Brian, Brian, Brian . . . it's been a long time. Too fucking long. And now, I suppose, I should call you Tommy Stone. That is your new name now after all, isn't it? And I wouldn't want to start this off with any more confusion than absolutely necessary. There will be more than enough of that for you later . . . but enough of that for now.

If you're reading this, then I'm dead (now, how's that for dramatic?). Anyway, I'm dead.

Finally.

It will be an overdose (tell me you didn't fucking see that one coming), and they will call it an accident.

Don't believe it. There was nothing accidental about it. When you've done as many fucking drugs as I have, you get a kind of sixth-sense about certain things—like just how much is enough, and how much is too much.

Call it what you want to call it. Suicide? Sure, why not. Wasn't it Nietzsche who said that the most noble thing a man can do is take his own life before time can lay him waste? . . . Something like that.

Crock of shit if you ask me. There wasn't anything noble about it. I killed myself because I got tired. I've been getting tired for a long time.

Tired of watching all of our dreams melt into nothing; the scrambling, desperate, stupid kids who wanted so much to be like us finally gave up the glitter and went on with their lives; to work, to marriage, kids, the whole American dream, white picket fence lifestyle. Then there's us; the rockers, the wild children, the freaks, the stoners, the homos, the minstrels—what are we supposed to do now? When all we know is glam and music?

We all know what you did—changed your name and sold out so you could keep singing, find any way you could to stay in the light, even if it meant selling your soul. But what about the rest of us? Those of us who did it for the music more than the fame? Can you see Jack Fairy selling real-estate in Queens? In a dress? Or me? Can you see me anywhere else but on a stage, lurking in the back of a bar, or sprawled on a bed?

We can't all be chameleons, Brian. Some of us have to be men. And men, being mortal, die.

I guess I could have done it with more dignity and grown old, but that's not me. We both know I rarely ever did anything with any fucking dignity, and I think we both know I was never meant to grow old.

So the question of the moment isn't really about me, it's about you. What ever happened to Brian Slade?

I'll tell you. He didn't die—he wasn't allowed to die with any kind of dignity, or even with any kind of flare—he was swallowed up by the monster, the fucking Frank Sinatra wannabe that's wearing his skin.

Brian Slade had grace, beauty, and such talent. And somewhere along the way, he lost them all.

He wasn't always good, he wasn't always smart, or original, but hardly any of us are. I know damn well I'm not—that you're holding this letter in your hands right now is proof of that. Curt Wild: just another washed-out rock star that ODed on a freaky meth cocktail. Except, I think maybe burning all my shit and chucking it out the window first might count as original. Not too original, just enough to guarantee me a little spot on the evening news. My point is, Brian Slade wasn't a saint, but he bled, and screamed, and fucked, and the masks he wore he donned with amusement and flourish, as accessories and costumes. He didn't build them up as anything more, he didn't hide behind them, and when he pretended to be someone else, it was only for the moment, and it was only pretend.

I'm finding it hard to write this to Tommy Stone. Who the fuck is Tommy Stone? Nothing to me. I keep seeing Brian reading this, not this man Stone, who I don't know, who I don't want to know. These words are for Brian Slade, wherever he may be.

I remember the first time I saw you. I was covered in oil and glitter, so bombed out of my fucking scull that I couldn't think straight—straight for me, that is.

You were standing in the shadows, away from the crowd, thinking yourself unnoticed. But I noticed you. How could I not? You had a face more beautiful than any woman's, and with your hair long, wearing that ridiculous purple dress thing, for just a second, I thought you were a woman, and my eyes almost passed you by.

I don't remember much about that night—the fire, the glitter, the screaming guitars (God, how they hated me, and I loved it)—but I remember my first glimpse of Brian Slade. And I remember later how I went looking for you, and woke up the next morning in a tent between a man I had never seen before and a woman I wished never to see again.

When I saw you again, you were famous, and I was already tired, and so full of drugs and a hundred other types of poison I couldn't even say my own name—and I didn't give a shit who you were—then I saw that face, and I remembered.

No one was to blame for what happened next. You have your nature, and I have mine, and I make no excuses for who and what I am. You knew that going in, and still you came to me, arms open and soul yearning. But how could any passion, no matter how hot, survive in the blinding lights of a thousand flashbulbs?

Blame me for walking away if it makes you feel better, but don't forget, you came looking for me. Before that, I didn't even know who the fuck you were, some tarted up British rocker like all the rest, just some pretty face I saw once in a crowd . . .

A tentative knock on the door brought Tommy back to the present. "What?"

The door opened and Shannon looked into the room. She took in the lawyer reclined in the soft chair with his briefcase on the floor by his feet, and Tommy gripping the sheets of paper in his hands so tightly that the tips of his fingers were white.

"Excuse me," she said nervously. "Tommy, there's someone here to see you—"

"I'm busy," he said shortly.

"But, I don't think—"

"If it's so bloody important it can damn well wait," he snapped, losing his patience with her.

She blinked and looked again at the letter in his hand, wondering what it could be, to upset him so much. She hadn't seen Tommy act like this in, oh—ever. Not since . . .

"Shannon, get out, now, or you're fired," Tommy said coldly.

"Yes sir." She quickly left and closed the door.

Grumbling to himself, Tommy flipped to the second page and began to read:

It was always your nature to change, not just yourself, but anyone close to you as well. It was part of your charm . . .