James is the biggest cunt of them all."

Edward Masen slid back into his seat beside Alice, looking windswept and thoroughly fucked, with eyes like dinner plates. He ran a shaking hand through his thick shag of auburn hair and smirked at Jasper. "Production shut down again, Jazz Man?"

Jasper nodded, looked over his shoulder quickly, and then leaned across Alice to whisper conspiratorially. "But not before I got some good shots of your favorite little kittycat. You can thank me later."

Edward nodded with a high, hazy grin and held out his hand to low-five Jasper.

He turned his gaze back to the wrought-iron cage that hung above the stage, where every night, a little nymphette Lolita in black leather and lace writhed against the bars blindfolded and with her wrists handcuffed above her head. Edward's band's set over at the Volterra Lounge didn't let out until after the cagedancer's feature, so he'd never caught her name, but he never missed the little trickles of sweat that ran down the inside of her thighs when she wrapped them around metal and rode the bars.

"She's pretty, Eddie," Alice agreed, "But I like my women like I like my coffee… strong, hot, and black."

"Strong, hot, and black… you jonesin' for a little Em-meat, little Alice?" boomed Emmett McCarty, sauntering over to the table. He was a huge man with close cropped hair, gold hoop earrings, and dimples like craters cut into his smooth chocolate brown skin.

Jasper shot him a withering look.

Alice pouted. "Oh, pookie, you know I only love you." Then she scowled at Emmett. "Stuff a fucking dildo in it, Em. You're making Jasper self-conscious."

"Alice, baby, The Jazz Man is always self-conscious. He's a goddamn NYU Film School grad, being a well-intentioned bitch ass is a graduation requirement." He guffawed and slapped Jasper on the back, making his glasses slide down his nose. "Anyway bitches, guess who scored a motherfucking date with Lauren Fucking Mallory tomorrow night?"

"Lauren Mallory?" asked Jasper.

"Of the Westport Mallories?" asked Alice.

"Good lay," contributed Edward. "Terrible blow. But good 'blow.'"

"Good to know," Emmett said. He bumped fists with Edward. "Where's Lady Jane tonight?"

"No idea," Edward said offhandedly. "But the stripper in blue over there tastes fucking scrumptious."

Alice shook her head. "Edward, with all the wild oats you sow, we ought to start calling you Quaker."

"They're quaking once I'm done with them all right," Edward agreed cheekily.

He took a last loving look at his little S&M nymph in her protective cage, slung his guitar over his back, and stretched.

"I should get home and see my Janie. She was acting weird again this morning." He turned to Jasper. "I'll leave the key in the mailbox."

Humming a song about sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, Edward made his way down the snowy street. The padlock on the building was biting cold and rusty, the hallway drafty, but Edward was at home and living the bohemian life he dreamed of and loved.

The peeling door of the abandoned apartment all five friends shared (Edward, Jasper, Janie, Alice, and Emmett) creaked as he shouldered it open.

"Hey, Janie, I'm home," Edward called and was met with uncharacteristic silence.

He locked the deadbolts and set down his guitar, reaching into the case and taking out his kit to share smack with Jane before bed. "Janie?"

Then Edward noticed the sliver of light from beneath the heavy bathroom door and heard the dripping of water. He smiled, liking the idea of his girlfriend naked and wet, waiting for him, and opened the door.

Blood.

The scent of it assaulted him first, metallic, sickly sweet, and overpowering. It made his throat burn.

Then the sight of Jane, his Janie, pale white and ice cold in the bathtub with long gashes in her arms and dark crimson water matting her pale blonde hair.

Edward staggered backwards and gripped the small counter for support, his heart in his throat.

The heel of his left hand felt the crinkle of paper.

Edward lifted the note, written in Janie's clean, neat handwriting.

Edward.

We've got AIDS.