3

THE ONLY CONSTANT IN my life, besides Madam Endora and the endless number of shows we played, were the notes and letters that showed up every now and then from Karen Bayliss, the young lady from Topeka, Kansas.

She continued to write, just as she promised. It had been years now. And for some reason, I wanted to read what she sent. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t interested in her God, and she was not about to “convert” me to religion. I was interested in her. I mean, she wasn’t even a DeathStroke fan. She hated our music and everything we stood for. Yet she kept writing and sending little gifts. I was curious. What made Karen Bayliss tick?

I instructed Jeff Hall, our fan club guru, to forward Karen’s mail to me.

I still have the note she wrote after she read the Rolling Stone interview…

Greetings again, Mr. Lester,

Do you realize you are loved today? No, I’m not talking about the temporary love your fans give you. It will be gone in a few years. I’m talking about God’s love. Christ’s love for you. He willingly was beaten, spit upon, and nailed to a tree to forgive your sins—and mine.

You see, I’m just like you, a sinner. I may not have committed the sins you commit, but I’ve committed others that you probably haven’t. We’re all in the same boat, the whole sorry world. We all need to know and realize and believe that Christ took our sins to the cross with Him and we carry them around no more! We’re free, because He paid the penalty for us and rose again to give us new life.

I read the interview you did in Rolling Stone recently. Your outbursts against God don’t worry or bother me. Instead, they show that your insides are stirring. You are searching for something. What is it, Mr. Lester? You have everything this world has to offer. I guess it just proves that the Beatles song is true—money can’t buy you love. Can it?

God is love, Mr. Lester. That is truth. And the truth shall one day set you free, along with millions of your fans. I pray for you many times each day.

Sincerely,

Karen Bayliss

P.S. Take care and remember, there’s a love awaiting you that’s more powerful than any drug you’ve ever tried!

The courtroom was completely hushed when the testimony of David Dibbs continued, and I felt every piercing eye.

“Everett’s dad played head games,” Dibbs said. “That’s the best way I can describe it.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Boone.

“Everett could never measure up. Never. Every once in a while he would do something good, maybe score well on a test or help out around the house. Like he was reaching out to his parents, testing them to see what their response would be. I believe he tried to love his dad. But Vince would just tear him up.”

“Can you give an example?”

“Yeah, for one, Vince would actually slap Everett, kind of jokingly. He would just slap his face again and again real quickly, laughing, egging him on. In his own demented way, I really believe he meant to hurt Everett—physically and mentally. It would humiliate Everett, because Vince didn’t care who was watching. In fact, sometimes I think he did stuff like that on purpose when others were watching, just to embarrass him. I know it frustrated Everett.”

“How do you know?”

“He would turn red and hold back the tears. Sometimes it would outrage him, and he would be on the verge of striking his dad, but I never saw him do that. I think Vince would have killed him.”

“To your knowledge,” pressed Boone, “did Everett’s father abuse him physically, beyond what you’ve told the court today?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Dooley groaned, standing up. “Does this really have relevance in the case we are here to deliberate?”

“I think it does. Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Dibbs.”

“I saw the type of things I just described, the slapping sessions, quite often. And Everett would show up with bruises on his face and arms all the time. We all just assumed Vince was beating him, but I never discussed it with Everett. That’s something I regret. He kept it all inside.”

Dibbs was right. I felt like I was hemorrhaging inside back then. There was no such thing as love in my world, and I began to hate its concept. So I covered my bruised heart with a ready-to-fight exterior, and I covered the bruises on my arms with my first tattoos.

The years that followed after the Rolling Stone cover were like a dream. Unlike other fad groups that flash like a nova for a few years and fade away, the popularity of DeathStroke continued to soar.

We had become a group with longevity, a dynasty. With gold and platinum albums, TV appearances, a movie, and our own line of DeathStroke action toys and clothing, I couldn’t keep up with all of the income, taxes, or business interests. I hadn’t tried for a long time. Gray Harris handled all that, using a financial firm in New York to manage my personal holdings.

By the mid-nineties I was in my early thirties and getting tired and impatient doing the same old shows night after night, year after year. I kept trying to get the guys to speed up the tempo of the songs to finish the sets quicker, and that would throw off the lyrics, which came across slurred. But the DeathStroke fans kept coming, their numbers kept growing, and the cash registers kept ch-chinging.

My head was no longer shaved. Instead, my curly, dark brown hair now hung past my shoulders. I had remained quite trim for my six-foot-two-inch frame, simply because I was more interested in drugs and alcohol than food. The dozens of tattoos and body piercings—which snaked and curled their way from my ankles up to my neck—had made me look dirty and scarred.

Yes, drugs triggered my bad behavior, but it was more.

I was not only scarred on the outside; I was scarred within. I had not pleased my parents. My life brought them no joy. I really never felt accepted. The close family ties some of my childhood friends enjoyed were only fiction to me, and as I got older, I began to view such fairy tales with disdain and resentment.

But fame and fortune would heal my wounds, I was sure. Popularity and power were the pinnacle of life itself. If the whole world knew me and I had more money than I could spend, those would be the keys to life. Strike it rich and the contest would be over, right? The game of life would be won.

Not so fast.

I had everything—everything—the world craved. I didn’t deny myself one tangible thing or any pleasure. If I was on the road in New Mexico and had a craving for spaghetti with brown sauce from the New York Spaghetti House in Cleveland, I would have it flown in. If I was lonely and wanted a female companion or two, groupies were lined up everywhere; I simply took my pick.

Yet, it all turned out to be futility—like chasing the wind.

Where was the real contentment and lasting joy?

I was mad!

I had worked hard to get where I was. I deserved peace and happiness…so where were they?

I couldn’t buy them.

My frustration reared its ugly head in my music and lyrics. My apathy was reflected in the coldness I showed toward our fans. I vented my lack of fulfillment onstage by smashing microphones, guitars, and amplifiers—and by stirring fans into furious frenzies.

One afternoon in San Antonio, Texas, after our sound check, I was describing my discontentment to Madam Endora Crystal in a cold, concrete-block dressing room backstage. Endora, wearing a leopard-skin top and black skirt, sat amid a cloud of her own cigarette smoke on a white leather couch. Having taken off my T-shirt, I plopped down on the folding chair next to her, wiping the sweat from my face and neck with a large white towel.

“I’ve had it, Endora. I’m sick of the road; I’m sick of the band—I’m ready to bail. This is not cutting it for me anymore.”

“Everett, let me ask you a question,” Endora said patiently as she sat up to pour me a shot of whiskey from the makeshift bar on the coffee table in front of her. “What would make you happy?”

“I don’t know.” I swore, throwing back the drink, which barely burned my throat. “Maybe I need to go out on my own, cut a solo album…start a new band. I don’t know, but something’s got to change.”

“Why don’t you change, Everett?” said the intriguing redhead whose dark brown, almost-black eyes seemed to penetrate my mind like laser beams. “You want to be happy, right?” Endora filled my glass again. “Accept the praise of the people. They are blessing you every night. They are here to worship you. Receive it. Bask in it. This will give you the renewal you long for.”

Without a word I hoisted another shot of Jack Daniels and helped myself to one of her long menthol cigarettes.

“Your popularity was planned by the gods,” she said soberly, looking deep into me. “Your fans are crying out to you with adoration. Realize that you are accepted and loved—and enjoy it! Monumental things await you down the road, my dear. I know, because—”

“But you know the fans, Endora. They just want—”

“I’ve told you before, Everett, you are here, you exist, to help people—potentially millions of people—overcome their discontentment with life and their skepticism about death.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I’m no preacher; I’m a musician.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, young man. In a way, you are a preacher. You are on a mission from the gods.”

I smirked, continued to wipe my sweat off, and pretended I wasn’t interested.

“People will listen to you; they’ll do whatever you say. I see it every night from behind the curtains in the wings backstage. The gods have given you the charisma to—”

“Endora! Don’t brownnose me like everyone else. I hired you to be straight with me, to cut through the lies, to be the one clear voice. All the others just want my money or to be able to say they’ve been with me…”

Endora leaned forward, rubbed her cigarette out in the silver ashtray, and put her hand on my knee.

“Everett,” she said quietly, “you have the power—the supernatural power—to send people home from your concerts different people, literally, different people. Do you realize that?”

I didn’t say a word but instead tapped a small amount of marijuana into the thumb-sized bowl of the small silver pipe I found amid the junk on the table in front of me. Lifting the lifeline to my mouth and lighting the bowl with Endora’s red lighter, the small nest of weed lit up hot orange, a few seeds crackling and popping as I took the smoke deep into my chest.

“If you don’t believe me, test it. During a show. Test the waters. I dare you. See how much power you really have.”

“Endora, you’re weird, you know that? You’re always talkin’ so spiritual.”

She tidied up the coffee table a bit, contemplating before she spoke. “The father and mother gods are loving beings who want all people to have joy—and the afterlife. I don’t believe in hell and damnation. It’s not true. I’ve communicated with too many people on the Other Side. I’ve heard from those who were supposed to have gone to hell. They’ve assured their families, by speaking through me, that they are okay. Everett, the dead are still involved in our lives!”

“How do you know that for a fact?”

“I’ve talked with them! Just like you and I are talking.” She pointed a long finger at me. “I believe all people can reach the father and mother gods, simply by growing in knowledge. Look at yourself, for instance. If you would begin to get a grip on the fact that you will live another glorious life after you die, you would set yourself free. You would have a whole different view of life.”

“You’re saying I’m not going to hell?”

“Of course not!” she said with a smoker’s laugh.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Yes I do,” she insisted, almost joyfully. “Everett, there is no hell. Only good awaits us. Don’t you see? When we understand that there is life on the Other Side for all of us, it frees us up to have liberty in the here and now. That is the message you have been chosen to deliver. This is real. Why else do you think we’ve been brought together?”

The mixture of pot and booze was creeping up on me.

“Something’s going to happen at tonight’s show,” she said suddenly, shifting in her seat and not making eye contact for a moment. “That is how the spirits will prove to you that they are moving with power in your life and prompting you to do as I say.”

And she was right.

Late in the concert that night in San Antonio, I treated our fans like slaves, just pushing them to see how far I could get them to go. The next day’s San Antonio Gazette quoted me as yelling these words to the crowd that night: “Hey, San Antonio, it’s gettin’ hot in here. And you know, if we’re not careful—ha, ha—we’re gonna burn this place to the ground! C’mon. Light it up…”

And they did.

The fire started slowly in about the thirtieth row on the floor as we ripped into our newest hit, “InSINerator.” We had seen small fires before, but as fans began to throw chairs, clothing, and alcohol into the flames, it flared and spread rapidly. The panic that ensued caused a stampede to the exits. Thirteen people were hospitalized in the mayhem, one girl almost suffocated to death, and I’m certain many more went home injured and frightened.

Drugs helped me completely block out the fire in San Antonio along with all the other bad press. I didn’t check on any of the fans who were hurt, and I didn’t worry about getting into trouble with the law over what happened. We were the law. And we never had to look back, because the money and power behind DeathStroke got us out of every jam.

You’ve got to understand, the band members in DeathStroke were so drugged up and busy rushing from city to city, we didn’t have the time or memory to care. We were separated—purposefully isolated—from the results of things like fires, destroyed hotel rooms, skirmishes with the law, and relationships with fans that turned into lawsuits.

An aging Gray Harris served as our gauntlet, handling all the bad press, defusing the accusations, and settling the lawsuits out of court, behind the scenes so we didn’t have to get involved. That’s why he was paid seven figures.

When former lead guitarist John Scoogs was called to the witness stand, Miami-Dade prosecutor Frank Dooley tugged at his cuffs and licked his chops.

Scoogs looked good. His black hair was still long and in a ponytail, and he was clean-shaven. He had put on a much-needed few pounds since I last saw him and wore black jeans, a white mock turtleneck, a khaki sport jacket, and dark sunglasses. Hmm. Someone else must be dressing him these days.

Dooley’s questions covered much of the same ground he’d already been over with other key witnesses. Scoogs confirmed that, yes, I had my own “personal psychic.” Yes, I did a lot of drugs. Yes, I was known to become violent at times, both onstage and off.

But the next series of questions Dooley pursued began to hit a nerve with me, Scoogs, and, I was sure, the jury.

“Mr. Scoogs,” Dooley said, taking his time, scanning his notes. “How well did you know Edith Rosenbaum, also known as Madam Endora Crystal—Everett Lester’s personal psychic?”

“Fairly well,” Scoogs said quietly. “She often traveled with the band, so she became a friend.”

“And where exactly would Madam Endora stay when she accompanied DeathStroke on the road?”

“She had her own hotel room, just like each of us did. Our traveling show got so big, we eventually needed thirty or forty rooms at each stop to accommodate band members, tour managers, publicists, staff, and people like Endora.”

“I see.” Dooley approached the witness stand. “Specifically, Mr. Scoogs, do you recall a stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Charleston, West Virginia, in 1995 when a discussion ensued between Madam Endora and Everett Lester that centered around the topic of Mr. Lester’s father, Vince?”

Closing his eyes as if searching the past, Scoogs said, “I remember several conversations like that.”

“Yes, but do you recall specifically the time I’m referring to in Charleston when Endora attempted to convince Mr. Lester that she was hearing from his dead father?”

“I…may recall something like that.”

“Well, Mr. Scoogs, why don’t you stretch your mind a bit and tell the court what you can recall, precisely, about that conversation.” Dooley tugged at his sleeves.

After staring down at his hands for what seemed like minutes, Scoogs cleared his throat and looked squarely at the prosecutor. “When Endora caught up with us at our hotel in Charleston, I remember her saying to Everett something like, ‘I’ve been walking around all week long with this energy.’ After jockeying around for a long time, she finally got around to telling Everett that the spirit of his dead father had been trying to communicate with her.”

Instead of a loud uproar, I heard a great deal of movement all at once in courtroom B-3. People shifting positions in their seats. Papers ruffling. Equipment moving.

“Was this good news or bad news, in Mr. Lester’s opinion?” questioned Dooley.

“Bad,” Scoogs answered almost before the question was finished. “Everett’s old man was taboo. Too many scars from the past. Vince didn’t want much to do with Everett when he was alive, and Everett definitely didn’t want to communicate with Vince from the dead.”

“So, what happened?” Dooley strolled toward the jury.

“Endora was very serious about this whole topic, very emotional. She told Everett, ‘I tried and tried to block Vince’s spirit from coming through, but he persisted.’ Everett was mad. He didn’t want Endora messing with his past.”

“And so, what ensued from there?”

“Finally, she gave in. She said Vince’s spirit talked to her and made it completely clear that he was okay on the Other Side, and that he apologized to Everett.”

“How did Everett Lester respond to this?”

Scoogs shrugged. “He was ticked.”

“How ticked?”

Silence.

“I must remind you, Mr. Scoogs, that you are under oath, and perjury is a felony offense punishable up to—”

“You’ve got to understand: Endora had problems. She had some totally weird beliefs. I felt like she took advantage of Everett’s drug addiction, trying to use him to accomplish her own agenda. She would—”

“Mr. Scoogs.” Dooley stood on his toes. “Can you please just answer my question? How mad was Everett Lester that December night in Charleston, West Virginia? Did he or did he not threaten Madam Endora Crystal’s life?”

“He did, but he was bombed out of his mind at the time.”

“What did he say to her? ‘I’m going to stab you’? ‘I’m going to shoot you’? What exactly was his threat?”

“He said something like, ‘Endora, if you ever mention my father again…I’m gonna kill you…’” His voice trailed off with the last words.

Dooley raised both eyebrows and nodded a pompous “I told you so” to the jury. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

After the fire and stampede in San Antonio came another eventful tour date, the Weekend Music Jam at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City. We were the headline group among a bunch of other bands. I had just flown in on my jet and was whisked by limo to the makeshift dressing rooms in the bowels of the stadium.

As usual I was greeted immediately by the short and bouncy Tina Drew, our tour coordinator, who was surrounded by sound people, roadies, promoters, journalists, makeup artists, production managers, and publicists. Tina grabbed my arm and led me past scores of fans who had been herded into special roped-off areas designated especially for those lucky enough to have landed backstage.

As I was ushered past the squealing, reaching fans—a scene I had experienced hundreds of times before—one young lady caught my attention. She stood quietly along the front of the rope, wearing white jeans, sandals, a red short-sleeve knit shirt, and sunglasses that sat atop her shiny blond hair. Her arms rested casually at her sides, where I noticed she held a Bible in one hand and a long-stem yellow rose in the other. I guessed she was twenty-something.

I moved my sunglasses down on my nose to get a better look, but Tina rushed me along toward the dressing room door with a gold star and my name on it. In we went to another small room that looked the same as the last dozen. It featured a small couch, several chairs, a refrigerator stocked with Molsons, several bottles of booze, and a dressing table and large mirror, which was bordered with yellowish lightbulbs. Flowers, presents, cards, and food trays were situated throughout the room.

I grabbed a Molson, lit a Salem, and dropped onto the couch, hoisting my legs up over the side, not bothering to read any of the cards or well wishes from fans stacked in front of me on the coffee table.

By now, fans all looked the same; they were like trees walking. I questioned their motives and feelings. Sometimes I viewed them as wild animals, just wanting a piece of me. At other times, they seemed to care for me genuinely, and I tried to do the same for them. Relationships were a confusing issue for me.

Charlie LaRoche, a friend, employee of the band, and longtime drug supplier, would soon be around to set me up for the weekend. I longed for more of the good hash he’d found recently, and it wouldn’t hurt to score some coke while he was here, either.

Who was that babe? I picked at some of the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table. And what the heck is she doing toting a Bible in here?

Within the next hour, Charlie came and left, as did Gray Harris, who had come to check up on his golden boy. Still in my street clothes—which consisted of torn jeans, a white v-necked T-shirt, and black Doc Martens—I was determined to check out the fox with the Bible when I went for the sound check. But when I passed by where she had been standing, hesitantly acknowledging the screaming fans along the way, she was gone.

I would not see Karen Bayliss again for five or six years, but somehow she managed to get this note under my dressing room door that weekend in Kansas City, along with the yellow rose she had brought…

Hi, Mr. Lester!

Do you find it at all intriguing that I, of all people, would be selected by Kansas City’s KCFX radio as the winner of two backstage passes to your Weekend Jam concert? I don’t even listen to that station, but a friend, who knew I’ve been praying for you, told me there was a contest—so I entered.

God is behind everything, Mr. Lester. There are no coincidences. The Bible says He has made everything for its own purpose. I am convinced you were made for His purpose. My prayer is that you will surrender your life to Him and allow Him to radically use you for His kingdom, just as He did the apostle Paul (you can read about him in the book of Acts—New Testament).

I did not stay to see the show because I don’t care for your music (no offense!). But I do care about you, your peace on earth, and where you will spend eternity. Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30).

Are you still hungry for more, Mr. Lester? Jesus can give you real bread—the bread of life. Do you still thirst for something to quench what’s missing in your life? Jesus is waiting to come and give you Living Water. I know, because I have drank of Him and will never thirst again.

I’ll write again soon. Until then, may the one almighty God draw you.

Sincerely,

Karen Bayliss

Of all the…what is this chick’s game?

The letter angered me. But it intrigued me at the same time.

How did she get back here?

Unlike all the other hell-raisers who were after me, this Karen had no interest whatsoever in my music, my money, my body, or my stardom. Why was she pursuing me? Why bother? My very existence was designed to insult people like her—and their so-called God. Yet, she drove all the way here just to drop off a rose and a note.

It was almost as if it wasn’t her at all writing the letters or standing there along the rope. She was like an angel sending messages from God. And her words shot a tiny ray of light through the soupy fog that was my disturbed life.

When I read her letters, I heard Him calling me.

But I ignored the letters and disregarded Him.

I stuffed them all away in the dark attic of my mind, along with all the other baggage—and then I had another drink.