Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the song "Cranial Deformity," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 40
POW!

March 1, 1995

Los Angeles, California

Sundowner Hotel
…

Hyde and Donna shared a sofa as Degenerate Matter posed in front of a portable backdrop. For Donna's article, the band's trusted photographer, Marty Luckner, was snapping pictures in Hyde and Ro's suite at the Sundowner Hotel. Band and crew had left the GRAMMYs early, once WIMPs and MACHOs had won for Best Rock Album. They were sneaked past the press by security and safely driven here.

"Four out of six," Donna said and closed her notepad. "You had a great night, Hyde."

She was about to say more, but Nate's wife, Chelsea, shouted, "Nate—enough with the faces!" She was seated closer to the band than Hyde and Donna were, and Nate puckered his lips in her direction, giving her an air-kiss.

"A serious one for the wifey," he said and held up his GRAMMY stoically.

Donna tapped her pen to her chin. "Think I should add that bit in? I've got to get to my own room, type up my article, and fax it over ASAP."

"You got enough of Nate's nonsense in your interview," Hyde said. "But before you go, have any idea what Jackie's doin' for her birthday? Figured I'd drop by, considering we're in the same state."

She bit the tip of her pen. "She has pretty big plans."

"That message I left on her answering machine have anything to do with 'em?"

"Everything to do with them."

He quirked up an eyebrow, but she remained silent. "You gonna tell me?" he said.

"She's just happy you remember March third is her birthday. Let's leave it at that."

"'Course I remember." He patted his chest for his cigarettes, but his suit jacket was off, draped on a chair further away. He'd forgotten to remove the pack from his inside pocket. "Remembered every damn year we spent apart. Got a lot to make up for. Didn't dedicate my award to her for nothin'."

"Shit." Donna's expression shifted from cagey to heartbroken. "Hyde," she whispered and glanced back at the band. Marty had moved on from group shots to individuals."You really love her."

Behind her statement, within her eyes, lay the life he might've had with Jackie. His response to that was already half-written, in the form of a song. Spending time with Jackie had opened caches of grief. He thought he'd autopsied all the corpses, but more were rotting on slabs, waiting to be cut open.

"Her birthday," he said.

Donna's fingers rose from her notepad, a sign of surrender. She told him about the party, the Big Blonde Burn on Jackie's mom and high-society friends. "They've been using her for years," she said, "but trying to get to you through her? That was the line. She's going out in a blaze."

"And she's using me to do it."

He rummaged in his pants pocket, but he hadn't bought gum for weeks. Hadn't bothered. He left Donna on the sofa for his his suit jacket and pulled out his pack of American Spirits. Then he opened the window farthest from the band. The bright end of his cigarette joined Los Angeles's skyline, lighting up the night, blotting out the stars.

"Hyde, please don't be angry at her," Donna said, rushing over to him. She waved her notebook in front of her nose. The wind had blown his smoke back into the room. "Those bitches will keep at her if she doesn't act."

He flicked ash off his cigarette onto the window sill. Not classy, but he'd tip the maid extra. "What's she gonna do afterward, once she's blown her life to smithereens?"

"I don't know."

"She's built up her crappy social circle out of a need to survive. She's had to breathe in shit to get any air at all. That's what I'm pissed at." He quit smoking and watched the cigarette paper burn away as the ash grew. Jackie was sacrificing parts of herself to stay alive. Had been for years. Eventually nothing would be left. "Who booked Ecliptic?" he said.

"Ann-Marie Wintry," Donna said.

"Easy pickings." He knew Ann-Marie's name from Jackie, understood her type. The young wife of the aging Harrison Wintry, owner of the Wintry Hotel Chain. Hyde could get in touch with her, no problem.

"Who's easy pickings, love?" Ro said. She'd sidled up next to him and plucked the disintegrating cigarette from his fingers.

"Donna, why don't you go type up your article?" he said.

"In other words, you want me to get the hell out of here."

"You got it."

Donna left without argument, and Hyde told Ro of Jackie's situation and his plan.

"Day after tomorrow?" Ro said. "No better tour warmup than screwing over rich, self-entitled assholes. I'm in."

She smoked his remaining cigarette to a nub and stubbed it out on the sill. He hadn't expected her to agree so easily, but she walked to the band. Marty was putting away his equipment. The photo shoot was over, and Hyde kept his distance as Ro convinced Sherry, Nate, and even Lee of his idea.

"Hyde," Nate said, approaching him with arms held wide open, "we've got an afterparty to get to, my man." He seemed close to bear-hugging him. His arms were ripped from years of drumming, and for a short guy, Nate had a killer embrace. Experiencing it once was enough for a lifetime.

"We're right by an open window," Hyde said. Nate was small enough to toss through it, but the threat remained unspoken. "You smoke up in the van?"

"Nah, I'm just high on our wins. Four GRAMMYs!" Nate, smartly, patted Hyde's shoulder instead of hugging him. "Yeah, you and Ro don't care, but I do—and I think you should come celebrate with us."

Degenerate Matter's crew was already at the afterparty. Hyde hadn't intended on going, regardless that his dad had organized the event. Grooves Records had GRAMMY winners of its own, not just on Hyde's label. Security would be tight. Press wasn't invited.

"We've got a five-hour detour ahead of us tomorrow," Nate said. "Doing you a favor, so do us one and be part of the band."

Hyde scratched the back of his neck and moved his gaze beyond Nate. Chelsea was putting on her coat. Ro, Sherry, and Lee were reaching for theirs, too. "I should give Lee a break," Hyde said.

"He's already giving you one. Don't use him as an excuse. Grab your shit, and let's go."

Nate patted Hyde's shoulder again then joined his wife. Hyde snatched his suit jacket from the chair and followed him.

The Scarlett Room was a decent-sized club, containing several bars and a dance floor. Tables and booths dotted the perimeter, and a balcony overlooked it all. Music from Grooves Records artists played through the sound system. Hyde should have felt at home; but after a month of hiding, after revealing himself on national TV tonight, the place was like a bear trap. The metal spikes were embedded in his brain, impossible to dislodge.

He spent the first ten minutes at the club being congratulated by strangers—until his dad and sister rescued him. They were thrilled with Degenerate Matter's GRAMMY wins and concerned about his exposure. "You're going to get groupies from this, son," Dad said. "Just a warning."

"Oh, please." Angie swatted the ends of Hyde's hair, and they tickled his chin. "Steven is not groupie material. I'm the receptacle for both the brains and the looks in this family."

"But not the cool," Hyde said. "Those genes skipped you and got passed down to Curtis and Andre," his nephews. "And to me."

"Maybe," she said, "but if you have anything to worry about, it's Ro Skirving's groupies. They're going to hate on you for having her ... but in the off-chance you do get a groupie or two—" she lowered her voice to a whisper, "did you have to mention Beulah during your acceptance speech? Who around you knows who Beulah is?"

Hyde rubbed his cheek. Jackie obviously knew. Ro knew as of tonight and thought the dedication was appropriate, but Angie had asked the wrong question. What mattered was who around Jackie had knowledge of her despised middle name.

Former middle name. During one of their phone calls, she told him it was no longer on her birth certificate—a gift from her dad for her twenty-fourth birthday. He'd filled out the paperwork, made sure the original birth certificate was sealed by the judge who oversaw the change. Beulah was a relic from her dad's ancestry. While she'd grown to appreciate the sentiment, she still hated the name. Together, they chose a new one, Shayna, the middle name she always wished she had. It also happened to be the name of her dad's favorite grandmother.

"It was meant for two people to hear," he said. "Beulah and her ma."

Angie shook her head slightly. "Her mother?"

"A reminder," a warning, "that Beulah's got my loyalty and protection."

Dad smoothed a wrinkle out of Hyde's suit jacket, a gesture Hyde had grown used to. Unlike the parents he'd grown up with, Dad's love and loyalty were never in doubt. But a recent Come On Magazine's article had suggested tension in their relationship due to Hyde's light skin. The article called him "the white sheep of the Barnett family" and the "bastard son" Dad could've easily kept secret since one "had to use a magnifying glass" to find any resemblance between Hyde and his black father.

"I've allocated more money to your security budget," Dad said, and Angie nodded, confirming his statement. "You are not to play Ro's personal bodyguard this tour, hear me?"

"I hear you."

A few more parental dictates later, and Hyde was left alone. He didn't sit at a table. That would only invite someone to sit with him. He stood near the dance floor, in the relative darkness, as Ro took in the night. She accepted congratulations and dances from other GRAMMY nominees, men and women both. Hyde would protect her with his life if necessary, but for now protecting her meant staying apart. The press could still slither inside the club, despite his dad's best efforts.

"Cranial Deformity" blasted through the club's sound system, and the energy inside the place increased ten-fold. More people migrated to the dance floor, toward Ro. But she was flanked by Lee and Sherry. Hyde trusted them to keep her safe, and he sank deeper into the darkness.

"Born with eyes sealed shut, brain half-developed," Ro's recorded voice sang, fast and hard, "you walk in this world, in this world, smashing your skull into passers-by."

The song was pure punk rock, and Hyde smiled joylessly. He'd won a GRAMMY for his fury at Kelso and himself. He'd won an award because of events that shouldn't have happened, choices he shouldn't have made.

Neon lights lined one of the bars. They stood out in the void like a nebula, promising a cloudy, explosive oblivion as Ro's recorded voice sang, "Your problem ain't congenital or chemical or acceptable. It's genital. A genital con you forced on the galaxy."

He turned his back on the lights, on the booze. Scotty was in this club somewhere, a partner in sobriety, a friend. Hyde quit his self-isolation and sought him out. His eyes scanned the dance floor, the booths and tables scattered around it.

"'Cranial deformity!'" someone shouted at him. "'Deformity!'"

"Damn it." Hyde recognized the voice. He tried to go in its opposite direction, but Charleston Hiver collided into his back. Hyde stumbled forward a step, and Hiver got in front of him.

"'Deformity!'" Hiver shouted in Hyde's face. His breath stank worse than it had at the GRAMMYs, a mixture of booze, processed food, and a general lack of hygiene. "Hey, deformity, how's it feel being such a winner?"

"You tell me," Hyde said.

Lights from the dance floor washed Hiver in purples and reds. The rest of the Oxygen Bags were nowhere to be found—yet. They must've sneaked into the party using Hiver's daddy's money.

"How about I fuck Ro Skirving," Hiver said, "and she can tell both of us?"

The threat didn't clench Hyde's fists or make his heart pump an extra beat. Hiver had four inches on him in height, but Hiver's lanky physique was no match for Hyde's muscular one, formed by years of hauling steel.

"Got no answer?" Hiver said, and Hyde shrugged. "Fuck you! You've got the whole goddamned game rigged. Privileged on both sides of DNA. White enough to pass. Black enough to—"

"So your father's bigotry passed into your genes," a new voice said, Sherry's. She was at Hyde's shoulder. "Not surprising."

"Sherry, it's cool," Hyde said. "Hiver was just congratulating me before his ass gets kicked out of the club."

"Yeah, I'm congratulating … you!" Hiver's fist shot toward Sherry's face, but Hyde blocked it. "Oh, you wanna fight, deformity?"

"Nope." Hyde clutched the lapels of Hiver's open suit jacket and shoved Hiver away from Sherry. Pointing out who threw the first punch was futile. Hiver epitomized "Cranial Deformity," sober or not, and in Hyde's grip he began to cackle.

They were standing by an unoccupied booth. Hyde pushed Hiver into the back of it and spared a glance at Sherry. The rest of the Oxygen Bags had emerged from the darkness. They were converging on her.

Hyde let go of Hiver and bolted toward Sherry. Halfway to her, his body snapped backward. Hiver had captured him in a headlock, pressing his arm into Hyde's windpipe. Hyde's vision flickered with stars, but he tossed Hiver to the floor. That appeared to knock the air from him just as Ro and Lee reached Sherry.

The Oxygen Bags' drummer had a grip on Sherry's wrist, but Ro leapt onto his back. Lee couldn't help them. The Oxygen Bags' rhythm guitarist got in his path, ramming his fist into Lee's stomach.

Lee doubled over, his long hair furling over his face like a pirate's black sail. Hyde tried to get to him, but a burning pain sliced into his right calf. Strong fingers wrapped around his ankle and yanked Hyde down.

A bass-heavy song was thumping through the sound system, influencing the way people danced. The vibrations passed into Hyde's body from the floor, infecting his thoughts. Hiver scrambled on top of him, but Hyde saw only Kelso's bloody, dented skull. The sight robbed his will to fight. His arms went limp, even as a streak of silver flashed at him.

"Hyde, knife!" Lee shouted, but the music muffled his voice. "Knife! Hyde, he's got a—"

The silver streak sharpened into a switchblade, smeared with Hyde's blood. Kelso's swollen eyes faded into Hiver's, wild with drug-fueled insanity. Hyde's arms regained life, and he squeezed Hiver's wrist as if it were made of sponge. Bones crunched. Hiver screamed, and the switchblade fell from his hand.

Hyde used his physical leverage to roll on top of Hiver and stop him from moving. He held onto Hiver's right wrist as extra insurance and visually searched the Scarlett Room for its security detail.

A mistake. Hiver's left hand scratched at Hyde's throat then squeezed. Hyde released Hiver's right wrist and walloped him in the jaw, whipping Hiver's face to the left with a crack.

Hiver's hand dropped from Hyde's neck. He was out cold.

Hyde coughed and pushed himself to his feet, shaky but ready to keep fighting. Scotty, Rick Landowski, Sebastian Rojas, and Hank Perito—Degenerate Matter's instrument techs—had joined the fracas. The Oxygen Bags were outnumbered by people a lot more sober than they were. Hyde stepped forward, and heat seared his calf. Hiver had cut him.

Not important right now. He couldn't see Ro or Sherry in the fray. Scotty, Rick, Sebastian, and Hank had the Oxygen Bags' bass and rhythm guitarists surrounded. But Lee was clutching his right hand to his chest, doing what he could with his left—that meant holding onto the Oxygen Bags' drummer, who was curled up on the floor. Hyde headed in Lee's his direction, but cops rushed in, followed by the club's security.

The next few minutes were organized chaos. Witnesses confirmed Hiver and the Oxygen Bags had started the fight, that Hyde and Degenerate Matter acted in self-defense. Dad and Angie confirmed the Oxygen Bags weren't invited guests to the party. Arrests were made.

Hyde had given his statement to the cops with no affect. The truth left his mouth flatly, but in his mind all the lies he'd ever told the police burst in three dimensions. Lies to protect himself, to protect those he loved and owed.

Afterward, he overheard his dad ream out security for doing a piss-poor job. "'We apologize,' my ass," Dad said as security cleared guests from the fight area. The party wasn't over, but it wouldn't include gawking at the scene where the "Battle of the Bands" happened. Guests could read about it in the tabloids. Hiver was sure to sell his side to Come On Magazine and any other rag willing to pay.

"Steven, sit down, son." The directive came from his dad. He must have given it more than once, but Hyde couldn't get a grasp on the present. It slipped from his fingers like slimy dead fish.

"Hyde." Ro waved her blood-stained hand in front of his face, and the present melted over his palms. Pain throbbed through the numbness in his knuckles, his neck. He ignored it and looked her over. "Your blood," she said. "A medic's coming for you, so sit the fuck down."

"I should've gotten to you," he said. "Tried to—"

"Enough of that." She grabbed his arm and tugged him to a booth. "Fucker who went after Sherry? She kicked him in the balls. He went down like a sack of horse shit. I landed on my feet."

"Charleston Hiver," Dad said and snatched a cloth napkin from the table. He pressed it against Hyde's neck. "If that spoiled, racist son of bitch thinks his father's money will get him out of this, he's got another thing coming."

Ro picked up another napkin, knelt down, and held it at Hyde's right calf. "This cut, I can understand. But how'd he get the one to your throat?"

"Didn't feel it," Hyde said.

A paramedic arrived with a red medical kit. Dad removed the napkin from Hyde's neck, and the medic examined the wound. "The laceration isn't deep. I'll clean it up and bandage it—"

"He's got another down here," Ro said, and the medic took her place by Hyde's legs.

"More serious than the one to the throat but still relatively superficial. Stitches aren't necessary." The medic stood back up and opened his kit. "I'll start with the calf. Leave the butterfly bandages I'm going to apply to your wounds until they fall off on their own."

The medic gave more instructions Hyde only half-heard. Dad and Ro were probably committing them to memory, though. Hyde hissed when the medic applied disinfectant, but he welcomed the burn. Kelso must've made that sound hundreds of times while recovering from Hyde's fists. From surgery. And while growing accustomed to a metal plate in his face and permanent numbness in his cheek.

"You're lucky Hiver was strung-out and sloppy," Dad said. "He missed your carotid by a mile."

Ro brushed her clean hand through Hyde's hair. "You let yourself be cut," she said, which prompted the medic to ask him a bunch of questions: Did he have a headache? Was he dizzy? Had he lost consciousness? The answer to all of them was no. He didn't have a concussion. He'd had a flashback.

"Hiver got the drop on me," he said after the medic was off to another patient. "Was too stunned to fight him off." Dad and Ro seemed like they expected more, but that was the only explanation they'd get. The only one they could get. Dad didn't know the truth about that night in '79, and Ro might make connections where none existed.

Dad cupped Hyde's cheek. "I'm sorry I let this happen."

"Man, you didn't—"

"A father's supposed to protect his kids. Those scumbags getting in here … I should've prepared for that possibility."

The remorse in Dad's eyes was too familiar. His face might as well have been a mirror, reflecting Hyde's own. Hyde glanced at Ro to find refuge, but she'd walked off toward Lee, who was seated several tables away. The medic was with him.

Dad's hand slipped to Hyde's shoulder. "Son, I've let so much happen to you..."

Hyde clenched his jaw. Dad had no clue what had happened in his absence—only the story everyone else heard: raised by drunks, neglected by drunks, abandoned by drunks—and he'd never get one. Hyde wouldn't burden him with that information. Hadn't shared it with anyone … and yet shared it with the world in "Point of No Return".

The last track off Degenerate Matter's second album, only his ma might be able to decipher the lyrics. If she'd been watching the GRAMMYs tonight, if she had the wherewithal or interest in causing more damage, in her possession those lyrics would become H-bombs.

"You didn't know you were my dad when I was a kid," Hyde said. "And I've made my own choices. Consequences are mine."

"So you always say." Dad patted Hyde's shoulder then let him go. "But I'll do everything in my power to help keep you safe. I messed up tonight."

"Can only do so much, man." Hyde stood up and hugged his dad gently, careful not to rip his bandages. "And I appreciate it, all right? You've been lookin' out for me, and it's not something I take for granted."

"I know. You've done me prouder than you could possibly imagine."

Hyde's grip on his dad's back strengthened. "And I've failed you more than you can possibly fuckin' imagine," his mind said, but his mouth stayed shut. That, too, was a burden he wouldn't pass on.

Lee was holding an ice pack to his right wrist. He didn't get up when Hyde sat at his table, even though they were alone. A soft-white light bulb dangled above them in a frosted fixture, and an acid jazz number played through the club's sound system. The atmosphere would've been relaxing if not for the hundred-plus people dancing a dozen feet away.

"Should consider buttoning up your dress shirts," Lee said and nodded at the bandage taped to Hyde's neck. "No one needs to see your damn chest." For once, his words weren't corrosive. This was his version of being friendly, maybe even concerned.

"How's the wrist?" Hyde said. "How'd it happen?"

"Punch landed wrong, but the asshole felt it." Lee wriggled the fingers of his right hand, and pain registered on his face. "Not broken. Probably not even sprained, but Ro's spitting bullets. Open your ears. Hear it for yourself."

Ro had joined Sherry, Nate, and his wife, Chelsea, at a booth. Ro's voice was carrying. It rose over both the club's music and the chatter of the party guests: "If Hiver screwed up our tour, I'll rip out his testicles!"

"Too bad he doesn't have any to rip out," Hyde said, and Lee chuckled, a rare occurrence. His laughter faded, though, and they both grew silent. The jazz song's bassline filled the vacuum with a bouncy groove. Hyde drummed his fingers to the rhythm on the table, and he said, "Why didn't you let Hiver hack me to me pieces?"

"I've earned the right to piss on you," Lee said. "He hasn't. And if I want to hack you to pieces, believe me—" he flipped Hyde the bird with his left hand—"I'll cut you a lot deeper than he did."

"Have no doubt you'll try."

"Not anytime soon. You've been putting the band first these last two months. I get that … and I'm starting to get you."

"Never thought I'd hear that."

Lee's lips curled into what would usually be a snarl, but it turned into more laughter. "Truth is, neither did I. Doesn't mean I'm letting you turn the band into Hyde and the Degenerate Matters, you motherfucker."

"I'd throw myself into highway traffic long before doing that."

"Good." Lee took the ice pack off his wrist. "Medic said I have to lay off playing a few days. We've got that warm-up show at The Entry on the sixth. Means I'll have to miss the gig for your friend—"

"Don't worry about it," Hyde said. He already had substitute in mind.