AN: This skips around a bit. Its basically the events that transpire after Zack leaves the therapist's office put on fast forward, as if he's dreaming them. It's a kind of lucid dream since he wakes up in bed at the beginning of the chapter and returns there at the end.
About the direction of the story, I obviously didn't begin with one. I actually posted the first chapter on the spur of the moment, which is completely unlike me, because I wanted to write something that deviated from my normal genre and because I honestly didn't expect anyone to read it, much less enjoy it. I have to plan things out like, months in advance for them to make any kind of sense. (It's moderate OCD) I think I know where I'm going; though I can't promise it will be particularly engaging. It helps if I plan chapters out in my head first, if I imagine everything that transpires like scenes in a movie, characters in a certain setting reciting dialogue with a soundtrack and everything. It makes it much easier to type it out and add all the image stuff because you can actually see it in your mind.
Solitary Dragon: Jesus your comments are invaluable. Ray Bradbury is fantastic; "A Perfect Murder" is a prime example of something succinct and moving. I had a whole Bradbury phase in seventh grade.
MellowYellow36: Thank-you for the memorable review! The state I live in is so red the ultraviolet glare has permanently damaged my eyes.
Rocker Chick 777: I read the second chapter over and the subconscious Kafka-esque of it makes sense because I remember reading "The Metamorphosis" sometime ago. Whatever I'm reading always has a tendency to leak into my writing somehow. I'd like to think Zack will fare far better than Gregor did.
Glum n Dumb Skittery: Creepy little Mr. Mooneyham? I like that. Yeah, I try not to be straight forward about anything especially when it comes to "human relations" Hopefully it'll go where its supposed to, either that or it'll go where it wants to, I'll probably be happy with either result. (I think)
Chinksky: I love Zack too, (well obviously) I've always been most fascinated by him, I think he's probably one of the better choices for any kind of character study because of all the undoubtedly complex emotions that live within him.
Dozengirl: Ditto, with the rock on as you young kids say!
Updates oy. I've always found reading a story whose author took months to update rather irksome and low and behold I've written one. Now that I have an idea where this dark little circus is going I'm going to try and update at least once a week if not more, if I haven't sufficiently alienated the readership. Enough rambling then, onward!
III
To Oz
"I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking these days."
Nico "These Days"
Silence clotted in his ears like waves of blood, as his eyes became familiar with the dark tent that had spreads itself over the room. His breath came out in capsized uneven puffs and he could feel his heart glowing red under the covers, black swirled with yellow and white framed the wide windows.
His lifted head drowned in the black shadow in the doorway. His heart gnashed against his chest in bloodied volumes of pain as the darkness siezed against him in electric waves.
"Hey Zack Attack."
Blurry shapes, coming in and out of focus, colors mixing like messy paint.
"Quick question dude, how many days after the expiration date would you wager the milk's still good?"
Zack blinked ferociously.
"I mean it says August 15th and the twenty-fifth was like, yesterday but I've got a bowl of Captain Crunch in the kitchen begging for some milk man and you know the Captain, patience is not one of the virtues of a pirate." "Any thoughts?"
The rotund shadow shifted in the doorway like a schooner lost in the dark bed of the ocean, Zack could feel a storm in his head, the hangover of a sticky hot slumber that pasted his features in a thick fog that hung about his face in narrow cobwebs.
"Zack, this is important. Wake up dude."
Lines of light flying across the room and breaking against the yellow walls splintering into a billion sharp pieces that flooded the walls of his brain with violent beams of a torturous sun. White hyper light cutting everything into pieces.
"What the hell happened to your face man?"
Ground covered in soft yellow leaves. Raining from the sky in thin sheets like plummeting planes brushing the pale skin in a drowsy molestation, hot sunlight smashing into the worn marble gravestones.
Frankie's face looked like hard granite laced with freckles. His suit rumpled; hair flew in great gusts about his head like an empty nest. Eyes small and savage, primitive versed in a dead language they ripped into his skin like hot knives.
The gun barrel hovered close to his head like a housefly shaking slightly in the morning wind.
Yellow leaves in the dirty ground, glass of a broken kaleidoscope pressing against his eyes. Crows and doves wove married patterns of shaky flight above his head.
"Why weren't you at practice?" His voice was hard and thick like graphite.
"Yeah Mooneyham," A leering laugh a long way off. Freddy standing in the grass grinning like an English hog. "What the hell kept you?"
Peals of laughter that broke like paper wings, paper cranes flying on the back of his sun-stained eyelids. The grip on the gun tightened, the master finger rubbing against the brown trigger in lazy acts of foreplay.
Zack shrugged against the fence all James Dean on crack cocaine. His voice lazy and soft and rubbing against their ears like hot breath. "Nothing man, your mom just wanted me to make her breakfast."
Leaves lay on the soft soil next to him like dead fish.
"I was going to bring it to her on a little tray and everything but I had to go to the store and get bacon and waffle mix and stuff. Then I got down there and you know-."
"What the fuck did you say?"
The leaves were blowing in his face, deformed yellow hands clawing at his speech The yellow blurred together, runny sunshine coated with brown dirt under his shoes, sunlight everyone had wiped their boots on. Ripped and ugly like dead butterflies swimming in sour milk.
"Well you know, I forgot my coupon for O.J. so I had to go back and your mom had to get dressed and look for her purse and everything, then she offered to drive me back to the store, she was a real sport about though. We saved you some waffles dude, they should be on the counter or something."
Freddy's face looked like hot molten lava. Red angry ash sweeping down in violent, foaming shards, warm skin boiling, an overcooked sun god. The cooked leaves rode upon the air like dancing drunks, swaying and beaming and falling to their deaths on the sharp corner of his shoulder.
Zack tried not to smile.
"It's no big deal man, we were talking about it last night and tomorrow morning she gets to make me breakfast its only fair."
Light filled every free space setting the falling leaves on fire and burning his mute eyes. Zack heard the sound of the trigger being taunted back to its start before the gun went level. The sound was swallowed by the roar of traffic and then it was all rush, broken pieces of burnt film over his eyes sun all over and blood on his mittens that lay like two praying hands in the coffin of dead leaves next to his head.
His brain, burnt and hollow, rubbing against his cranium like a cat as he lay breathing heavily in the leaves. He closed his eyes and the blackness was like thick velvet, night with bits of color stuck in it, faint voices melded in a liquid stream of sound poured into his ears like thick paint. The gun's worried whine slithered into the crescent tunnels of his hearing, the frantic flutter of a moth caught in his hand, trapped in the dark blind and battered. The golden summit of sound that caressed the morning with gnarled fingers was broken into shards that lay round his head like a crown.
"What the hell dude!"
His fingers were rubbing the cold tile, wiping all the blood neatly into the gray cracks that ran through the bathroom like lines of an earthquake. Light forcing its way under his eyelids, walls and bridges made of darkness and light absolving into thick tar that bled into his eyes like acid rain.
His hands were white birds in shaky flight; pale slender fingers coming together like wet dented wings. Struggling against the gaping mouth of the clean white toilet, flimsy pieces of smooth rock pressing desperately into the burning white. The arch thick turpentine like a hand strangling his breath, touching his eyes with dark pressure that sent his vision into waves of seizure.
"Oh fuck man do you need a bucket?"
Lines and colors leaned and swayed and pressed themselves against his eyes aggressively. Consuming his head in a roaring fire, high fever doused in a cool lucid dream he was trying to claw out of his stomach, his fingers scratched at the clean white toilet like cats as he lay against the mouth choking.
"Damn it kid my boss is gonna kill me!"
The walls were gray, white pieces of granite how the pale light bathed them. Color of dead swans face up in the dirty water. Shadows leaning and embracing on the walls like a dark movie, hooded heads blotting out his eyes in a veil of thick sleep.
"Oh my god kid wake up."
Walls and bridges.
"Damn it man come on!"
Soft upon the distance of his mind ran peace as he drowned in the dark velvet. Gossamer skeletons danced behind the pink foam of his eyelids like balloon animals filled with purple pus as he stretched out his fingers to meet the broken light, the dark curve that rested in the narrow womb of his interrupted thought
"Alright, okay dude I'm calling the cops or…something. Goddamn it he's gonna kill me!"
Outlines lay at the corner of his brain, chalk lines of flat rosebushes and dried weeds dying of thirst in the parched deserts of his thought. White and screaming, a dead language scrapped off the soul of speech flying in horizontal lines at his burning continuance, thoughts on fire chasing each other in concentric circles as the words eroded his crumbling skull.
Darkness felt like heavy velvet on his face.
The veil came over his eyes and the room lay broken and crooked blurry filthy tears lamented his eyes in glossy film that felt like fire. A dead weight stirred within him, a black crow trapped in his chest large dark wings beating against his ribcage, swift edges of sharp feathers piercing his throat leaving trails of blood running like streams. It was growing, pushing against his chest clawing at his stomach but it wouldn't come out so he put his face to the white porcelain mouth, fingers struggling against the blinding circle trying to throw up all the blackness that lived in his stomach and clotted the corridors in his head like smoke. He knelt like a cowering slave forcing out the thick solid darkness, shoulders drenched in perspiration that ran down his face in thick clouds. Ghosts of his fever hovering above his head like black roses, filling his ears with whispers of sweat and fear, Pale light, cold floor, screams devoured by the soft humming of Yusef Islam overhead.
Standing in the broken mirror touching the purple plains of his bruised face softly. There were lines on his hands, tracks of dirt round cuts and dried blood. Like a violent map, an old face beaten in among the blue and purple veins of his arms that swayed like jungle trees. His eyes felt entombed in hot glass, tinted in light purple and violent orange they framed the universe of his battered vision circles and squares packed with pale light, blurry oblong forms that swam and drowned in the flood in his eyes.
Dirty mouth and liquid eyes. Cut into jagged pieces of broken glass.
A hot high fever dream lay in his brain, coming to a boil in a sea of vomit, an explosion of white roses and dove feathers. Glittering roomy corridors of his brain were filled with the shrill echoes of the dying white roses as they climbed the soft terra firma becoming lost in all the pink wrinkles and screaming to the dark heavens of his cranium.
Shaky light and soft music, Joey Ramone glared at him from the white ceiling.
White outlines swayed beyond the blackness filling his eyes with hot steam. He ran his dented white wings along the jagged cliffs of the glass, felt the linear curves and edges like crystal on his soft skin. Fingers danced on the tips of the glass that shot out like mountaintops, pranced on curved valleys of dull pain.
The puncture didn't make a sound, thin stream of vivid red running down his palm like water, pale and earnest in the light like a friend he'd lost. He hadn't done it on purpose, hadn't meant for his finger to sweep down the mouth of the glass so slowly, hadn't meant for the red wrinkled skin to slip along the foothills at the bottom of the cliff where the glass came up like thorns against his wings.
He hadn't meant for it, but now that it was there, warm liquid in his palm bright and deep he didn't mind it so much. It wasn't so bad. He sank to the floor to inspect it, warm hazy circles dappled with pastels crowns and birds shooting up from the floor and pasting themselves against the black back drop of his brain. The river in his hand was flowing and Yusef Islam was singing if you want to be free be free, and Joey was glaring at him from above like the patron saint of blood loss and ghosts of colors were doing the Charleston with each other on the walls, speckling the room with sickly spots of dirty gray light that shone like silver.
He smiled round at them all, and the river kept running and his ghosts kept humming and he could hardly hear the scream of the white roses. The crow lay dead in his chest, like a black heavy cloud squeezing his lungs in its talons. Feathers layered in masses of funeral black packed against his breath. He smiled until his face hurt, until his grin caused arrows of pain to shoot across his face and he felt the wings flutter in his chest.
The room began to break. Like the skin in his palm, a coarse line caked with dirt and blood, light opening the wound and making the walls cave in like the folding of a monarch's wings. The constriction of his heart and the height of his voice lay in ruins of hot breath on his bloodied hand when his vision was flooded with the thick white light that soiled his blood and broke the room in two.
"I don't know what happened man, he just passed out."
The words washed over him in sweaty heaps, like short stab wounds in his chest. Pressure played a lengthy drum solo on his spine.
"He came in and I thought he was looking for a record you know. Kid comes in here nearly everday. His face was pretty banged up and he was walking funny but he nodded at me and stuff so I just thought he was you know…a little retarded or something."
"Which is totally cool or whatever if he is, but I gotta make a certain number of sales a month and stuff or my boss'll have an aneurysm or something he's a total hard ass man hardcore Nazi. Your kid looked like a Death Cab fan so I tried to shuffle him toward the indie section or whatever. I tap him on the shoulder and he turns around and vomits all over me!"
Larry had been cheating on his twelve step program and was taking a long drag of the first cigarette he'd had in six weeks when a giant balloon of a guy who looked like Chris Farely on some serious acid put his face against the window Larry was leaning on. Fearing he was witnessing the wide, meaty face of Satan himself Larry had backed away from the window in shock and dropped his cigarette nearly lighting his pants on fire.
"I'm on my break right, so I have Herbie take him to the bathroom and Herbie comes runnin' out with a mop telling me the kid missed the toilet. I just scrubbed that bathroom this morning dude, my pits smell like Windex. So I go back there, and he's hurling chunks like you've never seen and I tell him I'm gonna call somebody. I just called 911 cause he couldn't open his mouth without something gross spewing out of it and while I'm out here using the phone Herbie tells me that he's passed out on the floor and he won't wake up. We found your number in his pocket."
He'd come barging through the double doors with the anguished roar of a sexually frustrated Creed fan. Hair raging about his head in messy circles the color of burnt sunrise; he'd danced in front of the curtain of smoke that hung from Larry's pale countenance like excess flesh. He had reminded Larry of the love child of a crippled racehorse and the Hulk.
"My boss is gonna kill me, I wasn't even supposed to come in today, goddamned Vinnie had to go to his grandmother's funeral in Queens this weekend. Fifth time she's died this month, so I had to get up at five o clock in the morning to open this musical hellhole. This kid? First customer of the day and I have to run clean up."
Larry paused to look back at the hefty guy who had stopped in the tribute band aisle clutching his chest like a lost Alzheimer's patient, his hair flying round like a Roman crown, battered and beaten by the air conditioner.
"He yours?"
"He's staying with me while his parents are out of town. I'm his music teacher."
"Oh yeah?"
"How is he?"
Larry didn't answer, just kept walking and talking in that nervous rambling voice he had acquired on the smoky streets of Jersey to keep from getting his ass kicked too much. The shrugging, Woody Allen whine that could talk eighty year old women into buying Sex Pistols albums.
It wasn't until they were at the end of the aisle and David Bowie was giving him that come hither stare across the blue lights of Candlestick Park that Larry realized just who he was rambling to.
"Wait."
Wild hair shifted under the dim yellow lights as his eyes touched the stage play of confusion being drawn across the wide junctions of the rotund fellow's face.
"You're Dewey Finn. Oh my god you're Dewey Fi-. From Maggot Death man!"
The misted eyes winded with recognition.
"Dude this is incredible! I love you guys, you were like my favorite band back in the day. Oh man, Valley of Rotting Corpses IV is my favorite LP."
Wide white hands, like flesh colored headless rabbits, curled into fists.
"I loved that one song…oh god, I think it was from Tell Chico the Morgue's on Fire. How did it go?"
Because of the massive ADD he'd suffered his entire adolescent life, Larry failed to notice the deeply fatigued and mildly murderous expression that littered the portly man's haggard expression like a solid sheet of hail. He then proceeded to snap his fingers and hum a little hoping this would jump-start the iPod in his brain and retrieve the lost tune.
"It was like…da..da..da…burning corpses everywhere, burning fingers burning hair gotta something something something dude it was awesome, you guys were hardcore!"
"Dude."
"So many bands, their albums are great but they totally suck in concert. But you guys
I went to go see you at the Cavern your like second show or something and you guys blew the roof off that place it was crazy dude!"
"Dude."
"Oh man, I got so hammered when you guys played the Rio in Albany, that's how I met my girlfriend Sheila, do you remember her? Short chick with curly hair and huge ankles? You signed her stomach in sharpie."
"Look-"
"I didn't recognize you without foundation. What are you doing now man?"
"Hey Kibbles and Bits!"
Larry completely unprepared for such yelling paused.
"What's your name?"
"Larry." Larry pointed with great authority to the large yellow nametag pinned to his Shins T-shirt.
"Great Larry, tell me where the bathroom is."
"In the back." Then he had to run to keep up with the long gazelle like stride his large hero had adopted. "I remember when you guys were selling CDs outside of Seven Eleven and putting on shows in the parking lot, then you MC'd on Marvin Fluty's underground garage when Marvin was still on FM and he got food poisoning from some bad giflte fish."
Past ACDC, The Rascals, and the inquisitive looks of Sonny and Cher.
"Sheila said she got propositioned by your lead guitarist when you guys played the Rio. Something Schneebly? Do you remember if you saw anything? I don't know, the doctors say she's some kind of pathological liar or something so-"
Through the maze of posters and T-shirts and the brightly colored comic books that lay in short stacks like prisoners of war. Past disgruntled Metellica fans with overbites and wicked acne, semi-intoxicated soccer moms singing along to Celine Dion over black headphones and a brooding, homicidal looking bunch huddled in a corner listening to Moby and weeping noisily, round the gumball machines and the sale rack and the large rather intimidating cardboard cut out of Mr. T.
The nasal voice of the sales kid from Flushing behind him fell from Dewey's ears like a thin layer of melting frost.
Elliot Smith was sending thick whispers against his ears as he stepped into the cold chamber of the bathroom, but all he could here was the whirring of the broken pipes that played lonely ballads in the pale walls.
Blood and vomit stained his eyes. A sea of holes and blackness, shaky light and broken glass filth and pools of blood, it was like the worst low budget horror movie ever. The Blair Dewey project.
Sirens in his head. Scalding red and brusque blue sending blemishes across his vision, stark and white a scene from The Wall put on pause.
Zack was under the sink, on his side like a cygnet thrown out of the nest by the mother swan.
All the air flew from his lungs. It migrated to the far corner of the dark chamber until it smashed against the wall. He walked over slowly, like Mr. Rogers with a hangover, and the room went sideways. Slanted like those damned ugly cubism portraits. His fat white fists went out before him but all they touched was air charged with static electricity that stung his fingers.
Mama this surely is a dream Dewey knelt on the floor like a drunken groupie, mind scrambling like the burnt omelet Ned had made him that morning. Sticky pancake batter plastered in between the pink lobes of his brain, his musical cortex burning and humming and fizzing as he touched the boy's small shoulders and turned him over willing in the name of rock for it not to be so. Calling his name over and over. The slowest mantra in the world.
"Ambulance is here dude."
The shoulders tensed and there were Zack's eyes reflected in the shard of glass shaped like California near Dewey's black Converses. Pale light splashed over his face like water as his features arched themselves into painful folds and creases and goddamn it Dewey Finn finally knew what it felt like to be a parent. Constriction and the twitching and the sweating and the ticks and latest shock of hair to fall out on account of stress as you haul ass to your van and speed through about a thousand red lights. Getting stuck on the bridge because of a goddamn traffic jam and not having intense mood music like Bruce Willis got in Die Hard because the goddamn result of too much alcohol and absence of birth control in the tiny little Hyundai in front of you choose today to discover his obsession with Roberta Flack so you had to fume and worry and beat your head against the steering wheel and eventually escape and fly down the highway, the sound track to your paralyzing worry? "Killing Me Softly" Goddamn it.
"Zack Attack, Zack wake up."
Rapid blinking underneath the curtain of black lashes, eyebrows knitted together like two birds in flight.
"Dewey?'
'Um yeah dude, unless you feel more comfortable calling me Ned."
Trails of slumber under his chin, traveling down the thick canyons of the pillows. "What is that?"
"What's what?"
"That…music."
A smile in the dark. A long white Cheshire grin that lit fires among his visual neurons.
"You must be out of it man, that's Styx. Apparently Mr. Soft jazz corporate zombie fetus face down the hall likes his Styx at six o clock in the morning."
"Tell him to turn it off, it's giving me cancer."
"I'd do that but we've had brouhaha's before and I can't fight him if he's on his own turf, I mean Kenny G is-"
"You're kryptonite I know."
"Try to sound a little more serious when you say it. It's a bitch brother, I should be able to park in the handicapped spaces." "If you played the clarinet long enough I'd probably die."
"Kenny G plays the flute."
"Its sad that you know that."
"It's sad that you can't go down the hall and tell someone to turn down their loud crimes against the human hearing."
"And come back smelling like the Man, I'd rather dip my brain in battery acid."
"It would take less time to talk to him."
"Yeah but I'd like the battery acid more. And Styx doesn't suck, they can but they usually don't."
"They're your ears."
Hot air propelled itself through the air above their heads. Dark New York night spilling hungrily through the open window. Beech trees formless in the dark, branches hanging in the window like drunks, orange streetlights making shadowed prints of the beech leaves on Zack's pillow.
"So?"
"So."
"You think the milk's still good?"
Heat covered the room like a veil.
"Go for it man."
"Alright, dude we're having the Styx discussion tomorrow they can not suck its possible."
"That's what you said about Oasis."
"What's wrong with-I'm not even talking to you about Oasis I'm not even going to go there. If you'd like to contribute anything other than insults, like say some constructive criticism yo, feel free."
"Listening to them lowers your I.Q. by at least four points per song."
"Yeah, that's not constructive criticism."
"Its supposed to help them improve right?"
"Improve not give up their careers or cause them to commit suicide."
"I think either of those would improve their music."
"These are the moments that give me nightmares about you working for Spin, plus if Oasis got in a fiery car crash and burned to death tomorrow I bet you'd feel pretty bad."
"I'd live."
"Unlike Liam and Tony."
"That's the idea."
"Fine you go to sleep, you think about becoming a failed musician and having to work for the Man in the mail room at Rolling Stone cleaning up after that Brittany Aguilera chick's dog then you come to me in the morning and tell me if you'd rather have Oasis die in a fiery car crash than do that for the rest of your miserable life."
"Okay man, but I'm pretty sure I'm all for Oasis dying."
"In the morning dude."
Light was already crawling into the room through the open window, thin shades sliding across the hardwood and making pale shallow shapes on the floor. The swollen pit of dark oyster colored clouds lay on their own nest to the East winking at Zack and tracing the outline of his bruised face.
"You okay?"
"What?"
"I was going to the bathroom I heard noises in here. You look a little wigged out dude."
"Its dark."
"I can tell when someone's wigging out I lived with Ned for like, ten years. You alright?"
"Yeah, I'm just…I'm fine."
"You didn't have the MC Hammer dream again did you?"
Zack allowed himself to cringe, and shook his head.
"Good cause that thing freaked me out. Everything's cool?"
"Yeah, I was just…remembering."
"Way to be cryptic dude, try to get some more sleep man Shawshank starts in like two hours."
"I could sleep if Styx guy could turn down a couple of notches or if you stole his CD player."
"The mofo won't budge, I think he's a little obsessed. And the last time I tried to steal something I ended up in a prison in Tijuana playing in some cheap make shift Maruichi band so that I wouldn't be violated so I'm really not down with the jail time meho. You on the other hand could get off easier because you're younger and we could get some doctor to say your hatred for Oasis drove you steal. Plus your always reading and dude reading is for passing the time on long prison terms. You want to go crash neighbor dude's jam session you go ahead but if your come back and your face is shaped like a fetus and you want to put on some Kenny Loggins, it'll just make prison all the harder for you man."
Dewey nodded thoroughly, and under the thick howls of "Nothing More, Nothing Less" issuing from the wall, he could make out the quiver of Zack's snores that sounded like a small train coasting through a tunnel in a snowstorm. He shielded his eyes from the wisps of sunlight that blew through the room like strands of dust and closed the door gently behind him mind full with how surreal it felt to have a kid in his place, to actually have to use regurgitated authoritarian language like "Go to bed" dude the paternal instincts were kicking in everywhere.
It was like the bizzaro world.
His mind was clouded with it, and he tried to pacify such thoughts with a good bowl of the Captain's finest, running to the bathroom shortly upon finishing said bowl determining as he went that Zack definitely did not have that whole clairvoyant touch when it came to dairy.
AN: That's chapter three absurdly long without really getting anywhere I wanted to establish Dewey's character right away, hopefully it isn't way way to off base. I hope the brief outlook of "Larry" from the record store and his Maggot Death obsession didn't detract from the plot too much; I needed a short break from writing for Zack because it can get so intense sometimes. I'm not even sure where on Earth Larry came from and Dewey seemed like an ethereal presence (even when he was speaking) because I really didn't want to focus on himbring him alive until he saw Zack. The fight with Freddy and the bathroom incident all occurred on the same day Zack saw his therapist and he was just remembering those things in his dreams, hence the opening and the closing. If that threw you off I apologize and if you kind of got it on your own then I'll stop pontificating.
Yeah…uh…ah no offense to Oasis or fans of Oasis. I quite enjoyed "Wonderwall" and "Leighla" shows promise and I don't want any of there band members to die in a fiery car crash (or any other crash…or just to die period which wouldn't be a problem if they were immortal or something, but I digress) Not such a fan of Styx but still don't want any member of the band to die in a fiery car crash. I think I already apologized to fans of Kenny G but if I forgot I'm sorry. Kenny Logins and Moby too, and whomever I offend from this point on. I had a dream about MC Hammer once; it was scary beyond all reason.
"