Chapter Twenty-Four: Summer Has Come To Pass

Jesus awoke on the floor of Whatsername's apartment, a folded up piece of paper next to his head. For a moment he wondered where he was, and then it all hit him. The letter… He fumbled for the note, and reread it shaking hands.

Dear John,

I can't take this place. I'm leaving it tonight. I can't take this town. I'm leaving you behind. You're not the Jesus of Suburbia. The St. Jimmy is a figment of your father's rage and your mother's love. You are the idiot America.

P.S.- Nobody likes you. Everyone left you. They're all out without you, having fun.

When Jesus, or now John, had first received this letter, he had sat there for a long time, unable to think or do anything for shock. He'd looked all over the apartment and found no trace of his girlfriend anywhere. It was true- she had left him. Memories began to turn in the back of Jesus's head, and he had rushed out of there as quickly as he could. It was time to find Jimmy.

Jesus had known exactly where in the city to go. There was a glow of light- St. Jimmy, a spark in the night. He had approached Jesus with wariness in his eyes, bearing gifts and trust, a fixture in the city of lust. "What the hell's your name?" he said to Jesus, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him. "What's your pleasure and your pain? Do you dream too much? Do you think what you need is a crutch?" He shoved Jesus backwards, and the smaller man had panted. "Please, Jimmy, I just want drugs… I used up the last of the dope…"

St. Jimmy didn't seem surprised to hear this. In fact, as he moved to gather Jesus's request, he gave the young man a stare that seemed to convey that he knew exactly what was going on. Your girlfriend has left you, his eyes said. I told you she would, but you didn't listen.

In the crowd of pain that was blocking Jesus from the real world, St. Jimmy came without any shame. He handed the drugs over to Jesus, who took them eagerly. "Thank you, Jimmy, thank you…" Jimmy said nothing, but his eyes continued to speak to Jesus. They said, We're fucked up. But we're not the same. And just like that, he dissolved into the shadows. Jesus, trembling, walked back to the apartment by himself.

Once back at his girlfriend's apartment, Jesus smoked all the weed Jimmy had given him and shot up with heroin for one more time. The absence of pain was much-needed by that point. He couldn't remember anything more.

But now he was awake again, and for the first time in months, Jesus was beginning to see things clearly. He set the letter down and blinked. You are the idiot America. So Jesus had become the very thing he'd been rebelling against. Maybe he had been one all along. Maybe there was no such thing as the American idiot, or maybe everyone was one. Whatever. If there was anything Jesus had learned from this experience, it was that there was no point in rebelling against anything at all. Everyone was on the same broken side.

The thing that really killed Jesus was the lack of a name on his girlfriend's letter. Though he had spent nearly three months with her, he suddenly couldn't remember what her name had been. Scared and startled, Jesus pressed his back against the bed. "What's her name?!" Why wasn't his memory working? "What's her name?!" The apartment gave no answers.

Why the hell didn't she sign it? Jesus wondered, staring down at his hands. Even my dad signed his letter when he left…

Jesus's, or John's, father had indeed signed a very confusing letter that his son would never forget a word of. Dearly beloved, it read, are you listening? I can't remember a word that you were saying. Are we demented or am I disturbed? The space that's in between insane and insecure- oh, therapy, can you please fill the void?! Am I retarded or am I just overjoyed? Nobody's perfect, and I stand accused, for lack of a better word. And that's my best excuse. ANDREW ARMSTRONG.

Jesus had never seen his father alive again. He hadn't quite been sure what was going on, with his mother crying and relatives coming over. It was only when he was in the cemetery, looking at the hole and the coffin that was supposed to go into it, that Jesus had understood suddenly. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. As the coffin was lowered, Jesus had turned tail and pelted at full speed out of the deathly still graveyard. He didn't stop running until he was home and in his room, behind a locked door.

Some long moments later, a knock came at the door, followed by Jesus's mother's voice. "Johnny? Are you okay?"

"No!" he had called through the door.

"Please come out…"

"No!" he shouted again. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when September ends."

And that was that. Jesus, or John, hadn't slept through the entirety of September. But he had come out the next morning a different person. He had grown distant from his mother, and started slacking off in school. A few years later, his mother had remarried, and that was the end of all communication between them. Jesus had fallen in with his crowd of disciples and become the American idiot that he was now. He had taken on the role of Jesus of Suburbia, someone who forgot but never forgave, who refused help instead of offering it. No one had died for Jesus's sins, and he certainly wasn't going to die for anyone else's. That was the way it had always been.

Until now.

A woman had stripped the Jesus of Suburbia of his title. All the painful teenage years of growing up out in the suburbs were washed away. There was no tough Jesus of Suburbia anymore. Instead, there was only John, a small boy once again, lying on the wooden floor of his girlfriend's bedroom and sobbing for said girlfriend, whose name he couldn't even remember, and for his father, whom he had never cried for before. He even cried for the reality that the Earth was going to die in five years, and he had spent most of his miserable life defying everyone who tried to help him with it. He had driven away the one person he had ever loved, and now he couldn't even remember what her name had been.

Alone and lonely, John curled up into a ball and choked as tears streamed down his face, "What's her name? What'ser name, what'sername, whatshername?"

When Floyd next woke up, he had no idea where he was. The first thing he registered was a terrible smell. Blinking his eyes to focus better, Floyd saw a blue sky above him, obscured by tall gray buildings. His head ached, and so did his wrists and ribs. Floyd sat up, groaning, and looked around. He was in a dirty alley near a street. The sounds of cars rushing by reached his ears.

What hap-

And he remembered. Ziggy kicking him out. Walking past a suspicious apartment building. Getting kidnapped by three strange men who wanted to cause harm to Ziggy. Being blackmailed into not warning Ziggy about it by using the threat of his location. Singing 'Money' to the three-man crowd… and getting knocked out with chloroform. The men had apparently dumped Floyd in a back alley.

Floyd checked his pockets first, to make sure no one had rolled him while he was unconscious. His luck was not to be- Floyd had been carrying several dollar bills that were now gone. At least they were only twenties, he thought. Now that that was over with… Floyd stood up shakily and flexed his muscles for more pain. His head was pounding from being slammed against the sidewalk, his wrists were in pain from tugging on the bonds that tied him to the chair, and his ribcage had probably been bruised from being tossed into the alley. Other than that, he was fine.

In contrast, Ziggy Stardust was not fine. Floyd debated in his head for moment- should he go ahead and warn Ziggy anyway that there was a group of people out there who wanted to cause harm to him? What could they possibly do?

They could send the press to our apartment, Floyd thought. They'd murder me murder me murder me

Floyd had to lie low here in America. After causing so many deaths at his last concert, he couldn't manage to be caught for it. And yet at the same time, he wondered if it was worth it to save Ziggy. Who knew what those wackjob men had in mind for him?

There was nothing Floyd could do but stumble out of the alley, head reeling, and wander off on the streets, looking for a familiar place. The apartment was farther away than the coffeehouse. Floyd checked his wrist, but found that even his watch had been stolen. Judging from the sky, he guessed that it was about time for him to come in for work. Good. He could use the phone while he was there.

"John!" Floyd's coworker called in alarm as he staggered through the doorway of the coffeehouse. "Where have you been? You're late for work!"

"I'd tell you, but you'd never believe it," Floyd mumbled, pushing past her and going into a back room. "I have to use the phone…"

Sitting down with the door closed, Floyd dialed the phone number of his and Ziggy's apartment. Please pick up, Ziggy, please pick up… After a few stray rings, the receiver was picked up and Ziggy's voice said, "Hello?"

"Ziggy," Floyd murmured. "Thank God you're there. Listen to me-"

"Oh, leave me alone, y'know!" Ziggy cried, and Floyd realized with a sinking feeling that Ziggy was still high.

"I won't leave you alone! Ziggy, you need to know-"

"Oh, Henry, get off the phone," Ziggy drawled, and Floyd suppressed a sigh. There he went again with the name Henry. Who the hell was Henry? Ziggy continued, "I gotta straighten my face. This mellow-thighed chick just put my spine out of place!"

"What the hell?" Floyd finally had to gasp. "What were you doing last night?"

"Ah, secrets, secrets!" Ziggy laughed. "Don't lean on me, man. We had a bit of fun!"

Floyd sighed. "You've better have the place ready for visitors in a few minutes. I'm coming over there right now." He hung up the phone, wanting to slap Ziggy across the face. Those fucking drugs…

"Where are you going now?" the woman Floyd worked with asked him as he stepped out the door.

"Home," Floyd answered. "I can't work now. I'm sorry." He rushed out into the street and hailed a taxi as soon as possible.

Ziggy was nowhere to be found when Floyd got to the apartment, but the sight that met his eyes was shocking. The main room was thoroughly trashed. Food supplies lay strewn across the floor- smashed eggs, spilled milk, even what looked like whipped cream here and there. The cushions had been pulled off the couch and thrown to different places in the room. The walls were covered in what looked like lipstick, and even the curtains had been torn down and ripped up. Only Ziggy's guitar stood untouched by the TV, like it always had. The floor was also covered in a white powder. Without so much as a few glimpses, Floyd knew exactly what it was. So Ziggy had been addicted to cocaine…

Did he have a nervous breakdown, or just a really kinky night of sex? Floyd wondered. He approached the kitchen table, where a note was scrawled in lipstick.

To Mr. Stardust:

I'm sorry I didn't have time to help you clean up. But I had a great night. It was fun trying out all those techniques with you.

Carla

Floyd groaned. A kinky night of sex it had been, then. He checked his bedroom to make sure it had been spared from destruction (it had), and then walked into Ziggy's bedroom.

The floor was absolutely littered with more cocaine, and a broken mirror lay next to the bed. Clothes were strewn about, as if Ziggy had been playing dress-up, and the sheets were stripped from the bed. A pillow had been ripped open, and feathers were everywhere. Floyd sat down on the bed and felt something hard beneath his bottom. He stood up again and pulled the object out from under him. It was a leather-bound notebook, the same one that Floyd had returned to Ziggy on the night of their "Who's Got The Bigger Dick" contest. Floyd set it down next to him, too anxious to look through it. His mind was screaming at him. Ziggy is in danger! You need to call him!

Floyd got up and ran to the phone. He dialed the number of the studio that Ziggy had left as an emergency number, and asked the voice on the other end if he could speak to Ziggy Stardust.

"I'm sorry, sir," the receptionist said. "Ziggy Stardust isn't in yet."

Next Floyd tried the theater, but got the same response. He sat down in the one clean kitchen chair and held his head in his hands for a moment, anguished. It was clear- Ziggy was in danger, and Floyd had no way of warning him. Could those bastards from last night have done this on purpose? What if they had Ziggy now?

Floyd tried to calm himself down, but the worries overflowed in his mind. He felt like screaming. But screaming would do nothing to help him. Before he could begin truly panicking, Floyd jumped up and grabbed a dirty dishcloth. He soaked it under water from the tap and used it to wipe the lipstick off of the kitchen table. This act made Floyd feel a tiny bit more at ease. He began to clean the walls, and as he did so, his mind got clearer and clearer.

Once the main room was more or less in the same state Floyd had left it (the cocaine wasn't entirely cleaned off of the floor, but that couldn't be helped- where had Ziggy gotten so much of it?), the rational thought came to him, an idea that knocked Floyd over with its obviousness. I should go to Ziggy's show tonight-

He was out the door in an instant.

Down at the theater, Floyd was surprised to see how many fans were already crowded around the entrance, waiting for Ziggy. It was nowhere near showtime, was it? Floyd went to the ticket-seller, who explained to Floyd that all tickets were sold out and these people were trying to get them from scalpers.

Floyd stared. "But I really need to get in tonight!"

"Hey, don't lean on me, man, if you ain't got time to get it," the ticket seller said. "There's nothing I can do for you."

Floyd turned away, desperate. How was he to get into the theater and warn Ziggy now? He watched the crowd of fans walking around and muttering. Suddenly a cry rang out- "Ziggy Stardust tickets, right here!" The crowd surged and became a mob as they descended on the scalper, burying him beneath their bodies and screaming as they tore the tickets out of his hands. Their victim tried to scream, "Don't lean on me, man, if you ain't got the ticket!" but his voice was swiftly drowned out as the fans fell on each other, fighting brutally for the remaining tickets. Floyd had only ever seen such a violent crowd of music fans once. He shuddered. They reminded him exactly of his last concert as Pink Floyd.

As nine o'clock rolled around, fans who had stolen tickets rushed into the theater. Other fans tried to follow them, but were beaten back by the ones already inside. The doors swung shut, and the fans threw themselves at the doors, screaming Ziggy's name. From within, the music started up, and soon everyone was screaming and clawing at each other in efforts to get closer to the theater.

Floyd was torn between plunging into the fray and staying far away. But he had to warn Ziggy… he had to tell him that he was in danger… Within himself, Floyd felt something rise up that he'd tried so desperately to bury since the first time it had appeared in him. His mindset became one of a fascist dictator, looking out over his citizens- the fans- with an iron fist. He hurried forward, roaring, "STOP!" Everyone stared at him.

"We can't get in unless we work together!" Floyd bellowed. "On the count of three, everyone charge towards the doors! One- two-"

They didn't even wait for three, hurling themselves in a single wave towards the entrance. There were no security guards around to stop them. The fans tumbled in, Floyd buoyed along with them, and made for the stage, where Ziggy was singing his first song of the night. "ZIGGY STARDUST! ZIGGY STARDUST!"

In the morning after forming their big plan, the Spiders From Mars met again at Weird's apartment, where they worked out the finer points of their idea. After working it out, it was time to put the plan into motion. "Hit me," Weird said to Henry, tapping him on the chest.

Henry looked confused. "Huh?"

"Hit me," Weird said. "Haven't you wanted to hit me before in the past? I know I haven't been the nicest person in the world to you. Go on, beat me up."

Henry smiled, leaned in, and took his revenge. Weird said nothing during the ordeal, bearing the blows stoically. He then rushed to the bathroom, grinning as he looked in the mirror. "Perfect. Gilly, you have to beat Henry up now."

Gilly seemed a bit nervous. "Can't you do that? I mean, Henry's my friend and all…"

"I can't hit Henry, because Henry will want revenge again," Weird said. "You have to do this, Gilly."

Gilly took a deep breath. It's all in the name of the plan. He began to beat his best friend up, who cried out in pain. "Stop it, Gilly! Stop!"

"Now," Weird said when Gilly had finished and Henry was sulking in a corner, "I get to beat you up."

He came forward and lunged on Gilly, who moaned a few times but only really protested once. "Jeez, Weird, you didn't have to kick me right there!" Gilly howled, staggering backwards clutching his crotch. Weird shrugged. "I'm sorry, man." He waited for Gilly to straighten up before saying, "Now let's get going." The three men slipped knives inside their jackets and stuffed black masks in their pockets. They put on black gloves and walked outside together to hail a taxi.

The Spiders From Mars had spent the day together, as going to the studio would make their self-inflicted injuries obvious. They now headed off to the theater, where they would do Ziggy in once and for all. Instead of entering the building through the main way, they went in through the back, where hardly anyone ever went. The Spiders wandered through zigzagging corridors before finally ending up in their dressing room. There they stashed lengths of rope and cut up pieces of cloth soaked in chloroform. After a few minutes of relaxing, the band was set to go to Ziggy's dressing room in preparation for the show. They did their own makeup and then walked out the back exit of their dressing room, taking care not to let anyone see them along the way.

In Ziggy's dressing room, the Spiders were delighted to find that Ziggy was the only person there. "Hi hi hi, guys! Are y'all ready for showtime?!" he cried happily. The Spiders From Mars tried to hold back their snickers. "Yes, we're ready," Gilly said. "Did our own makeup, too," Henry added proudly.

"You did? Why, guys, I'm so proud of you!" Ziggy walked forward and peered into the faces of his bandmates. He frowned slightly. "Weird! You've got an unusual bruise!"

"It's a black eye," Weird said. "Parker gave it to me." He knew that whatever he told Ziggy wouldn't matter in a few minutes. Ziggy would be a dead man, telling no tales.

"Silly Billy," Ziggy laughed. "Hey, that rhymed! Silly Billy… Silly Gilly!" He poked the bassist in the arm, and the door opened. The Spiders From Mars instantly turned their backs.

"Speak of the devil…" Weird muttered.

"Billy!" Ziggy cried, leaping forward like a small child would towards his father. "So nice to see you!"

"Have a good show, Zig," Billy said. "Are the Spiders in here?"

"Yes, they're here," Ziggy said. "Whee! You needn't come in, Billy. I've got everything under control!"

"Sounds good to me." Billy departed, and the Spiders had to hold hands over their mouths to hide their ironic smiles.

In a few more minutes, it was showtime. Weird, Gilly, and Henry crept onstage and pulled the black masks onto their faces, shrouded in shadow. They began to play 'Space Oddity' for the very last time, trying not to giggle all the while.

If any of the fans in the audience had been more observant, they would have noticed the surprising lack of skin flashing in the spotlight, the comforting sight that assured them of the band's presence onstage. Wearing masks as they were, the Spiders From Mars now gave the impression that the instruments were being played by disembodied creatures. At least one person should have noticed this change, and been afraid. But the audience was made of teenage girls and boys who cared only for Ziggy, and of stoners who were too high to see anything different. The one person who did not fall into that category was storming the theater at that very moment.

While most of the ticket-less fans screamed and ran forward after breaking into the theater, Floyd only stopped in one place and gaped at the man onstage. It was Ziggy alright- there was no mistaking his red hair and white skin- but he looked worse for the wear. He was skinnier than Floyd had ever seen him, as if Floyd could snap him in one hand like a dead twig. His eyes rolled about as he sang, his mind anywhere but on the song. His voice was completely drowned out by the fans, and a crazed smile was pasted across his face.

Oh, my love, Floyd found himself thinking. What happened to you? How have you fallen so far?

At the song's dramatic ending, the lights began to flash in a strobe effect, leading the fans to cheer even louder. At that moment, Floyd realized that something was terribly wrong. He didn't know why he should feel that way. Was the danger about to befall Ziggy now?

And as he watched, three pieces of the backstage shadow melted away and came up to the front of the stage. Ziggy had his eyes closed, his body turned outward, receiving all of the fan's love. He was unaware when the three shadows- three men- attacked. They fell on him and whipped knives out of their jackets, knocking Ziggy to the ground. Their arms lifted and plunged into Ziggy's body. Ziggy let out a scream, and then began wailing as the men stabbed him again and again and again, with the final instrumentals of 'Space Oddity' still playing and the lights still strobing. Ziggy's wails grew loud enough to overpower the entire audience, whose screams of adoration had turned into screams of horror. One of the shadows bent over and took Ziggy's guitar, raising it high in the air. The other two bowed. "That's all, folks!" They spoke in unison, and in a flash, Floyd recognized their voices. "Well the bitter comes out better on a stolen guitar… You're the blessed, we're the Spiders From Mars!" The three men ran offstage, and the song ended, leaving behind stark silence that was filled up with the shocked cries of fans.

Floyd moved. Whereas all the other fans ran out of the theater, fearing for their lives, Floyd ran forward, towards Ziggy, who lay crumpled up onstage. He got to him before anyone else did, jumping up onstage and kneeling to take him in his arms. "Ziggy! Ziggy, are you all right? Can you hear me, Ziggy?"

Ziggy's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to see Floyd. He tried to move a hand, but it fell limply at his side. White blood was pouring out of his multiple stab wounds. Ziggy continued to stare at nothing, both of his eyes dilated with fear, matching for once. Floyd never forgot the utterly terrified look in those eyes, the terror of the unknown.

"No-" Ziggy choked, coughing around the blood in his mouth.

And then his eyes were closed, his head sinking back to meet the hard wood of the stage. Quickly, Floyd lifted the limp Ziggy into his arms and began running as fast as he could, out of the theater and down the street, away to the nearest hospital, the only one in Suffragette City.

After pulling off the deed that they had concocted together last night, Weird, Gilly, and Henry exited stage right, relishing the horrorstruck cries of the crowd. Weird had stolen Ziggy's guitar as a souvenir. They raced out the second exit in Ziggy's dressing room and sped through the hallways that were not occupied by people. Along the way, Weird stopped to store Ziggy's guitar in a place where no human would find it. Then the Spiders From Mars reentered their dressing room together, hurriedly pulling their masks and gloves off and wiping the makeup off their faces. They took the rope and cloths out from where they'd stashed them and quickly tied themselves up to chairs. Henry and Gilly wore the cloths tied around their mouths as gags, but Weird left his free to yell, "Help!" Eventually after a long while, the main exit door opened, and shocked faces stared in at the Spiders.

"What happened in here?" someone asked.

"Thank God you're here!" Weird cried, launching into his practiced speech. "There were three people, all dressed in black, who came in here. I couldn't tell if they were men or women or what, 'cause they had these black masks on…" As people rushed in to untie the Spiders, and to revive the unconscious Henry and Gilly, who had been knocked out with the chloroform-soaked gags, Weird tried to make his voice as distressed and convincing as possible. "I have no idea who they were! They tied us up and tried to knock us out with chloroform, but my gag wasn't tied on tightly enough…"

"Which way did they go?" a man asked.

Weird pointed with the hand that had just been freed. "Out that door. We've been in here for so long…"

"The show's been cancelled," someone else informed him, helping him up. Weird stretched, as if he'd been sitting in one place for a long time. "Is Ziggy okay?"

"Ziggy Stardust has been attacked," the man murmured. Weird's mouth fell open. "What happened?!"

Floyd's legs and arms were tired from running while carrying Ziggy, and his throat burned. Each breath came in a short gasp. Still Floyd went on, plowing passersby out of the way. If he had been able to speak, he wouldn't have left a word for those random people, instead saving all his breath for Ziggy.

You're going to make it! You're going to make it make it make it

Finally, the hospital was in sight. Floyd plunged across the street and ran as cars screeched to a halt and honked at him. He wasn't aware of their narrow misses. Instead, Floyd pushed through the glass doors of the hospital and ran to the receptionist, finding strength to yell, "Emergency!"

The receptionist stood up, her eyes widening as she took in the sight- Ziggy lying prone in Floyd's arms, his body punctured in several places, and Floyd panting hard, his clothes stained with white blood. "Wh-"

"The theater!" Floyd gasped. "Ziggy Stardust- stabbed onstage…" He forced himself not to collapse as paramedics rushed up, wheeling out a stretcher. Only when Ziggy was out of Floyd's arms did he lean against the counter, resting, and all the while calling after the paramedics, "He's not human! He has accelerated healing strength. Our medicine might affect him differently…"

"Why don't you sit down?" the receptionist asked. Floyd shook his head. "What's your name?"

"Floyd Pinkerton," Floyd blurted without thinking. Who cared who he was anymore? "That man- he's a singer, his name is Ziggy Stardust… he's been stabbed onstage. There were three men."

"I see," the woman said. "How are you related to him?"

"He's my roommate," Floyd said. "I- I need to…" He didn't know what he needed to do. He needed to talk to someone who was more in charge than this receptionist- a police officer, for example. And he needed to make sure Ziggy was alright. The latter was more pressing at the moment, so Floyd took a deep breath and took off in the direction that his friend had been wheeled away, without anyone trying to stop him.

All the doors looked the same. Where had the paramedics taken Ziggy? Floyd paused in the hallway, still trying to catch his breath. He backed up against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling his heart pounding out of panic. Ziggy had to be all right, hadn't he? He would heal himself from the stab wounds. In fact, Floyd was beginning to question why he had even taken Ziggy here. It must have slipped his mind about Ziggy's amazing strength. Sure, there had been a murder attempt (by who, Floyd didn't know or really want to think about), but Ziggy hadn't been murdered. He's going to be fine he's going to be fine he's going to be fine

Floyd sighed, trying to get a grip on himself, and opened his eyes. He supposed he better find a doctor and inform him of Ziggy's healing power. There was no use in waiting around- Ziggy was probably mostly cured by now. To those who weren't familiar with the process, it could be a bit disturbing.

Just as Floyd began to walk, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Floyd turned- a nurse was walking towards him. "Sir, you shouldn't be back here-" Floyd opened his mouth to explain himself, but just then one of the doors in the hallway opened and a doctor came out, capturing Floyd's and the nurse's attention. The doctor appeared agitated as he walked up to them. "Are you the one that brought the patient Ziggy Stardust here?" he asked Floyd.

"Yes," Floyd said. "How is he?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "He's dead. I'm sorry."

For a moment Floyd was confused, and then he blurted, "Are you sure?"

The doctor gave him an odd look. "Of course. He was stabbed a total of twenty-three times…"

"In the heart?" Floyd asked, remembering that Ziggy had told him that Martians could only die if they were stabbed through the heart. He's not dead he's not dead he's not dead… There was no way it could be true.

"As a matter of fact, yes. He was stabbed once in the heart."

Floyd felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden. Wait… but that would mean…

"Can I see him?" he asked. Not his body. Floyd wouldn't believe the lie unless he saw for himself.

"I'm sorry- who are y-"

"I asked if I could see him!" Floyd snapped.

The doctor swallowed. "Well-"

"What are you stalling for?!" Floyd cried. "I'm his… I'm his friend. A very close… friend."

The doctor nodded wordlessly and pointed at the door. Floyd rushed towards it.

Inside, Ziggy was lying on a steel table. Paramedics moved around him, but Floyd pushed past them and touched Ziggy's shoulder. "Ziggy…" Ziggy's eyes were closed. Frantically, Floyd inspected his body with his eyes. He saw stab wounds all across his body, leaking white blood. A few were half-closed up with skin, desperately trying to grow over. Floyd's gaze traveled back up Ziggy's body, and stopped when he got to his chest. He reached out a hand to gingerly feel the wound, though paramedics tried to restrain him. Only when Floyd had touched the bloody wound in Ziggy's chest did he realize what the doctor said had been true.

Oh Ziggy… oh my love…

He was dead. The attackers had stabbed him twenty-three times, just like Julius Caesar, and one of the blows had pierced into his heart. Without the heart working, the blood could not flow, and as a result, it could not heal the wounds in Ziggy's body. He had died just as he'd been afraid of doing, alone as the last Martian on Earth. And the one person who could have prevented this- the one person who had come into contact with his killers and gotten an inkling of what they were going to do to him, the person who stood before his body now- had done nothing in the way of protecting him, even though he considered himself in love with him.

Hours passed. The apartment door opened. John looked up from the floor.

"Hello?" a man's voice rang out. He took a few steps. "Is anyone in here?"

Swiftly, John jumped up and ran, passing by the surprised man. He flew out into the hallway and pounded down the stairs, not stopping until he was outside. Pain was beginning to sweep over him, a result of using up the last of the heroin. John screamed, and people on the sidewalk stared at him. He needed to find Jimmy. That was it. Where the hell was St. Jimmy?

John set off on a mainly-fruitless search through Suffragette City, trying in vain to find the man that could supply his desperate needs. All throughout his search, the pain ravaged his body. John felt as if he was dying. He kept looking, far and wide, high and low, still without any sign of his savior. Finally, when John couldn't take it anymore, he collapsed on the ground, screaming and screaming for someone to stop the pain. It was killing him, he was sure of it. Death was finally coming like it came for his father…

All of a sudden, a shadow fell over him. John was too tortured to properly see who it was, but a voice spoke. "Who's laughing now?"

John could barely speak for the pain, but he managed to shriek, "You fucking bastard, Jimmy!"

"What did I do?" St. Jimmy asked innocently.

"You're not fucking real! Why didn't you tell me you weren't real?!"

"I am as real as you are," Jimmy said. "In your mind, anyway."

Suddenly John found himself standing, staring into St. Jimmy's eyes. He felt that somewhere his body lay on the ground, but right now he was strong, tall, and seething with anger. He rushed towards Jimmy, but the young man grabbed his arms and locked them behind his back. "Ooh, so the Jesus of Suburbia is fighting back now," Jimmy whispered in John's ear with the hint of a laugh.

"Shut up!" John struggled in Jimmy's grip. "I'm not the Jesus of Suburbia!" He finally managed to break free and dash away, making to block Jimmy's punches. But St. Jimmy just stood there, staring at John with an expression of pity and anger.

"I brought you to this city. I introduced you to a new way of life. And you thank me by running off with a woman, and then come crying to me when she breaks your heart like I warned you she would? And now you're telling me I'm not real. As if all of this was a lie!"

"You don't exist!" John shouted nonetheless. "She… she told me…"

"Who?" Jimmy snorted. "Look at that. You can't even remember her name!"

John glared, not wanting St. Jimmy to remind him of that. "Shut up! You don't exist. You're just a figment of my broken mind. You were born from my father's rage and my mother's love. You're not real to me anymore."

Jimmy lunged forward, and John met him with his fists. They wrestled for a while, throwing punches and blocking other blows, before John was sent crashing to the ground. Jimmy pinned him down with his foot in his chest, his eyes smoldering.

"You're just an American idiot, that's what you are." He stepped back, and John struggled to sit up, but he could feel himself slowly rejoining his body. The pain was returning, as if the Novocaine was wearing off. John lay helpless on the ground, and as he tried to watch Jimmy, a flash of silver glowed in the streetlights. Jimmy whipped out a pistol and pressed it to his head. John wanted to cry out- No- but he only watched as the trigger was pulled and St. Jimmy slumped onto the sidewalk, no more.