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KNELL APPROACHED THE desk and, as Letterman and I both stood to greet him, I felt every hair on my back and neck standing straight at attention. I knew it was the wolf-blood coursing through me attempting to make me appear bigger, more menacing.
Of course, with me standing a full foot taller than the shorter blond-haired man who would make Tom Cruise look tall, my hair didn’t need to do that.
His cold steel-blue eyes drilled into mine as he approached, and it took every scrap of my willpower not to leap at him and attempt to rip a huge chunk out of his throat.
And I knew he was feeling the same thing.
When he reached us, he shook Letterman’s hand saying he was delighted to be here. I was surprised to hear him speak with a subtle Yorkshire accent, something not at all discernable when he was singing.
Then he turned and stuck his hand in my direction.
“Pleasure to meet you, mate” he said in a voice everyone could hear. Then, in a whisper just for me, added, “Again.”
I took his hand. What I really desired was to thrust my arm right into his belly and rip out his stomach.
“Charmed,” I said in a normal voice, and in a similar whisper, added, “And disgusted.”
He gripped my hand with a quick bone-crushing grip.
Three of my fingers actually cracked. I knew he could both feel it as well as hear it. Letterman, Shaffer, the others onstage and back, as well as the studio audience, couldn’t tell. To them it was simply a quick handshake between two celebrities.
To Knell and myself, it was the acknowledgement that this was the beginning of the standoff in which one of us would not come out alive.
Letterman, Knell and I sat, this time with me on the couch and the shock-rocker musician in the chair beside Dave. They made less than a minute of polite small talk – most of which I was paying little attention to, my heart still racing, my broken hand throbbing – before Letterman announced they would be cutting to a commercial break.
As Shaffer’s band started to play, two aides rushed onto the stage and started to apply make-up to Knell’s face. They fussed over and pampered him the whole break, one of them offering him sips of prune juice.
He sat back, enjoying the moment, seeming to forget I was there, and just basked in all the attention. I tried not to let that worry me, or at least not to let it show, but realized there was no preventing him from detecting that. For a brief moment his eyes turned to me and he grinned, seeming to acknowledge how uncomfortable and nervous I was in his presence.
“You’ll get yours soon,” he whispered to me as his aides rushed away, Shaffer’s band wound down, and the off-stage producer counted down to us being back on.
“So, Knell,” Letterman said. “I’m continually amazed at how every time you perform you’ve got some sort of different costume, different look to you. You’re like a male Lady Gaga.”
The audience laughed and Letterman continued, “Do you come up with these fantastic fashion statements all on your own?”
“Yes,” he said, and I could tell immediately that he was lying even before he began to elaborate.
Based on what I just witnessed, the guy likely didn’t wipe his ass without a team, never mind dream-up the costumes and stage sets he employed in his act. “The designs and fashions I sport come to me in dream-like visions. I’ve always had the desire to express myself through various outlets. Music is one, body language is another and, of course, fashion is yet one more.”
“I find it simply astounding how you transform so incredibly between shows. And not just that, but you’re known to change costumes as many as 40 times in a single show.”
At that, the monitor flashed to a montage of clips from one of Knell’s recent concerts with a counter at the bottom. The montage sped up after reaching 10 so that each image flashed less than a quarter of a second, before it reached 38.
“The costumes, like my music, are a reflection of how we all can, and do, transform from one moment to the next.” He glanced over in my direction when he said the word transform, just to make sure I caught the double-meaning. “The average person is stuck in a particular lifestyle, in a typical life with the same thing, day in and day out. My music and stage performances show that it is possible to be more than one thing, that it’s possible to explore all options, engage in and embrace the dynamic nature of life and live free from the constraints forced upon society.”
“So it’s a celebration of diversity.”
“Yes. My music is liberating, life-changing, and revolutionary.”
At that statement, the audience went ape shit. They were eating this up.
“Oh brother,” I whispered, not at all audible beneath the thunderous applause, but certainly detectable by Knell. I wasn’t sure what was more dominant – the wolf-blood running through his veins or the gigantic ego he carried around. Sure he had a huge following, sure he commanded sold-out shows and his name and antics were constantly spread all over radio, television, newspapers and magazines – but the incredible press and publicity storm surrounding him were no match for the tempest of ego that swirled in the man’s head.
“Now speaking of musical interest,” Letterman said after the crowd calmed. “You do play in a variety of genres. But if you could only ever play in a single style, what would that be?”
Knell sat very still in his chair and simply regarded the host with his steel-blue eyes, not saying a thing. Half a dozen seconds passed where not a word was uttered. It seemed to drag out forever.
“I see this is a challenging question, one requiring a great deal of thought,” Letterman said, filling in the uncomfortable silence.
“I tire of this,” Knell suddenly announced in a loud, boorish voice. “And of you.”
Then he stood, and without another word walked off the stage.
The crowd again went ape shit as he walked away.
Though not expecting it, Letterman wasn’t surprised. Knell was known for pulling hissy fits and unprecedented little stunts whenever appearing on various programs. This, of course, wasn’t as rude as the time he threw hot coffee into the face of the host of the morning program in Seattle, one of the first stunts that got him global attention.
But it was part of Knell’s mystique.
Letterman and I watched him saunter offstage, then looked at each other.
“Okay, then,” he said, gesturing for me to return to the spot immediately beside his desk. “Tell me, Michael, what sort of music do you enjoy listening to when you write?”
The audience laughed while I slipped back into the chair beside David's desk.
“Well, David, I’m a big fan of Canada’s hottest progressive rock export, Rush.”
“Ah yes. Tom Sawyer, Limelight. Fly by Night. Great music.”
“Yes, and there has always been deep meaning and intensely thought-provoking stories told through their lyrics – in particular the albums 2112 and Clockwork Angels.”
“There was a novel based on one that last album you mentioned, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah. Science Fiction author Kevin J. Anderson, wrote the novel in collaboration with the lyricist Neil Peart. I had the good fortune to meet Anderson a few years ago at a Sci-Fi con when I was promoting my book Tome of Terror, the one where Maxwell Bronte’s investigation took him into the occult and worlds of fantasy and horror.”
The conversation continued from there for another two minutes. We made small talk about writing and music. Letterman was a consummate pro who was able to turn a tense moment into what seemed like a natural and planned dialogue.
Instead of enjoying the moment though, virtually every fiber of my being was focused on where Knell might be at the moment. Had he left the building or was waiting for me backstage?
Those two minutes waiting for the commercial break seemed excruciatingly long.