Free Dark Carbuncle by Kevin J. Anderson, Janis Ian Page B

pizza delivery uniforms.
    “How should I make this out?” he asked a girl with a weird chin tattoo. Glancing at her nametag, he hazarded a guess. “To Tiffany?”
    The girl went beet red. “Uh, no, Longshanks —just make it to Longshanks.”
    He smiled inwardly, but outwardly gave her the long, slow I could change your life, babe! look. She brightened and giggled at her friends. At least he’d made somebody’s day.
    On to the show, which sucked. Of course. How the hell can anyone play music at two in the afternoon, under a wide open sky, looking out at a bunch of hayseeds whose big weekend excitement was probably going to be the pig race? Real waste of Oreos, that one. He sped through the set, not even bothering with the pyro at the end, sneering when people applauded the opening chords of “Carbuncle.” Idiots.
    I used to dream about being a Beatle, you know? Back in the day, I played the Garden. Twice. Well, only once as the lead act, but still. Alice Cooper, Ozzie, Rob Zombie, they had nothing on me. Eating a live bat, hell—I used to shove worms up my nose, just to line the coke! Now look at me … playing some friggin’ rodeo for a hundred bucks. Pathetic, that’s what it is.
    Why couldn’t I have died young, in a private plane crash? At least that would be a respectable ending.
    Afterward, back at the motel—still daylight out!—he drank most of the quart Stoli that Mr. Four-Hit-Wonderkid had nervously presented him at sound check. Scratching at his empty stomach, Thor decided to surf the vending machines for dinner. Peanut butter cups and a vodka chaser, the perfect road meal.
    He barely registered the Muzak droning through the elevator speakers, until he caught himself humming along. Son of a bitch! Bland whiter-than-white harmonies accompanied by easy-listening strings. Dark dark dark. Dark Dark dark. I’m a da-da-da-da-carbuncle, hiding in the dark. Unbelievable. His song. That frigging publisher had sold him out, turned him into effing elevator music, music for supermarkets and dentist’s chairs. Fucking asshole. And his agent was probably in on it, too. Scum, they were all scum.
    He’d show them. If he couldn’t die young, at least he could die tragic. “Dark Carbuncle” as elevator music—the last straw of all last straws.
    Thor stormed back to his room and grabbed the .38 he always carried. Flopping backwards on the bed, he spun the cylinder—five bullets, one empty chamber. Go out like a man, yeah, playing Russian Roulette. They’d all be sorry then, even those stupid pizza-parlor rejects. Barrel to the head, click click and it’s over. Jimi, Kurt, make way for the next dead rock legend.
    Thor raised the gun. Winced at the cold feel of metal against skin. Paused. Squeezed.
    Click .
    Click? A barrel loaded with Super-X 500 hollow points, and all it can do is go Click ? Unbe-fucking-lievable.
    He tried again.
    Click.
    Hell, how could you lose at Russian Roulette? He hurled the gun across the room, where it skittered to a halt on the bathroom floor. Throwing his legs over the bed, Thor grabbed the vodka, took a long slow drag and made his way to the bathroom, where he somehow managed to drop the bottle on his toe. Yelling out loud, he jumped—and landed bare-footed on the gun, which spun crazily against the tiles while he fell backward.
    Sickening crack of his head against the tub. He lay on the cold, hard floor, feeling his life ebb away. Frigging humiliating way to die … for both a former choirboy and a former rock star.
    On the other hand, maybe God wouldn’t consider this a suicide. Good news. His last thought was that he’d finally be able to get some effing sleep. Safe in the arms of the afterlife.
    Until some fuckheads called him back for an encore.…
    O O O
    Graveyard, night, big speakers booming, a familiar chorus sung again and again with enthusiasm, if not harmony.
    Mmm, I ain’t no spoonful
Baby I’m a mouth-full
and I’m gonna tumble,
rumble crumble tumble
your Dark