Michael and the band perform underneath the hot lights on a small stage. The night club isn’t the type of place where people come to mingle, it is a straight up punk bar and the only purpose for walking through the doors is to listen to music and get filthy, stinking drunk. Tonight, though, the bar area is sparse—Corpus Delicti is playing and that means the pit area in front of the stage is filled to capacity. A large audience, for this club, staggers around the makeshift dance floor. People slam into one another as the band rocks on.
This is a paid gig so the band is in full regalia. The horror punk scene is one that takes their metaphorically-costumed bands seriously and Corpus Delicti is no exception. Ricky, in full zombie make-up complete with ejaculating pus balls and latex “exposed bone” jaws takes stage right on the guitar. Mona appeals to the classic monster fan. Her costume resembles Elsa Lanchester’s turn as the monster’s lady friend in Bride of Frankenstein if Lady Gaga had designed the film’s wardrobe. Sexy and scary, she drips sultry as she lays down the deep rhythms with her bass guitar on stage left. Not to be out no-classed, Skeezer wears a Speedo with suspenders as he bangs away on the drums. Naturally a furry type of guy, complete with chest and back hair inherited from his East European ancestors, he wears a detailed Wolf Man mask which at least fifty-three young women would attest to is a highly accurate representation of his personality.
Finally, Michael takes center stage. He handles the rhythm guitar and vocals for the band. His costume is what could only be described as a Goth-Victorian-mortician, reiterating the idea that he is the leader of Corpus Delicti and is “producing the corpse” as it were. The suit is tight and would look equally as dapper on Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee in their heyday. The suit itself comes complete with blood red ascot and bowler hat. Michael’s face paint changes from show to show. He literally wears his emotions on his face and, quite unconsciously, the make-up hints at classic clownish clichés. At some level Michael realizes what he is doing but can’t escape it. He wants to project fear to the audience and what would be better than his own greatest fear? Just a little tidbit, of course, but enough. Most of the audience will never get the connection and think these guys just looked cool. That small percentage that did make the connection, though…they got it, and that’s who the band played for.
The song is a local favorite, “Miss Number Five”, an ode to Jack the Ripper’s final victim and the slam-dancing moshers in the crowd throw themselves at each other as the song builds to its final crescendo.
Michael screams. “Miss Number Six, you’re the one I pick!”
Cymbals crash, guitars growl and then…silence. The crowd nearly explodes as it cheers. Breathing heavily, Michael leans into his microphone.
“Thank you! We’ll be back after a bit, get some booze and tip Connie out you bastards! And don’t forget, we’ll be competing Halloween Night at Monster Fest and need you assholes to come support us!”
The crowd disperses, moving en masse to the bar area to refill and reload. Connie, the establishment’s lone server, approaches the stage as Michael and crew disentangle themselves from instruments, cables, mics, cords and such. Decked out in tattoos, lip ring and exposed midriff it is evident that Connie is a fan too. The house music blares and Connie has to wave her hands to get Michael’s attention. He finally notices, unplugs the guitar and slings it around to his back. He hops down from the small stage.
“Thanks, but I don’t think this crowd is filled with big tippers,” she says.
“No problem, what’s up?”
Connie jerks her thumb toward the back of the bar. “Creepy ass dude back there wants to buy you a drink or something.”
“Suuure,” Michael says. He looks in the direction that Connie is pointing. There is, indeed, a man in an overcoat lurking along the back wall. He goes in and out of the shadow so Michael can’t see his face.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Michael asks.
Connie shrugs. “Something about clown school, gotta go.” She turns and leaves as Michael searches for the man in the shadows. As Michael stares, the man steps into a pool of light just long enough to wave. It is Monty Reigns.
Michael sneers and heads in the direction of Monty. From the stage Mona turns in time to see Michael leave.
“Michael! You want a beer?” she asks. Michael does not turn. He can’t. Ricky sidles up to Mona and watches Michael beeline through the bar. He sighs.
“Here we go again.” Ricky shakes his head as Mona glares at him. Skeezer pulls the mask off and squints in Michael’s direction.
“Hey, ain’t that the TV guy?” Skeezer asks.
“Looks like it,” Ricky answers.
“Wonder what he wants with Michael,” Skeezer asks. Neither Ricky nor Mona answer. After a moment he shrugs, no longer interested.
“Whatever. I need booze. And a hand job. You seen Connie?”
Ricky is deep in thought as he stares at Michael and Monty. Mona hops down from the stage without a word and goes after Michael. After a deep breath, Ricky follows her. Skeezer watches them leave and throws his hands in the air. He turns toward the bar area and grabs his crotch.
“Connie! Awooooo!”
Michael steps up to Monty, backing the older man against the wall. Monty holds the picture of Michael as a boy in front of him like a ward against evil. Michael shoves Monty’s chest, thumping loudly each time.
“You leave me the fuck alone, all right? It’s over!” Michael growls.
Monty swats Michael’s hand away and shoves the picture in his overcoat pocket.
“Can’t do it, kid. Did you see the show tonight? Jesus, they ate it up. This is big time news. Look, this kind of exposure could…”
Michael grabs the lapels of Monty’s coat and slams the TV star into the back wall. Michael’s size belies his strength and Monty’s wind is knocked out.
“This is my life! I won’t do this, man. It is a big fucking mistake for you to bring me back into this O…O…Orzo shit, all right?” Michael can barely get the name out. Monty gasps for air, but notices it. He smiles.
“Too…late…”
Michael’s face twists in anger. Accented by the make-up he looks like a demented mime. He raises his fist and rears back, ready to blast a hole through Monty’s head.
Mona catches Michael’s arm. He turns and glares at her. Mona is taken aback by Michael’s reaction; she’s never seen him this angry. Michael sees how scared she is and drops his arm. He points his finger directly in Monty’s face.
“This is bad news for you, motherfucker…bad news…” Michael shakes off Mona’s arm and storms toward the exit doors. Watching Michael retreat, she turns back to Monty, ready to say something, but nothing escapes aside from a frustrated “uugh.”
She turns from Monty and follows after Michael.
Monty attempts to catch his breath and rubs his neck. He looks toward the exit doors when Ricky steps up. Monty catches the approaching zombie in the corner of his eye and reflexively covers up expecting another attack.
“Calm down man, I’m not gonna hit you. I’m the guy that you talked to, okay?” Ricky says. Monty nods, grateful no one else wants to smash him to bits for a few moments.
Mona exits the club. The doors open on to a large parking lot. She scans the area. Michael squats on the ground, back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He has been crying. His make-up is smeared. He plays his guitar between sobs. Mona approaches slowly. Michael looks up, tears streaking down his face. Mona sits next to him and takes his face in her hands. He stops playing.
“This is bullshit.”
“The same stuff from before?” Mona asks. Michael nodded. “Who was that guy?”
“He’s got a TV show.”
Mona’s eyes grow wide. “Yeah! That talk guy. This could be great for the band…”
“No!” Michael cuts her off, loud and emphatic. Mona stares at him, startled.
“What the fuck, Michael?”
“There’s some things you need to know…about me.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Michael stubs out what’s left of his cigarette on the pavement and lights another one. “You ever hear of Orzo the Clown?”
Mona nods. “Yeah. That freak on the TV that killed and molested kids? Damn, that happened forever ago. What does that have to do with you?”
Michael takes a drag and looks at Mona, eye to eye. He readies himself. He has never, ever, told anyone about this before.
“Only one kid survived him,” he says. Simple.
Mona continues to stare at Michael, confused. Until it dawns on her, that is. She raises her hand to her mouth.
“Oh my God…”
Michael stubs out the cigarette and turns away from her. He can’t bear for anyone to see him. Ignoring his non-verbal cue, Mona hugs Michael. He has no reaction at first, but this is genuine. It is warm and it communicates a great deal. Michael didn’t expect this. He thinks that she will turn and run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. His parents did. Not physically, of course, but they left him alone because they were so unsure of what they had on their hands. He always resented them for that, even if he can’t admit it, and expects every reaction to the truth of his past to be the same. He is happy to hold Mona, happy she doesn’t leave. Mona rests her head on his shoulder.
“What do you want to do?” she asks.
“I left a long time ago and then, after my parents died, I…I just stayed. I didn’t have any money…”
Michael separates from Mona and stands up. His sadness galvanizes into anger. He points toward the club.
“It’s shit like that, y’know? All I ever wanted to do is play music…my music, okay? It stops hurting then! But assholes like that won’t let it die! I don’t even know how they found me. I changed my name for the band, I wear make-up for Christ’s sake!”
Mona stands as well. She grabs Michael’s chin and forces him to look into her eyes.
“You say the word and we drop this, start someplace else.”
Michael is taken aback. He certainly didn’t expected this.
“We?”
“We.”
Michael takes a deep breath. “It’s gonna get bad.”
“Maybe not. Let’s stick it out. We get a distribution deal off of Monster Fest, everything works. If we don’t, we leave…simple. The Fest is a good shot, we’re the best here and everyone knows it.”
Michael stares off into the night sky. He takes a deep breath. Mona wraps her arms around his shoulders.
“Stop trying to forget…you’ve got back up now,” she whispers into his ear. He turns then and they embrace.
“We get a deal, we cut an album and it’s not about O…O…Orzo anymore.”
“It’s about Michael Bain,” she says, “and possibly Mona Bain…who knows?”
Michael squeezes Mona tighter. Tears flow down his face, smearing the paint and causing it to run in long black streaks down his cheeks.
“And Michael Talbot finally dies in that basement,” Michael says. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes it would be like this forever.
Michael and Mona re-enter the club through the exit doors. Ricky and Monty are still at the wall. Ricky manages to slink into the shadows before either Mona or Michael see him.
Connie sees Michael and Mona from across the bar and bee-lines toward them. She massages her wrist as she jogs up to them, shaking out a cramp. She grabs Michael by the arm and drags him toward the stage.
“Come on! You guys have to get moving!” she says. “You’re flippin’ late!”
Even as Connie leads Michael by the arm he manages to turn and shoot Monty a final glare. The TV host just waves and smiles and, laughing, exits the club. Michael turns back as Connie pushes roughly him up on to the stage. Mona follows. Seeing the band get back up, the milling audience starts to gather again.
Ricky slips up on stage unnoticed. Skeezer is already seated at the drums.
“You guys okay?” Ricky asks.
Michael nods. Mona picks up her bass.
Michael takes a deep breath. “Bride of the Monster on 4. 1…2…3…4!”
The guitar screams, the drums shake the building, the bass thunders the spine of the song and, for the first time in a long time, Michael pours himself, his real self, into the music.