Chapter Two

As I left Daddy's room, I ran straight into my new butler, Malcolm. "Madame Gabor, your son wants to speak with you."

I groaned. Just when I was in a good mood, too.

"Fine, fine. Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."

Malcolm stared at his white gloves as he spoke. "He's quite insistent on seeing you now, madam."

I already disliked Malcolm and his attitude; he could look forward to reading the want ads again if he wasn't careful.

"Ugh, all right!" I shoved the idiot out of the way and my way down the hall, until I reached the main staircase of our huge, expensive mansion.

Stephen leaned against the railing at the foot of the stairs, his arms folded as he looked around at nothing. When he heard me coming, he jumped to attention. "Mom! What the hell are you doing to me?!"

I stopped at the top of the stairs and pointed down at him. "Ooh, don't take that tone of voice with me, buster!"

He waved a piece of paper in front of him. "Try explaining this, Mom! This was on my front door this afternoon."

I sighed. "If you think my eyes are powerful enough to read that from way up here, you're overestimating me, sweetie!"

Stephen snorted at me, the brat. "You know what it is! It's an eviction notice!"

I put my hand to my chest and gasped. "How awful."

"I went to the apartment manager to find what the hell's going on; he told me I was a 'disruptive tenant.'"

I grinned. "Son, I've always told you, some people just don't have any class." As I made my way down the stairs, I moved in for the kill. "Well, you're always welcome here with me."

He laughed as he ran his hands through his hair. "I knew it. You got to him; you paid him off."

I gave him a smile as I reached the bottom and pulled him into a hug. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just glad you're coming home."

Stephen pushed me away. "This is ridiculous! It's over an hour commute to Leland."

I folded my arms and gave him my sweetest smile. "You can make connections that are just as good at a school around here."

"Unbelievable." He threw up his arms and wandered around the foyer. I'd seen him throw tantrums all his life, so it didn't surprise me when he grabbed a painting of some wimp on horseback and threw it to the floor. "I'm not a little kid anymore!"

I stepped over the torn canvas and grabbed him by his stubbly chin. "You're certainly acting like one!"

He backed away from me. "This is absurd, Mom. I'll look like a fool if you keep trying to baby me all the time."

Can you believe such ingratitude!

"I can't understand how you can stand there and talk to me like that," I sighed and shook my head. "I have always been there for you. Your whole life, you've always had me-how many of your dumbass friends can say that?"

He walked up to me and tried to stare me down. I didn't blink. "Mom, I have to leave eventually."

I curled my lip. "Says who?"

He turned and stormed away. "This is so stupid," I heard him mumble.

"Do you really think you'd be happier somewhere else?" I called after him.

Kids-they don't have a clue.

He gripped the door handle. "I don't need you, or your money, you know."

I chuckled. "Oh, really? This I have to hear!"

"I had a look at the conditions of Grandfather's trust fund."

I gripped the edge of the foyer table. "Where? Where did you see that?"

"There's a copy in Gramps' room." He grinned. "You might say I did a little snooping when I was visiting with the old guy."

I let out a scream.

Stephen opened the door and laughed. "So I guess you know what it says? I can draw on a monthly allowance until I'm 21. Then, I get the whole enchilada. Adios, Mom!"

I started to chase after him as the door slammed shut. Instead, I turned and ran into the nearby sitting room.

I slammed the door shut and threw the closest thing at hand.

I'd hoped the sound of that ugly orange vase shattering into thousands of pieces would make me feel better.

It didn't.

Perhaps, I thought, the one with purple flowers Daddy's Korean business partners sent me?

I gripped it with both hands, let out my most powerful scream, and heaved it across the room. It crashed against the fireplace with an unsatisfying thud, and split in two.

"Stupid piece of crap!" I grabbed the fireplace poker and began bashing the vase to bits. After wearing my arms out, I kicked at the pieces that remained.

We have so much junk like that around the mansion, and with most I don't remember where most they came from. But I remember getting that vase—I was pregnant with Stephen at the time.

I remembered the night I first called him by his name…

When I was eight months pregnant, I was enjoying a well-deserved rest on the Italian leather sofa I asked Daddy to buy me as one of my baby gifts. Stormer was rubbing my feet, like I told her to, and reading to me from a baby name book, like I didn't.

"How 'bout 'Stanley'?" she asked, in a voice that was too damn chipper for nine in the evening. "It means, "stone meadow.' Pretty nice, huh?"

I groaned. "Sounds like a pharmacist with black-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector-next!"

Stormer smiled. "Oh, how about 'Stanton'? That sounds manlier."

I cringed. "One of Daddy's business associates was named Stanton. He tried to feel me up when I was sixteen-"

"That's awful," she interrupted, as she patted my feet.

Her sympathy weirded me out a little. "And, he was ugly," I added.

Stormer's head drooped. "Oh." She flipped the page. "How about 'Stephen'? It's means, 'crown.'"

"Whoop-de-fuckin'-do," I sighed. If she wasn't so good at giving foot rubs, I'd have told her to buzz off.

Stormer didn't take the hint. "Lots of famous people were named Stephen. Several popes, and lots of kings, too. An English king, and Hungary too, including their greatest king."

I perked up for a moment, until I remember how much perking up hurts when you've got an undercooked pot roast in your belly. "Really? Hungary?"

"Yeah," she gave me a surprised look, then read some more. "He was Hungary's first king, he established rule over the whole region, and he's Hungary's patron saint."

"King, eh?" I definitely liked the sound of that. My son, a king!

What could be more appropriate? After all, his mother is the queen of rock and roll!

And Hungary, as well. My family's Hungarian; I don't mean to sound all sappy, but the Misfits had played there several months earlier, and I found myself appreciating the place much more than I thought I would.

Hell, the kid was conceived there—might as well commemorate the deed!

"Pizzazz?" Stormer asked. "You ok?"

I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "Stephen's all right." I put my foot up to her face. "Now, get back to work."

I placed my hand on my belly and smiled.

A king…

I groaned at the memory: a king who'd grown too big for his crown.

I searched the room for another vase—perhaps a painting would do just as well—when Matilda's gray head popped in the door. "Miss Phyllis?"

"What do you want?!" I growled.

"Telephone for you. Says she's a reporter. Sounded fishy to me."

I sighed at my maid's cluelessness. "Did you get her name, for God's sake?"

"Lindsay something or other. Sounded like one of those phone sex girls you hear about—kinda breathy, you know?"

Matilda's idiocy had begun to improve my mood a tad. "Well, maybe I'll go ahead and talk to her."

Matilda reached inside her blouse and pulled out my cell phone. "I think she's still on the line."

"Gimme that!" I shouted, as I grabbed the phone from her. "Now get lost!"

Matilda shrugged and shuffled out of the room.

I held the phone up to my ear. "This is Ms. Gabor," I announced with a smile.

The voice on the other end was raspy, not breathy, and the name she announced was even more disappointing. "Long time, no call, Pizzazz! This is Lin-Z Pierce here. I'm hoping I can get a word with you on today's big news."

I'd have hung up on the twit if it weren't for that last thing. "What big news?"

"Oh, don't tell me I'm the bearer of bad news," though she didn't sound too upset. "Sorry to tell you, but Jem and the Holograms were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame today," she paused for effect, and added, "and the Misfits weren't."

For the first two or three seconds after she spoke, I didn't even care. Then that little voice in the back of my head spoke up, and with each passing second, my fury grew.

"Thank you for letting me know, Lin-Z," I spit at her through my gritted teeth. "I have no comment at this time."

I heaved the phone against the door, and grinned at the sight of it splitting open, its electronic guts spilling out in a heap.

For the moment, my problems with my son were forgotten. I could deal with him later.

For the moment, I forgot Daddy's illness.

For the moment, all I could think of was Jem. Jem stealing the spotlight I earned. Jem stealing the honors that were due me.

I may not have given a fuck about any Hall of Fame that morning, but that was before they screwed me over.

I guess I've always been impulsive.

That's my right, because I'm me.

I made the decision right then, before I'd even confirmed that the news was true.

I would have my revenge.

I'd make them think twice about pissing me off.

I sat on the divan and tried to control my whirling thoughts.

In an instant, I remembered who I am.

I'm Pizzazz.

I'm a Misfit.

"Oh, you don't usually drop her off yourself."

Blimey, the way Andy looked at me, you'd think I had a third arm growing out of me bum.

I dropped one of me daughter Bett's bags and glared at him. "I need to talk to you, right?"

He gave me the same blank, somewhat dim expression he tended to give me whenever I was about to row with him when we were still married.

I nudged Bett in the elbow. "Right, in you go."

"Whatever."

Bett gave me a scowl and picked up her suitcases, making a show of how heavy they supposedly were.

Her dad stepped aside so she and her bags could fit through the door. "Dinner's at seven, kiddo."

"Whatever." Twelve year-olds aren't exactly gabby.

"Hey!" I called out to her. "You gonna walk off without giving Mum a hug?"

Me daughter gave me the least sincere hug imaginable before scurrying in the house.

"Little smart-arse, she is."

Andy gave a small snort. "Being a little hard on her, maybe?"

I sighed. "Of course, she never pulls any of that rubbish on dear old Daddy, does she?" I gave him a small smile. "Anyroad, we can argue about that some other day."

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Hmm. What do you want?"

I reached into me purse and pulled out a stack of papers. "Explain this."

He ran a hand through his thinning hair as he scanned through the pages. "What are these?"

I folded me arms as I paced on the front steps. "Andy, you know I can always figure out when you're telling porkies."

He stopped and stared at me for a moment. "I forget what that one means."

I snatched the papers from him. "Not bloody likely."

He gestured for me to come inside. "Let's talk in here."

Instead, I faffed about on the porch for a moment, and had a look at the sunset. "Nah, I'd rather chat out here, luv. Enjoy a bit of fresh air, and all that."

"What do you want me to say?"

I laughed, harder than I meant to. "I want you to tell me why you're writing a book about me."

He gave me that crooked little smile that even now makes me knees a little wobbly. "You figured it out?"

"I've got some decent management now." I lashed the papers at him. "It didn't take an Einstein to understand what these publishing contracts meant."

Andy rubbed the back of his head. "How you get those?"

"Like I said: decent management, mate."

He tapped his hand against the door jamb and looked away. "I'm sorry."

I kicked his front step, before I remembered that me feet aren't as strong as concrete. "Bollocks!"

At least that made him look at me.

"It is about me, innit? You're doing a bloody tell-all?"

He sighed. "About you, and working with the Misfits, yes."

"Arse." I would have walloped the blighter, except part of me just wanted to cry.

Fuck me.

He tried to spread on the honey. "I'm not the first person to write a book about you guys. And I promise it'll be a lot more balanced than some of the trash you find out there."

I should have told him, but none of that trash was written by me bloody ex-husband. Instead, all I said was, "Why?"

"You're about to go into the Hall of Fame. This is the perfect time. And the money would be good for Bett."

I laughed as hard as I could to cover up me tears. "Bett doesn't need any more bleedin' dosh! I'm her mum; she'll always be taken care of, right?"

Andy tried to put his hand on me shoulder; I slapped it away. "Sheel, I'll let you read the proofs before it goes to the publisher, ok?"

"Oh, la dee da! That makes it all better!" I paced along the steps. "Even after everything that happened, I couldn't believe it when they told me. I still didn't believe it till you told me yourself."

I sat on the steps and watched his landscapers as they rode around on their bloody big riding lawnmowers.

He sat next to me, so I scooted to the edge of the step. "It's nothing personal; just business."

"Ten fucking years of marriage," I sighed.

Me phone rang, so I stood and tried to move away from him as I answered it. "Jetta here."

I heard the always knackered voice of me manager, Patty. "Hey hun, glad I got a hold of you."

"No problem."

I heard her sigh. "I've got bad news. The Misfits didn't get in this year."

I didn't say anything for several seconds. "Come again?"

"Just got the word in from Cleveland. 'Seven new inductees, including Jem and Dominic Lerner. Misfits snubbed.' I'm really sorry."

"Right. Well, thanks for telling me, luv." I hung up and turned to see Andy on the phone himself. His face looked pasty.

I realized what he'd just been told.

"Tough break, eh?" I called out to him as I headed to me car. "Guess there's always next year, ducky!"

He went inside and shut the door without a dicky bird.

I laughed as I switched the ignition on.

Bloody arse. Serves him right.

Right then, the news hit me. I smacked one palm against the steering wheel of me Lexus. Then the other.

In moments, me knuckles were bruised and red.

I played a quick scale on my synth as I tried to work out the transition to the bridge of my latest song. Nothing seemed to come to me.

Most of my day had been productive-I woke up a bundle of nerves as I waited for the news of the Hall of Fame inductions.

As the pieces of a new song came together in my head, I kept thinking forward to the induction ceremony. What would we wear? Would we perform? If so, what would we play?

Could we get through the event without falling back into our old ways and causing a brawl that would land us all in jail?

I realized that a small part of me relished the idea.

"I Owe You Everything" came together fast, even the lyrics, which I often have trouble with. I was working out the final kinks before I tried laying down a demo, when my manager called.

We didn't get in.

I couldn't begrudge anyone who made it. Not Jem and the Holograms. Not anyone.

I thanked Royce for telling me and quickly hung up.

I had almost called Kimber to send my congratulations, but I stopped myself. She'd want to celebrate the news with her family.

I sighed: she'd looked so unhappy the last time I'd seen her, when our negotiations for a new album together fell through.

Instead, I went back to the music room in my home and tried to focus on my new song.

As I struggled with the transition, I tasted a salty tear as it ran down onto my lips.

I wiped it away and began playing whatever came into my head.

I soon settled into a groove and began searching for a good riff.

Anything.

I started playing around with a funky rhythm. I began to grow as excited, as I bobbed my head along to the beat. I knew it might have a winner here.

Yet there was something familiar…

I played a little more, as I tried to vary the beat. But I couldn't get away from the rhythm. When I hit the main riff, I couldn't stop myself from singing along: "It's happened, I made it, I'm finally here…"

Shit.

I pulled my hands from the keyboard and tried to calm my rapid breathing.

When I get really stuck, I turn to the comfort of my oldest piece of hardware.

I reached under the little mixing desk and pulled out a battered case. I popped the latches and pulled out my old, orange-yellow keytar.

I switched on the beaten up instrument and pressed a middle C. The note came out ever so sour. The keytar had been a tiny bit out of tune for years (finding replacement parts was a nightmare), but I still found it relaxing to mess around on.

I began running through the verse of "I Owe You Everything" again, as I hummed the half-finished lyrics.

As I came to the bridge, an idea hit me: a booming sound, with a fast, insistent beat. I gave me idea a quick, sloppy run-through, liked what I heard, and I began to smooth out the sound a bit.

I tried it again, as I played the verse, the new transition, and the bridge. It sounded effortless, until I found myself singing along with the new section: "How does it feel to be popular?…"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I clutched the keytar to my chest as I sank to the floor. I tried to hold on for one moment…two moments…then the tears started.

I know it might sound silly. I hadn't been in the Hall of Fame the day before; my life wouldn't be any different the day after. And there was always next year.

But it hurt.

It hurts when eight gold albums and seven number one hits isn't good enough.

It hurts when you worked hard to be the best, and someone comes along and tells you it doesn't matter: the popular girls won instead.

God, it hurts like hell to be rejected.

After a few minutes, I put the keytar aside and struggled to my feet. I stepped out of the music room and wandered through the halls, until I made it outside to my front porch.

My gardens swayed from a light breeze as the sun set. I peered across Napa Valley and caught a glimpse of my neighbors' vineyards, far in the distance.

I took a seat on the front steps and pulled the daisy from my hair. I plucked each petal off, one by one.

I tried to take solace in the beauty of the land surrounding me, and my gardens of daisies, mums, and hibiscuses, as well as the little pond not far from the house where I put lotuses in.

And looked behind me, to my beautiful house, which I'd had built to recreate all the coziness of my childhood home, plus many of the luxuries I'd grown used to after becoming famous.

For a moment, I felt so lucky to be somewhere so peaceful; so beautiful; so…

So empty, for over a year now, I reminded myself.

God, it hurts like hell to be rejected.

I tossed the petals to the ground as I cried.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of one of our earliest songs, "Universal Appeal," coming from my nearby phone.

I hadn't expected her to call.

I blew my nose and wiped my tears away before I answered. "Pizzazz?"

"Stormer? Have you heard the news?" Her voice was soft, yet almost frantic.

"Yeah, I heard a couple hours ago."

"We have to figure out what we're gonna do about it."

I gave the phone quick glance before putting it back to my ear. "What are you talking about?"

"We're not gonna let this…this insult pass without a fight!" The softness of a moment earlier had vanished.

I shifted position on the porch and winced when I felt a splinter pierce my bare foot. After catching my breath, I replied, "I don't like the sound of this."

"Those cretins had better think twice before they screw the Misfits over!" Pizzazz's voice had grown to a shout. "That Hall of Fame'll look like a junkyard when we're through with it!"

"We're not kids, Pizzazz. We can't go around wrecking things when we don't get our way." I sighed, and added. "And I'm not a Misfit anymore."

I had a shriek on the other end.

Once my skull stopped ringing, I put the phone back to my ear. The line seemed dead, until Pizzazz told me, firmly, "You were born a Misfit. You'll always be one."

"You're upset-"

"And you're being annoying, Stormer. I called for your help!" I could hear her heels clicking against the tile floor of the mansion. "You've gotta help me come up with a strategy."

I groaned. This wasn't making my day any better. "Why don't you just relax?" I scratched the wood steps with my toenails. "You know, I could drive down there tonight, if you want. I'd rather not be alone, anyway."

"Well, if you don't wanna help, don't bother."

"I do wanna help you!" I rubbed my face. After all these years, no one could manipulate people the way our old leader could. "I mean, I want to help you feel better. This sucks, it really does, and I want to be with my friends. It'd be good for you too."

I heard Pizzazz click her teeth a couple times. "Fine, come over. But you better be ready to talk strategy!"

"I'll be happy to talk, yes."

I'd do whatever it took to avoid throwing more gasoline on her fire.

"Good," she replied. "And get a hold of Roxy. I'll track down Jetta."

I'd spoken with Roxy that morning. We'd both been so excited about the upcoming induction news. I realized I needed to call her as soon as I could—I dreaded to think how she'd react.

Roxy doesn't take bad news well. At all.

I hobbled over to my front door as I tried to find the splinter in my foot. "Pizzazz, I'll try to be down there in a few hours, ok?"

Not factoring in tweezing time, I thought.

"You'd better," she hissed. "When we're done, those creeps will wish they'd never heard the word, 'Jem'!"

I groaned.

Jem.

Jem, the popular. Jem, the beloved. Jem, the bane of Pizzazz's existence.

I don't know about everyone else, but if you knew Pizzazz, your life had gone much smoother since Jem disappeared!

"Look, I'll see you later, ok?" I then added, "Just don't do anything crazy till I get there."

She laughed. "Then you'd better drive fast!" She hung up, not that I really wanted to hear more.

I dialed Roxy's number as I tried to figure out what I'd say to her. But I knew she was supposed to be on stage that night, and I wasn't surprised to get her voicemail. "Hey, it's me," I said. "Call me back, ok? Love you."

With darkness having almost totally fallen, I slipped on some sandals and grabbed my keys. Surely the Gabor Mansion had tweezers.

"Is my wig the right shade of blue?"

I didn't bothering looking over at Kelly, or Kathy, or whatever her name was. "Yeah, sure. Couldn't look better."

I leaned back in the chair at my vanity and popped a couple grapes in my mouth.

I heard Whatshername gushing to Christine, "I can't believe it! I'm gonna be part of a real Misfits concert!"

Based on just her attitude, I might almost believe she was Stormer.

"Here, let me help you with your makeup, kid." I turned to see Christine, fill-in Pizzazz #3, helping Whatshername, fill-in Stormer #7, apply her cat scratches and lightning bolt.

The grapes in my mouth didn't taste right when I saw this dumb kid wearing the makeup I came up with for Stormer when we were just kids ourselves.

I looked in the mirror and sighed. Surely I'd feel better once I got up on stage, in front of the crowd.

A girl who supposedly worked for the casino, even though she didn't look any more Indian than me, came in and told it us was ten minutes till we went on.

My new Stormer picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it at the door, missing the blonde Indian girl by inches. "We'll go on when we feel like it!" my latest hire shouted.

As the gofer ran off, Whatshername turned to me and asked, "How was that?"

I shook my head and chuckled, "Not bad, but Jesus, don't overdo it! Remember, there's a big difference between doin' this show and bein' a real Misfit, ok?"

The girl's head drooped. "Sorry."

I shrugged. "Whatever."

I tuned back to my grapes as Christine fixed the new girl's wig. After they went on a frantic search for bobby pins or some crap like that, I heard my phone ring. "Get lost, you two!"

Christine dragged the new girl into the hall without a word.

"Who is it?" I demanded when I hit the little answer button.

I head a chuckle, then, "Always good to hear you haven't lost any of your social graces, Roxy."

"Eric, what the hell do you want?"

My manager snorted into the phone, then said, "Were you aware that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announced this year's inductees today?"

Maybe this call wouldn't be as crappy as I thought. "Fuck yeah! We're goin' in this year!" I saw my reflection smile as I imagined how awesome it was gonna be to get up on stage with the Misfits—the real Misfits—again.

All of us kick ass on our own, but when it's the four of us together, we're fucking unstoppable.

"Well, I've got some bad news for you." Eric paused before announcing, "You didn't make it in."

I picked up a grape and rolled it between my fingers. "I don't know what you mean—we got in, right?"

"This isn't brain surgery, Roxy! Jem got in, and you and your old partners in felonies didn't."

I felt the juice run down my fingers after I squished the grape in my palm.

"That's bullshit, Eric! You're makin' this up!"

I heard him groan. "I've got my own problems right now, Roxy. I'm just telling you what I heard, all right?"

I imagined myself kicking his smug face in. "I oughtta fire you!"

"Hey!" he barked. "Who's the one getting you booked all over the continent? Not your old friends, that's for sure. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you."

I couldn't think of nothing to say.

I heard a tiny knock on the door. My new Stormer poked her head in. "They're ready for us."

"Look," I told Eric, "I gotta go. But you better do somethin' about this!"

"Relax, I'll call in some favors, and make sure you get in next year."

"Fuckin' waste of space," I muttered.

I heard him chuckle again. "Roxy, sometimes I think you forget what a lucky piece of gutter trash you are. Enjoy your concert."

I shouted, "Asshole!" but he'd already hung up.

Moments later, the wall and floor were covered with grape juice and broken pottery.

I stormed out of the dressing room and nearly ran over Katie/Kimmy/Whatever. "Watch where you're goin'!"

"We're on!"

She grabbed my arm, which I slapped away from her. "Not in the mood, kid!"

She slunk away. I finally noticed her wig wasn't the right shade of blue. Well, too late to fix it now.

I heard the announcer guy yell out, "Great Fire Casino welcomes you all to our headline attraction! Now, let's give a big, Oklahoma welcome to THE MISFITS!"

Christine and the new girl ran onto the stage and grabbed their instruments to the cheers of the crowd.

Me, I held back. I nearly turned and ran right then. Instead, I walked up the steps, grabbed my bass from our only roadie, and strapped it on.

Before Christine could do her usual intros and launch us into "Takin' It All," I showed her my hand and stepped up to the mic.

I looked out on the crowd of fortysomething soccer moms and lardass wannabe metal heads, who gave me a big cheer when they realized I was the real Roxy.

I swallowed hard and starting shouting: "Listen up! There's one thing you dumbasses gotta get straight about this world! Life ain't fucking fair! Just 'cause you earned something, that doesn't mean you're gonna get it! There's always somebody ready to fuck you over!"

I managed to get some applause for that.

Christine walked over to me and whispered, "We didn't rehearse this," in my ear.

I flipped her off. Immature? Sue me.

I'd kinda blown my wad, so I tried to get back on track. "Anyway," I announced, "That's what this song's about, I guess. If you want anything in life, you better damn well be ready to take it!"

I some cheers from the crowd as I nodded to my two employees. I yelled "One-two-three-four!" into the mic, and we were off.

Even though Christine couldn't really sound like Pizzazz if her life depended on it, and the new girl's wig fell off after about 20 seconds, we still sounded pretty damn good.

As soon as the song was over, I unplugged my bass and walked offstage. Behind me, I heard Christine shouting, and the cheers turning to mutters, and finally boos.

Soon, some jerk from the casino caught up to me and started getting all pissy about contracts and crap. I ignored him.

I stopped by the dressing room and grabbed my purse. As I came out, two big Indian bouncers got in my away. (I guess they were Indians—they had ponytails, anyway).

"Move it or lose it, jerks" I growled to them. When one of them said something about making me go back onstage, I put my weight behind my bass and rammed the head of it into his junk. He crumpled to the floor.

The other guy backed off and let me by.

As the casino executives tried to catch up, I made my way outside, past some fans and old geezers in walkers, and pushed my way to the crappy, uncovered spot they reserved for my Celica.

I stuffed my bass in the passenger seat before I fired up the engine. As I backed out, one of the casino guys thought he'd play hero by throwing himself on my hood.

He changed his mind when I started to roll forward.

As he dove out of the way, I jammed my foot on the gas and took off.

In a minute or so, I'd made it onto the highway.

I did about 105 as drove into the sunset.

I headed home.

Home to L.A.

It was nearly midnight when I staggered to the front door of the Gabor Mansion.

Even though we'd all seen at each other at various board meetings, industry outings, and courtrooms, this was the first time in nearly a dozen years that I'd visited my former home away from home.

After only a single knock, the door swung open. "Finally! It's about time you got here!"

I knew it was a bad sign if Pizzazz anwered the door for herself.

"I got here as fast as I could," I told her. "It's a long drive down here."

"Come on, Stormer, get inside!" She sauntered into the foyer, leaving me only two choices: follow her, or stand outside in the dark like a fool.

At least life's not complicated when Pizzazz is around. You're either with her, or against her.

I followed her into one of the many sitting rooms in the mansion, which happened to be decorated with a few broken vases and the remains of a cell phone. Matilda must have been slipping in her old age.

I took a seat on the couch as Pizzazz turned her back to me and poked around at the empty fireplace. "Did you talk to Roxy?"

"I called her, but I couldn't get an answer." I didn't mention that I'd called her seven times and left seven voicemails, and that I'd called the casino where she was scheduled to play and was told she'd run out in the middle of her show.

I didn't mention that I was terrified she'd done something desperate.

"Figures," Pizzazz groaned. "Well, I couldn't get ahold of Jetta either, so it's just you and me tonight."

Jetta too? As if this night couldn't get any worse.

I took a deep breath. They were big girls; they could take care of themselves.

Even Roxy…

I hoped.

Pizzazz turned to me and stared me down, with her hands on her hips. "So, any ideas?"

I slipped off my sandals and massaged my sore instep. "What are you talking about?"

She let out a small shriek. "What are we gonna do about this outrage?!"

I sighed. "It's really late. If we're gonna talk about this, please, let's wait till tomorrow, ok?" A good excuse came to mind. "Besides, we should wait until Roxy and Jetta are here, so it's all of us."

She grinned. "I thought you weren't a Misfit anymore?"

I made sure I looked her in the eye. "I'm not. But I'm still your friend."

Pizzazz's head drooped. "Fine, whatever. I'm tired anyway." She headed to the liquor cabinet. "Want a drink?"

"Maybe a glass of wine."

She soon handed me a scotch and soda, and quickly downed her own glass.

I gave my drink a sip before pouring it into one of the vases when her back was turned.

I gazed around the room. "Almost nothing's changed. It's just like when I first came here." I'd made a small fortune of my own over the years, but I still couldn't help but be in awe of the priceless antiques that littered the Gabor Mansion.

Some of which lay in pieces two feet away from me.

"It's hardly changed at all since I was a kid." Pizzazz took a seat on the arm of the couch.

"You never told me that." I gave her a smile, as I sensed her guard dropping a bit. Those moments don't come often with Pizzazz, and I don't like to waste them.

"Even when I was in the band, I didn't like to change stuff here too much, you know?"

"I understand," I told her, and I did, very well.

I tried to think of a topic that would keep us well away from the whole "snub" issue. "How's Stevie doing this semester?"

Her eyes narrowed, and her pink lips curled. "I'm gonna go to bed."

Ok, wrong topic.

She strode out of the room, then popped her head back in for just a moment. "Your old room's made up for you. You know where it's at."

I didn't see her again that night.

I hobbled my way up the darkened staircase and struggled to remember my left from my right.

Despite my sleepiness, I made a detour to one of the many bathrooms.

As I suspected, they had tweezers.

I finally made it to the room I used to spend about half my nights in during my years in the Misfits.

A part of me expected to see the room just as it had once been. But when I switched on the light, I saw only a non-descript guest room.

Then, I noticed the vase full of freshly cut daisies on the nightstand.