I saw you again briefly, at that concert Jack Fairy and I threw—what was it called? Death to Glitter, or something like that. You were standing in the back by the door, in the shadows just like the first time I saw you. You were wearing a fucking fedora and a trench coat of all things—you could have worn pink feathers in your hair and been wrapped head to toe in sequins for all the good it did. I knew the moment you walked in, and I knew the moment you left.

That was the last time I ever saw Brian Slade.

Tommy Stone was everywhere, on the TV, in magazines and papers, his face and name plastered on every building and billboard, his voice—Brian's voice, corrupted almost beyond recognition—was on every radio station, but Brian Slade was gone. He didn't just fade away like the rest of us though; he changed his image, put on a new face, got a new name, and kept singing.

Telling the world you were Maxwell Demon wasn't the worst thing you ever did. But then you started to believe it, and that was fucking tragic. Maxwell Demon was a fiction, a modern fairy-tale to tantalize the imaginations of the aspiring young rockers of the world. A story, goddamn it, just a story. Brian Slade was lovely, with a smoke-broken voice that could slide down your skin like velvet, and a remarkable flair for the dramatic. He was also selfish, cruel, and heartless, but he lived. He was real. Why the fuck wasn't he good enough? You had to go and call yourself Maxwell Demon, and then, damn you, you had to live up to the name, and you did it by killing Brian Slade.

You wanted out, and I can't say I blame you for wanting it. But you should have stayed dead.

There were others after you; I won't even try to pretend that there weren't. I think you'll agree that I'm not, and never have been, the celibate sort.

I suppose now would be the time to tell you what this has really been all about. Ancient history aside, none of it changes the fact I am dead. Mr. Gerald Perkins esq. is probably sitting there right now, looking cool, and acutely bored with the entire melodramatic situation. The bastard.

I left everything to Mandy, Perkins will confirm it. Everything; the house, the money, everything. The idea appealed to my sense of irony I suppose, and you have to admit it's ironic. There's a kind of poetic justice to it—she loved you, and you sucked her innocence out like some kind of mad diva vampire. You left her with nothing. I had no one to leave it to, so I gave everything to her. Maybe to make atonement—or maybe just because I know it will piss everyone off, and you know how I can't resist a chance to do that.

Then there's the boy, Arthur. He came to me, looking for you. He thought I didn't know him, and in that first glance, I didn't. But then I looked again and there was that look in his eyes; desperation, curiosity, fear, and an insatiable yearning. You know the look. It's the one they all used to wear when they came seeking us, under all the glitter and eyeliner, as they thronged to the stage, wanting more than anything to be us. He wasn't the first one to look at me like that, he wasn't even the first one I seduced up on that rooftop, but he's the only one I still remember. And in that pub, I noticed him again. He was very much the same as I remembered; a little more worldly, a lot less innocent, and a decade older, but still the same.

He's a sweet kid, and not a bad lay if I do say so myself—and I would know, wouldn't I, Brian?

He already knows. And what he doesn't know, he suspects. Best to tell you that right off. Whatever else sweet young Arthur is or has been, he's a journalist, and a damn good one I think—after all, he found me. Anyone who can find me when I'm trying like hell not to be found . . . well, you can lie to him if you want, but don't expect him to believe it. And don't think for one second that you're safe. He's going to splash the story all over the news, I've made sure of it—today, we mourn the passing of Curt Wild, tomorrow we toast the death of Tommy Stone.

I wouldn't be doing this if I believed for a fucking instant that Brian Slade was still alive in there somewhere. But I don't, and we all know what a vengeful bastard I can be.

Take a deep breath Tommy boy, and open the door. I believe you've kept Mr. Stuart waiting long enough.

"Mr. Stone, I'm terribly sorry, but this reporter out here insists on seeing you and he says—" Shannon faltered. "Uh, Tommy, are you alright?"

He looked up at her, his eyes a little glazed, his face white. "Let him in Shannon," he said.

He glanced down at the pages in his hand and read the last line, scrawled beneath the flashing gold ink of Curt Wild's signature:

Hate me or love me, sing my praises, or curse my name—but I dare you, I fucking dare you to ignore me.