Greg Smith: Star Craving Mad-ch1

At first he dreamed he was still on tonight's stage, torturing his vocal cords with the lyrics of Ragnarock's latest single, "Demon Woman." In the dream, Hutch screamed the uncensored version of the song, grinning as he spat lewd lyrics into the darkness of the arena. Blinded by the overhead lights, he prowled the stage like a lion in a cage, ever-mindful of the thousands of eyes that were focused upon his every move.

But then lightning bolts of pain cracked the dream. Pieces of it fell away, revealing a puzzling awareness that the movement of his body was restricted. That pain drove Hutch closer and closer to the surface of the dream; he porpoise-leaped into sun-bright consciousness and---

Hutch opened his eyes. An impenetrable darkness surrounded a smoldering red glow somewhere to his right. Hutch was more able to determine the dimensions of the high-ceilinged chamber by the acoustic properties of his labored breathing than by eyesight. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose at the thick cloying stink of this place, looked around him, and began to fear.

He narrowed his eyes to focus his sight into the gloom. He saw nothing, but Hutch developed the distinct impression that someone was out there watching him.

Hutch couldn't imagine who was behind all this, but if it turned out to be a member of the band's entourage, he would take great joy in firing them. Shit, he'd make sure they never worked in this business again.

"Hey!" He sniffed again, unable to recognize the disgusting odor that reached him. "What the fuck is this? Some kinda stupid game? Hey! McMasters---you out there?"

Cullen McMasters must be in on this. Though a genius at handling the myriad details that kept Ragnarock running smoothly on the road and steadily up the charts, Cullen was an incurable prankster, and he possessed a deadly sense of humor. Cullen had pulled stunts like this before, yet nothing this elaborate. And Hutch had never been the recipient of them, until now.

Thanks to Cullen's special brand of managerial magic, Ragnarock's fourth and most ambitious CD to date, Devils In My Dreams, had already begun its assault on the sales charts. A half million dollar video for "Demon Woman" that had already been promised heavy rotation on MTV and VH1 was already in production, and a promotional campaign that Cullen had all but extorted from SkullCrush records had been put into gear. No one could fault Cullen's business skills, but this time the sonofabitch had taken one of his stupid jokes too far.

Hutch squinted around him for any evidence of video cameras. This strange setting was similar to the kind of medieval gloom McMasters fed to the video's producers. Maybe Cullen decided to add some candid footage to the mix. It made sense, but it was a bad mistake, and Hutch swore this stunt would mean Cullen's job.

No cameras in sight. Okay. Hidden, then. Fine. It was nothing new for Hutch to be starring in a spontaneous production to post on the band's website or to feed to the underground fan market. Ragnarock had amassed hundreds of hours of hotel room, airport, and backstage footage. It never bothered Hutch that he'd been captured spurning fans, tangled in groupies, or harassing hirelings. The band's amateur cassettes provided a much-needed diversion during the long tedious intervals between shows, and there had been talk of producing a documentary from them.

But this was different. There was nothing here to serve his ego (pronounced "charisma"). That Hutch hadn't been informed of this plan in advance only proved that McMasters had known Hutch wouldn't go for it. It was stupid. It was tacky. And, until Hutch finally caught some sign of the person or persons responsible for this outrage, it was pretty damn scary.

Hutch sniffed again; he had a bad case of the drips. Then it hit him: he'd done a few too many lines tonight---that was it! Hutch had developed a Herculean tolerance to cocaine over the last several months on the road, but there was never any guarantee that he wouldn't eventually meet his match in a cut so pure that he would spin out like a 747 with its ass on fire.

But was it possible that his brain short-circuited long enough to be taken here and chained to the wall like a dungeon prisoner? Hell, no---that was ridiculous.

But maybe somebody spiked the dope---PCP, or worse. If so, he'd have them roughed up real bad. Shit, maybe this was some kind of sicko murder plot. The thought dried his throat and added fangs to his fear.

He breathed slowly to keep the scream that was nesting in his guts from uncoiling and leaping up his throat. Hutch didn't want to live it down later, when the whole crew was watching this, filling the tour bus with laughter, if he freaked out now over this stupid prank.

Evan Hutchinson had pulled some selfish dickheaded moves before, but this was one step beyond. Hutch had already missed three interviews, a photo session for the label, and now he was losing his chance to be on the cover of the Detroit News Sunday supplement entertainment section.

The winners of WRIF's "Rockin' with Ragnarock" contest waited expectantly to meet Hutch. Cullen's excuses had worn thin. The acne-ridden young man and his anorexic girlfriend were ready to leave. Their sullen disappointment---not to mention the radio station's irate report of the rip-off---would bring the kind of publicity Cullen had always tried to avoid.

Cullen wondered for the thousandth time if he shouldn't have listened to his mother and finished college, gotten his business degree, and let Good Old Dad buy him a seat on the commodities market. If Cullen had done so, he wouldn't be spending his time baby-sitting for this pack of adolescent head-bangers.

Cullen's bank account aside, this job was putting him in an early grave. The stress levels he was forced to endure often grew to Godzillian proportions, and the complications that could arise from what should be a simple set of circumstances were often staggering.

Cullen checked his wristwatch, hid a groan behind his hand, and scanned the room. The journalists were disappointed, but they were busy wading through groups of gabbing girls, chatting with the other members of the band, and eating sushi and tempura from the catered trays.

Cullen knew he must decide what to do. The gig in Cleveland was due to start in a scant twenty hours. The tour bus would be pulling out very soon. Cullen should go ahead, pack the band, and leave. The road crew would finish breaking down the gear, loading the trucks, and would be ready to go by four a.m. If Hutch the Horrible hadn't showed up by then, Cullen swore he would retire to the back of the bus and quietly commit hari kari.

Hutch shook his head. The movement jolted pain from his wrists that shot down the length of his arms like bursts of electric current. He cursed out loud and wished he could reach the floor with his feet.

He forced his mind to think back to how he had come here. Hutch saw the concert again: the sea of worshipping faces before him; the scaffold of artificial stars above, brighter than any of God's constellations; the sweet thunder of the band's front line amplifiers; the tidal wave of applause that engulfed the stage at the end of every tune.

A standing ovation. Enough bic lighters in the darkness to burn down the city. A quick run offstage to cop a fresh buzz and a fast squeeze. Then three encores.

Yeah, the gig went over great guns. Hutch well knew that audiences in midwestern blue-collar towns like Detroit lived for rock and roll---Grindcore Thrash Metal in particular. The crowd there had more tension to release, more anger in their lives to drown in decibels and in drugs. The crowd at the Joe Lewis Arena had been a roaring tribute to that theory; it had been an angst-ridden scream-fest of gargantuan proportions.

Backstage after the set, the usual: feeb journalists; schmoozing execs from SkullCrush records acting like they had been the ones who slayed the crowd tonight; Cullen casting his Svengali stare around the room, acting as master of ceremonies and spreading propaganda of the band's invincible status.

And, of course, the girls. Always plenty of prime pussy backstage. During any given show, whenever Hutch would find a likely candidate, he would signal one of his roadies and point her out. The roadie would present the babe with a backstage pass. Then Hutch always made the final decisions at his leisure after the performance.

The memory of tonight's main choice made Hutch's heart pump faster. She'd been unbelievably hot. More beautiful, more seductive in an innocent wide-eyed way, than any chick he'd ever seen in his life.

Hutch didn't remember choosing her from the crowd. He hadn't been sure where she'd come from, but he'd told himself to thank whoever was responsible for her appearance backstage. Hutch took one breathless look at her and he knew immediately that she was the one.

She was young---maybe young enough to warrant concern---but Hutch had never balked over that issue before, and he had been very sure that he wasn't going to start now. She looked at him and then away, coy and confident that she was the best looking babe in the room. Golden blonde hair fell in tight curls to her million dollar ass. A pair of seamed fishnet stockings, with crescents of creamy skin visible below the hem of her tight black leather miniskirt where they fastened to black satin garters, covered a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever. Her breasts had looked ready to burst from her lace-front red bustier; Hutch had told Slim Johns, his lead guitarist, that he'd never seen a more perfect pair of yays to boost in his life, and it had been no lie.

She'd had a face that clenched Hutch's throat. High wide cheekbones set off a pair of big blue eyes that had made him think of precious stones. Her full Cupid's bow lips drew a drastic contour that were the lines of a lonely Vargas portrait model. A sleek sensuality spoke in her every move, and Hutch had barely been able to restrain himself from grabbing her right then and there and dragging her to the floor.

A confusing detail tapped him on the shoulder and stared: he couldn't remember fucking her. Hutch recalled her leading him from the dressing room like the Pied Piper leading a lucky rat, Hutch ignoring everything but the hypnotic swing of her hips. The whining disappointed voices of the girls he'd been considering. Then out of the building, into the night, and up to the open door of the big stretch limo that had been parked at the curb outside the door, waiting for her to return.

Hutch grinned at the shiny black car, genuinely impressed. That this chick hired a limo for the night only proved that she'd known all along that she would be his choice. And Hutch, usually distrustful of any kind of confidence in females, had given this one credit; she had every right to be confident. It was no contest; she'd won his attentions hands down.

The chauffeur was an old guy, angry-eyed, bull-necked, scowling. Hutch wasn't in the habit of talking to hirelings, and he certainly hadn't wanted to pay any attention to that surly bastard.

Hutch took another look at her, scarcely able to believe his eyes, sighed in utter gratefulness for his great life, and plopped into the plush red leather interior of the limousine.

A built-in monitor screen had been playing the video of "Riding Derange," the second video from Ragnarock's last CD, Summon the Devil. That had been a nice touch. Hutch enjoyed watching himself. That this sex goddess had prepared this detail for his arrival made him feel godlike.

Hutch told himself to get this babe's number for work in the upcoming video for "The Crack of the Whip." Whatever it took, Hutch would make sure she was strutting her stuff all over the project. Talk about perfect; the horny young male MTV audience would eat her up with a spoon.

She'd shut the limo door behind her. Hutch reached for her, eager to strip her down and get to it. He remembered one brief touch that trembled against her firm flesh---then everything went blank. His montage of memories ran right up to that pulse-quickening moment of pure lust and then shattered as completely as a dream is shattered by the scream of an alarm clock.

Cullen cast his worries over the side and sailed along with the praise. "Ragnarock's true value to the American culture cannot be measured. That will be up to the minds of a future age to do."

How many times had he said that? Would he ever believe it? The smooth-as-silk hypocrisy of his position sometimes made him sick. But then he remembered his condo in Martinique, his matching Lamborghini Diablos, and Mandy---and he found that the false grin rested more comfortably on his face.

Cullen had seen Thor Taggart, Ragnarock's drummer, give him a nod. Cullen threaded his way thorugh the press of hangers-on, smiling at the compliments and shrugging at the questions, but his thoughts remained fixed on Hutch.

Evan Hutchinson clenched his teeth to keep from crying like a frightened girl. He'd had enough of this crap. It was time to find out who was responsible for this insult and fire---no---he would kick the living shit out of whoever had done this to him. His wrists were so sore that he doubted he would be able to hold a microphone in either hand for weeks. And his nerves were shot. It would take a long time---a vacation, maybe, which would mean a slew of canceled dates---to get all this fear and trauma out of his system.

Amid that tangle of panic and rage, one thing bothered him more than anything else: he hadn't found out who that dynamite blonde had been. He didn't even know her name, or where he could find her. Her staggering beauty had already begun to haunt him, and Hutch knew it wouldn't stop until he had tracked her down.

Hutch's ego whispered that he must have fucked her. It was guaranteed---Hutch always took whatever he wanted from the bitches after a show. But he couldn't remember anything about it, and that was the most maddening part of this whole mess.

To his right stood an iron tripod. Atop the four foot frame, a black bowl was filled with hot coals that glowed like a pile of plucked demon's eyes. Long-handled implements radiated from the center of it, their iron arms scorched black and dusted with gray-white ash.

No more than five feet away, a figure hung against the wall next to him. Its head hung forward, and it was obvious that the guy had been dead for a long time. That figure was the source of the thick smell; Hutch had to hold his breath as he stared directly at the corpse.

Its arms were shriveled and stretched thin; they hung straight, shrink-wrapped with pale skin. Stringy bleached hair hung in tangles, partially obscuring the gray flesh of its hollow-cheeked face. A dirty black Harley Davidson t-shirt hung in tatters from what was left of its shoulders, revealing portions of a tattoo across its sunken chest that Hutch couldn't distinquish as anything more than angular lines and meaningless symbols. A wide leather belt, arrayed with chrome diamond-shaped studs, hung low on its hips.

The corpse was naked from the waist down, and the nerve centers at the corners of Hutch's jaw tingled, warning him that he might puke, when he looked down at the blackened twists of flesh between the corpse's legs.

Hutch's line of sight rose to the dead guy's face. The jaw hung slack. Shadowed sockets stared forever at the floor. But it seemed that the corpse's face whispered of pain---heaps of horrible pain---endured before its death. And it seemed to speak to Hutch in silent words: Get away from here---now---before you end up like me.

Thor freed an arm from one of the girls who flanked him. He shook Cullen's hand, a rather uncharacteristic gesture for Thor, and he smiled. His thick black shoulder-length hair moved as he nodded his head. "Great show, eh, Cul'?"

Cullen hated being called "Cul" and Thor knew it. It was one of those low-level digs that Thor had been throwing ever since Mandy Burcholde had chosen Cullen, a human, over Thor, a rock and roll caricature of a real man.

Thor's narrow, sallow face held a superior expression, and his close-set dark eyes held, as always, the hint of the boy who loved to pull the wings off flies. Thor grinned and replaced his arm, pulling the girls closer to him.

Thor grinned again, enjoying Cullen's frustration. "A goddess of the first order. Long-legged blonde. Looked like jail-bait to me, but you know Hutch---he doesn't give a shit how young they are, as long as they---"

Thor shrugged again, more slowly, obviously unconcerned. He nuzzled the girls closer to him, pressing their bodies tightly against his chest. "How's Mandy?"

"I just love Hutch," said the girl on Thor's left. Ten pounds of cheap costume jewelry provided a jingling soundtrack to her every move. Cullen noted that she wasn't much to look at beneath all the makeup and the desperation, but she exuded a raw sensuality that put her right up the alley of Thor's usual tastes in women. "When he sings 'Feel the Burn,' I feel like he's singing it to just me."

Cullen watched Thor for a reaction. Either Thor was so high that he hadn't heard her, or he had acquired enough self-confidence in his own moderate talent that he no longer went into a fit of rage whenever anyone praised Hutch in his presence.

"Maybe Hutch will turn up missing like those other guys I read about in the newspapers," said the other girl. She popped bubble gum to punctuate her words and brushed badly permed red-brown hair from her wide, big-boned face.

Cullen broke his stare from the girl's boobs---they were one deep breath away from spilling over the plunging neckline of her yellow sparkle jacket---and he stared at her Cleopatra-cum-Siouxsie-Sioux eyes.

"I know what she's talking about," said the jewelry-jingler. "There's been a coupla stories on the news this year. Heavy shit. Serious shit. Rock guys. Guys from bands. They just disappeared. They haven't been heard from since. Dincha hear about the disappearance of Randy Rand? Or---oh, shit, what's his name?"

"Yeah. Jesus, what an ass on that dude. I saw them at Cobo Hall last May---right before Vince came up missing---and he was wearing this really tight black leather---"

"I remember that gig! (pop) They sacrificed a goat right on stage! The Health Department shit a brick over that one. Cobo Hall and Crown of Thorns both got sued by the city, and they---"

"Wait. Hold on," said Cullen. "You mean they just vanished? How? Who was responsible for the disappearances?" Cullen scowled and put one hand on his sushi-filled stomach; the idea that there was any foul play involved in Hutch's absence made Cullen physically ill. Cullen thought back and now he did remember some press somewhere that mentioned the disappearances of local Midwestern rock musicians but, at the time, Cullen had never given it a second thought.

Cleopatra Eyes took a deep breath and shrugged. The motion drew Cullen's gaze down to her chest; he expected a landslide. When his line of sight rose to her face again, she was grinning. "Nobody knows who's responsible, silly---or they'd catch them, wouldn't they? Kidnapping is still a crime in this country, isn't it?"

The word "kidnapping" hit Cullen like a fist in the face. He didn't want to think about it; the ramifications were too frightening to consider. Cullen fought to escape from a paralytic fear at the very thought that Hutch might be the victim of an abduction.

Cullen's and Thor's stares met. Thor looked to be a more than a bit amused by the concept of Hutch in the hands of a dangerous psychopathic fan, a la Misery, that old Stephen King novel. Cullen let a scowl filter through his usual passive "social event" facial set. Did Thor realize that withouth Hutch they were both out of a job?

Thor lifted one forearm far enough to flip Cullen a peace sign with two fingers. Then he curled his index finger down, leaving only his middle finger in the air. He smirked. "He'll turn up---I told you where he went. Followed some little piece of fluff out that door. Ain't no fucking crime happenin' here, Cul. Take a pill and chill out, will ya'?"

Cullen nodded brusquely in Thor's general direction and began to make his way through the loud press of people. He needed to find a private place to make a phone call---and he needed a stiff drink.

Hutch's wrists were on fire with pain. He labored a shallow breath into his lungs and tried to scream for the umpteenth time. The breath emerged from his lips as a raspy squeak. His dry lips moved with a curse. His voice was ruined; he wouldn't be able to order room service, let alone scream his way through a concert, for quite a while.

Now that his eyes had finally adjusted to the weak light, Hutch could see the vaulted ceiling, the sooty-looking stone walls, and the iron cage that was suspended from chains over a circular hole in the center of the chamber's dirty cement floor.

A replica of an ancient torture rack sat against one wall. The wooden structure looked real; dark stains obscured the grain of its rough-hewn planks at all the appropriate places; the spokes of its ship's wheel ratchet handle had been worn to a high polish by the grips of countless hands.

The walls were cluttered with a bizarre variety of objects. Most were unidentifiable to Hutch, but he recognized several black iron masks and spiked iron boots as old-fashioned implements of torture.

At the far left corner of the chamber, a spiral staircase rose upward toward freedom. Right now Hutch would've given everything he owned for the chance to climb those steps. He'd abandoned the idea that his presence here was nothing more than a bad joke or a candid video stunt. He groped through his memory for something he'd heard---something about other musicians who disappeared after they'd performed in this city---but he couldn't get a grip on what or where it had been.

He glanced at the corpse hanging next to him. Hutch had seen what special effects companies could accomplish for the film and video industries, but he couldn't convince himself that the horror next to him was any kind of manifestation of those skills. The smell, for one thing. And the maggots that intermittently dropped from it to wriggle in frustration on the floor. No. This was real. And it was a constant reminder that, sooner or later, he would provide the same distraction to the next living captive---when his own flesh was stinking up the room.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. Measured with solemn intent. The clich� theatrical effect of those footsteps gave Hutch hope that this scene really was a manifestation of somebody's sick over-dramatic mind.

Then the figure descended the stairs into view. A black robe hid the details of his tall wide body, and a black cowled hood obliterated his face in deep shadow. Hutch held up his head to watch the eyes that stared through the darkness of the hood.

As the figure approached, the red-orange light of the brazier on the tripod illuminated his eyes. Those eyes were full of hate. They almost glowed with the intensity of the emotions that boiled in them. Hutch looked away, unable to return that fiery stare.

Hutch shut his mouth. The pounding of his heart was like Thor's kick-drum in his ears. The thick-shouldered figure, though obscured by the robe, was a mile wide: the solid bulk of a NFL lineman---much too big to be Cullen or anybody else Hutch knew. The man's hands were broad, thick-fingered, and folded before his body as if he were praying.

A murmuring drone signified that the man was speaking in low tones. Hutch couldn't make out the words, but the rhythm of it suggested a well-practiced prayer of some kind.

Hutch waited. He didn't dare speak again. The look in the man's eyes was deadly, capable of any violence. Hutch couldn't bring himself to stare at those insane eyes for very long.

The man stopped directly before Hutch and looked at him. Hutch wanted to beg this man to let him go, but he could find no hint of mercy in the man's burning stare. It struck Hutch that any pleading on his part would only work against him, and he resisted the urge to beg for his life with a tremendous effort.

"Satan himself has chosen you to do his will," said the man, his deep baritone filling the chamber easily. "But I do not fear Satan. I challenge him. And I have been chosen by the Lord to challenge all who serve the Horned One."

"In these End Times, many serve the Dark One. He seeks to add to his legions before our Lord's return. The ranks of Hell overflow; more come to serve Satan's bidding every day."

This guy was nuts. What was he talking about? Evan Hutchinson sure as hell didn't serve Satan, or anything else, except Evan Hutchinson. Sure, he included the usual demonic element in his lyrics; after all, he was carving a career in post-Heavy Metal Thrash---he had to conform to the style expected of him. And the art department of SkullCrush records had seen fit to include a pentagram or two and some renderings of horned creatures on his CDs. But that was only shrewd marketing; it wasn't meant to be taken seriously.

The man stepped forward and launched a backhand blow that struck Hutch across the face. His head snapped to the left, and a blast of pain that reverberated from his wrists made him feel like he'd been struck by lightning.

In Hutch's weakened state, the blow made him dizzy. He wondered if he would pass out. The thought of being unconscious in the presence of this lunatic brought his fear to the boiling point. Hutch gritted his teeth, tasting blood, and he fought to stay awake.

"You thought you were protected by the Horned One. You thought you could corrupt the minds of the innocent with your Hell-spawned power, giving no regard for retribution---no thought of the wages of sin." The man took a step closer. He stared point-blank into Hutch's eyes. "You were wrong."

Hutch opened his mouth to speak, to assure this lunatic that he had no intentions of corrupting anybody. He was making a living and having a good time. Christ, he didn't believe in Satan or any of that devil-worship shit any more than he believed in God---how could he honestly spend any time serving either? But a hotter stare reached out to him from the depths of the hood and stole the breath from his lungs before he could speak.

"The Lord has chosen me. I alone stand between you and the powers of your master in Hell." The man turned away from Hutch, and Hutch was glad to be free of the stare of those insane eyes.

When the figure turned back, his hands were no longer folded or empty. One meaty fist was closed around the rope-coiled handle of a glowing brand he had taken from the coals.