The once magnificent stained-glass windows of the cathedral were now indeterminable shards of colored glass spread on the wood underneath the windowsill. Crystals that once hung from the central chandelier scattered away from where they impacted in chunks and splinters. The remaining lighting fixtures hung by electrical wires from the high ceiling, some simply crumpled into a twisted shiny metal disaster on the floor. The few objects in the wide white room that had not been fixed to the ground had been thrown against the walls.
The explosion of prismatic sound from the young musician's guitar seemed to slice through the laws of physics as it had burst from the amplifier next to him.
The chaos halted as quickly as it had started when Toki Wartooths fingers stopped still.
The ties of all three judges had flapped over their shoulders the moment the young Norwegian had started playing. 2 of them lost their clipboards, one catching theirs square in the face, his bottom lip now swollen to a fat fleshy blood blister.
The water jug and glasses before them had been long since swept behind them, breaking into pieces. The unluckiest of the three had caught his in the forehead. Glass stuck out from his cheek, blood dripping down onto his wet button-up shirt.
Pieces of the chandelier behind the guitarist dangled precariously before dropping to the floor, the rain-like shattering noise was the only thing to break the silence once he had set down his guitar.
The three men before him didn't appear to be angry, they didn't look disappointed or upset, so Toki could only conclude that he had done well for himself. He smiled hopefully as the man in the middle stood up to address him.
"Get out of here."
With a shaky hand he brought his fingers to his face and removed his glasses, both of the lenses had popped out. Toki didn't move, still translating in his head.
"NOW!"
His voice boomed across the expansive room, causing the flighty Norwegian to jump.
"Ahh, thanks yous for listenings to me! Thanks you!"
The brunette grabbed up his belongings and returned to the door from whence he came, his boots crackling on the broken particles.
His guitar case sat just outside the door where he had left it. It was a sad brown thing which almost bent in half in the middle. It was secondhand and stained, a discolored white blur obscured the Norwegian brand name on the side of it where someone had once spray painted "Lite Skjøge". Toki had scrubbed it off himself, leaving the fabric worn, still smelling of propellant.
The stitching was frayed around the strap so badly that Toki had started carrying it around in his arms instead. Since coming to America he'd added a plastic green tag to the case, on which his name was written painstakingly in his childish hand writing.
He sniffled, zipping the case up around the navy blue Ashton, and turned around to the sign in sheet on the rickety table outside the examiners door. He wrote his name in and signed next to it, confirming he'd attended and completed his final performance exam.
His stomach was a little wobbly. When he first glimpsed American soil from the plane he flew in on, he decided it didn't matter if he didn't get into the school, he wasn't going to go home. He would run away. The idea made him a little ill. If he wasn't accepted then he was sure he'd be disowned by his parents, who already thought very little of him.
He initially thought the panel were impressed, their mouths were wide open after the first stanza of the Iron Maiden classic, he thought they looked happier, like there was a glimmer of something living behind their tired appearance.
He spoke better English than he understood when he was nervous, and so he only understood that he was to leave when the adjudicator's fat sausage finger pointed at the door.
Being asked to leave in such a way couldn't possibly be a good thing, though he remained positive that perhaps it was just an American custom to be so vicious.
The late January chill caught him as he pushed the heavy cathedral doors open, the wind blowing his scarf and hair back behind him. Toki pressed his guitar to his chest and made his way down the huge stone stairs, eager to return to the dorm room he had been provided, knowing full well that it might be the last night he would ever spend there.
Nathan hadn't seen Skwisgaar for three days. Considering the circumstances, this worried him considerably.
He'd call the reception of his hotel each morning to see if his room was still being paid for, a sign that the guitarist was at least still alive, and once confirmed, he would spend the day in bed. He missed Florida already. The extended holiday he had taken worried his mother, who called to express her concern daily.
Occasionally he would slip down to the bar, a baseball cap drawn down hard over his face, and sip a rum and coke in front of the bar television. This was one such instance.
He rested his head on his hand, swirling the ice in the glass in front of him with his finger.
The hotel was fairly upmarket, the fixtures and handles were frequently polished of fingerprints and sticky child residue, the electronics in the place all appeared to be brand new, the carpets cleaned daily, and the bar itself had a glass countertop, lit underneath by blue LEDs.
The barstools were similarly lit, the cushions made from plastic coated gel, capturing the light under the asses of various patrons. He exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn't used to such a sterile environment, and he didn't like it. It lacked authenticity to him, he liked his living areas to be lived in, and as such he hadn't allowed the maid to clean his room since he'd taken up residency in it.
All in all the environment made him depressed. He resolved that that evening would definitely be the time to call Skwisgaar. He'd been politely avoiding making contact with the blonde, the last thing he wanted to do was make it seem as though he wanted to be involved in the Scandinavian's next endeavor.
"Dodgers game, aye?" Nathan heard a tinkle of glass and ice beside him, the scraping of a barstool as the occupant pulled it closer to him. He'd lost his train of thought.
He focused on the TV screen to confirm that indeed the home team were playing, though he hadn't paid any attention in the last hour to even register this information. He blinked and stared down into his watery drink.
"I actually uuuh… Actually wasn't watching that" he turned to look at his new barmate.
"Do I… Know you?" He squinted.
"Oh you couldn't possibly have forgotten this face so quickly, could you Nathan?" Magnus' face cracked into a wide smile, the rubbery dimples in his face made him look significantly aged. His eyes were cold. Nathan just stared, so his slender acquaintance raised his hand for the bartender.
"Jack and coke please. And you, Nathan?" The larger man was still staring, but he managed to mumble out a reply.
"Make that two." Magnus turned his attention back to the black-haired singer, wry smile still projected onto his face.
"Look at you, with your long hair. Finally longer than mine, huh?" He began to chuckle, but Nathan sliced through it.
"How did you find me." It was a statement more than a question. His voice was flat now, annoyed, not threatened. After the initial shock of seeing his high school friend in the flesh had worn off, Nathan could only find distain for the guy.
"Come now Nathan, it isn't hard to track anyone down in my line of work, as long as they have a criminal record" He laughed, Nathan fumed.
The bartender set down their drinks. Magnus was still happily draining his first. He looked awfully pleased with himself. Nathan could only guess as to why the guitarist was there, but he could assume it had something to do with his own face being plastered all over the news.
"I just happened to be in the city for work, I thought I'd see what you were doing these days and hey, you were just around the corner!"
Silence. The Dodger's scored.
"So, hey, maybe I'm just taking crazy pills here, but are you currently recording with Skwisgaar Skwigelf?" Magnus chuckled. Nathan's brow furrowed a little more.
"Absurd, I know, I know-but, I thought I saw you on TV the other night!"
"Can't you just ask me how I am first?" Nathan snapped, turning away so he faced the bar in front of him, staring at his reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottom-shelf liquors. He took a sip of his new drink.
"Well that comes hand in hand, doesn't it? I mean, what could possibly be more exciting for you than this?"
Nathan tightened his jaw. This was just why he could barely stand his old friend. He gripped the drink in front of him, his finger pads turning white as they pressed hard against the glass.
He'd broken many a glass in that way. His mother had always taught him it was impolite to outright punch people who deserved it, and Nathan wasn't usually one to disappoint his mother. He released his fingers, watching the pink trickle back into them slowly. He took a deep breath.
"Isn't that right Nathan?" Magnus slapped his shoulder, he was reiterating whatever point Nathan supposed he should have been paying attention to.
"Uhh… Yeah, sure. Look, Magnus. Did you wanna meet him? Is that what this is all about?"
The corner of the brunette's mouth twitched, but he maintained his smile.
"What a nice offer, Nathan. That is very kind of you, I am a big fan. I know his first language isn't English, but I'd love to ask him how he happened upon you. I didn't think his career was going downhill!"
Magnus shouldered him, Nathan clenched his teeth. At least it would give him an excuse to call the Swede.
"I'll see what I can do."
Charles Ofdensen had dealt with his share of rockstars. In fact, considering how long he'd been in the business, he found it curious that he hadn't dealt with the Snakes N' Barrels singer before.
Pickles had taken the news surprisingly well. Not wanting to prove the lawyer right, he had refrained from flipping out. Instead he took his emotions out on the remainder of the six pack from the minibar.
Snizzy Snazz had overdosed. This wasn't especially unusual for the guitarist, but he'd yet to wake up from his coma. Blame was being tossed around between Candynose and Tony, but Pickles had left the trio long before Snizzy Snaz had taken the ridiculous dosage, so all Ofdensen required of him was a statement regarding the incident. If Bullets died, there would be an investigation. This was the real bad news for the front man.
His advice for the redhead was to get himself involved in another project as soon as possible. There was usually one musician who escaped the fiery wreckage of a broken up band, and on more than one occasion Charles Ofdensen was behind their success.
His business prowess had not gone unnoticed either, though he avoided being pushed into the spotlight, increasingly having to decline to be interviewed for various Rock n' Roll publications, he'd been given a bigger office, more resources, and a bigger paycheck.
Though only 3 years out of graduate school, the lawyer was debit free, with everything a normal man could dream of. Charles however, was not a normal man. He didn't measure his success in his possessions, he got his gratification from wrangling more and more difficult contracts. Such a measure made it impossible for him to be sated, this, he had decided, was both a blessing and a curse.
The lights on his Mercedes-Benz W220 flashed from across the car park as he swiftly made his way toward it. Once he was speeding away from the studio he made a mental checklist. That morning he had drawn up and completed the documents necessary for Skwisgaar Skwigelf's separation from Fuckface Academy, the drummer and bassist had caused a somewhat violent fuss, the more sensitive singer had jumped straight through the high rise office window.
A few short years ago, this kind of incident would have rattled him, but such occurrences were becoming more and more common as his interests drifted closer to the darker side of the music industry.
He would usually schedule upwards of four meetings in one typical work day, but the lucrative proposal Skwigelf had offered him meant that that day he had no time for anything after his meeting with the Snakes n' Barrels resident red head.
"Draws up de, contkracts, fors de band. It ams going to be a big one."
The Swede's words echoed in his head as he punched the accelerator in, shooting up the ramp of the 10 highway.
He'd been contracted as a lawyer for Skwisgaar for some years now, mostly legal and accounting advice. He'd had to wipe his calander for a straight week when the two had first met, Skwisgaar already had a name for himself in his homeland, but his poor grasp of the English language meant that in coming to America his tax accounts were in ruins, and the blonde ended up owing more than a year of back pay, which Charles was able to pay back without drawing directly from the Singer's spending money.
The car park underneath the impressive Crystal Mountains Records building was beginning to clear out for the end of the day, but for Charles it was like returning home for the night.
He spent more nights in his cushy leather chair than he did at his apartment. His office was equipped with closet, refrigerator, television (in case he wanted to catch the news), and all the office accessories a bureaucrat could ever need. He also had access to the impressive executive bathroom, equipped with both shower and sauna, should the mood ever strike him.
All in all he acted as the engine in the center of many projects, and that's the way he liked it.
He locked his car and set his briefcase on the ground to straighten his tie, the red silk cool on his well worked fingers. He checked his watch, ran his hands through his chestnut hair, and headed for the elevator. It was going to be a long night.