A.R.I.

Wow, last story of March already. Time really does fly. Anyway, to the point. This week it is a Sci-Fi story, but one where no one is really the hero. Some characters you might like more than others. However, none of them are meant to be heroes. They are meant to be ordinary people. Apart from that I’ll say its a bit of a tragedy, sort of, and that it involves the idea of age regression. Not getting anymore than that. Want to find out more, you’re going to have to read the story. Enjoy!

The room, if it can be called that, Marin finds himself in is not at all to his tastes. Truthfully it is little more than a series of temporarily erected partitions inside an expansive hangar type building. Looking up, as Marin does, is all that is needed to prove as much because there are wide flared white lights hanging from long cords which finish a good four metres from the hastily covered floor.

If there is one thing the one hundred and eighteen year old bald man sat in a wheelchair hates most of all it is being kept waiting. Alas, scientists, as brilliant as they might be, are not the best timekeepers. In fact, in Marin’s long life he thinks they might be some of the worst. Perhaps a harsh criticism that not all deserve, but one he feels fitting.

And who is likely to argue with one of the wealthiest men in the history of the world?

He doesn’t keep track of such things, though if he did he would find himself third currently, not that the ranking does much to convey the sheer magnitude of his wealth.

Many publications will claim a net worth of this number or that. None are ever correct. Even close to the real value of what he possesses. It makes him chuckle again thinking about it, as it always does. Still, as yet he has not established how it is these journalists come up with the figures that they do. True, not all his earnings are publicly available, but even with those numbers it is as if they have never done maths before in all their lives.

An unsteady wrinkled paper thin skinned right hand rubs at his stubble lined chin. It’s a habit he adopted in his youth when he’d first started to grow facial hair.

Part of him regrets having never grown a beard, regardless of the fact that he continues to detest them in no small part because of the scale of maintenance required to keep them in a manner that avoids the owner looking homeless. A problem he witnessed firsthand when his first love, Paolo, battled daily to maintain the beard he had cultivated to frame his jaw line.

And it surely was a process similar to cultivation from what Marin had seen of it.

Realising his mind has wandered off track from its previous pathway, something that he has found to be more and more common in these last few years, he switches back. Though, not before taking a quick, for him, glance at the exquisite watch which is fastened around his bone thin wrist. His arm falling back into a resting position across his lap as a sigh escapes his thin dark lips.

What is taking so long? He queries mentally without hope of receiving a response, which is just as well as one is not at all forthcoming.

Back to my fortune, he thinks only for a sly smile to creep across his face. Clearly these publications do little in the way of fact checking. If they did they would reach a fortune estimate of more than 900 trillion dollars, still a tad short of his true fortune, but if they came out with such a figure he would at least be mildly impressed. Still, all the money he has doesn’t stop some from wasting his time, unfortunately.

In his youth time wasted was annoying as; in his eyes it meant a loss of money, revenue, fortune. Nowadays he despises waiting for wholly different reasons, chiefly the scarcity of time he has left.

A turn of his head reminds Marin what the décor, if it can be called that, around him is. At the sight of it he shakes his head, barely perceptibly, prior to taking note once again at how the reflections of everything are heavily distorted in the face of the cold stainless steel surfaces that are the cupboards, drawer sets and tables. To him they are placed in a fashion he would call anarchic but he suspects, more hopes really, their locations mean something to those that use them.

Continuing his observation of the room around him he wonders what the space is typically used for. As far as he can see, his eyesight might be failing but he is far from blind yet, there are none of the expensive pieces of tech he would expect. And he should know seeing as he is the one who forked over for a good number of them; all in hopes of this bearing some fruit.

At one time he hoped this facility, he isn’t sure he should call it that really but can think of no better moniker, would prevail before he got to a point in his life where his health would be in constant decline. No such luck. You see, Marin Alexander Wren’s health is in altering rapidly and not in a positive manner either. It’s why he is wheelchair bound with only limited, for wholly different reasons, movement from a little above his midriff upwards.

His doctors, the best money can buy, did explain to him what had occurred, the reasons, the cause. He recalls none of it. Didn’t think it was necessary to make room for in his old head. After all, isn’t that what medical records are for? He thinks so, which is why he asked what questions felt most prudent at the time and then discarded the information which seemed irrelevant.

At the end of the day normal people, none medical types, would not understand if he explained his ailments in the proper vernacular and so what was the point in being able to regurgitate them? None whatsoever was his determination then and still is now.

Bored of surveying the cold hostile looking furniture of purely boxy utilitarian design, Marin considers checking his watch once more when all of a sudden he hears footsteps. A grumble escapes his lips about having been kept waiting, not that it stops him from ensuring, to the best of his limited capabilities, that he is presentable.

The elderly suit wearing wheelchair bound mega wealthy man adjusting himself in his electric chair seconds before a pair of white coat clad figures glide into view and announce, “Apologies for the delay Mr Wren, we were in the middle of…”

A swift wave of the hand is followed by, “I don’t want your excuses. I have no time for such things. The matter is what it is. So, get on with your report if you would. My time is short. I’m well aware of that.”

The older of the lab coated pair, a man in his late thirties with greying black hair, goes to speak.

“Do not give me an update on my expected longevity.” Spits Marin with glaring hazy amber coloured eyes that have affixed the would-be speaker with what can only be termed a damning stare.

Throats are cleared soon after. Something Marin is overly familiar with when conversing with those who work for him. He cares little if their egos have been bruised or feelings hurt. Results are all that interest him. Though, he’d be lying if he did not admit his belief in this project is waning. Which is, perhaps, quite unsurprising when you’ve been waiting patiently with baited breath for eight long health declining years. Yet, in the beginning he had not been aware that why he felt light headed or weak was his body finally starting to succumb to its advanced age. In that regard Marin Alexander Wren had been an incredibly fortunate human being.  Many of his peers, apart from those who succumbed decades earlier, managed only into their eighties before significant declines in health drastically altered their lives. Made them, Marin is not so delicate as to feel adverse to declaring, shells of their former selves.

All but a small few of them are now dead. Tragic, he supposes, not that he cared for any of them. They were competitors and in true business terms; them dead meant those able to muscle in on areas which drew his interest became seldom. He thinks that might’ve been the point at which his investments multiplied most. After all, with no opposition bidders it became a quick slam-dunk to purchase what he felt served his portfolio. And no, Marin has never allowed anyone to invest on his behalf. Ultimately, it is his money and so why would he wish to have someone who it does not belong to inject capital somewhere on his behalf? He wouldn’t. He doesn’t.

Nevertheless, you are likely wondering; but how has Marin had no competition for he is neither the richest nor the only one with pockets this deep? Well, the answer to that is simple. Young rich people don’t invest in the areas he does, or will. They want quick returns. The old businessman on the other hand cares little for such things. Patience is key, he always says and with age his patience has only grown better. Plus, in his long history of business quick money is generally short-lived; often made from fads that quickly come and even more swiftly depart.

The real money meanwhile is made from long-term investment. Where you buy cheap, ride the wave of uncertainty, then watch them prevail; ascend and then keep climbing. Sure, it’s not really any less risky, but the payouts are so much more when they come, and they do come. However, to claim every investment unfolds in such a manner would be fallacy, they do not. Those are simply the successes, that which generate the most capital. The smaller return investments, long tailed ones, are principally from niche markets or products. Absolutely, the returns from these will never be huge, perhaps they will be barely more than was put in, but success of any size is still success. It adds to the pot, especially when you’ve invested in tens of thousands throughout a lifetime. And that is tens of thousands of successes, not failures.

“Mr Wren…” The younger of the pair of lab coat wearing scientists, a woman with short brown hair in her mid thirties, begins only to trail off far quicker than anyone rightly should. In doing so she suggests to Marin that they are no further forward than they were on his previous visit. He sighs, disappointed. Then he demands, “Get on with it. No need to drag this out. You’ve got nothing. Is that right?”

Defensively the greying man exclaims, “We have plenty Mr Wren, you’ve seen what this project has the potential to achieve. To say we have nothing would be…”

A fresh hard stare of cloudy eyes from Marin are all it takes to quieten the protesting scientist, Colin. For whatever reason Marin has always had a knack for remembering names, most of all those belonging to people he does not get along with. Colin falls firmly into that column, that camp.

Sure he works for Marin and is brilliant but the old tycoon would love to forget his name, if only so he can fumble around dubbing him things which are entirely incorrect. He thinks that would be funny. At least it would to him, but alas that is not how his brain works, even as his body continues its slow shutdown. The inevitable decline to what all living things must one day face, death.

“You might have time to mince words and wax lyrical but I do not, Colin. Remember that and that I am the one who pays your wage as well as for all that surrounds you.”

A single gulp from Colin is the sum total of his reply. Marin does not hear it but from his lower position he does see the man’s Adams Apple leap up and down, as if doing a dance.

Resisting the urge to smile, knowing he has won this argument which is not, Marin draws in a long breath. Yet, no words are uttered in the seconds which follow. Rather, there is silence and only silence. Colin finds it uncomfortable but dares not say a word. If he were to speak right now, break the peace and quiet, he is convinced Marin Alexander Wren would destroy his life. He has the power to do it, easily, and is certainly the sort that would enjoy it. It wouldn’t take much, for Colin is an already disgraced scientist who is shunned by his colleagues for exactly what the old business tycoon has employed him to make a reality, age regression.

Mady, or Madeline, on the other hand has not been disowned by the scientific community for she made sure to keep her beliefs on such a topic a closely guarded secret. Still, she leapt at the chance to investigate the possibility of making age regression a reality when it was offered to her.

And we are not talking about the kind used in commercials to sell cosmetics. No, we’re talking about the actual reversal of physical age, decay. Something that has been largely laughed into obscurity by the rest of the scientific world as being nothing but a cheap trick, a way to con money out of those willing to invest because mortality doesn’t suit their world view.

Marin would never have counted himself amongst such a collective until the day he had to face the reality his end was drawing near.

Staring death in the face, knowing that it will take hold and cart him away, but feeling he has so much left to do flipped a switch in the old man and made him a convert. From there it had been he who had pursued those capable of making it a reality, potentially. They generally were and are still the staunchest of believers in the field, like Colin. Though, Mady is unsure as to how Marin discovered her secret allegiance with age regression as she had never spoken nor written down a single word about it. Then again it should not have surprised her that a man with the money and life experience of Marin Alexander Wren could seek out those who believed but dare not speak for fear of a ruined professional reputation. Why Colin Jameson had ever thought it reasonable to speak publicly his views continues to baffle her even after all these years of knowing him.

He freely admitted then, and likely would still now if he were asked, he knew the field was ridiculed but pinned himself to it all the same. Some, those they work with, call him brave, but her take… Truthfully, she cannot say what her take is. Part of her feels as though she should praise him for his conviction while the rest of her declares he should’ve been wiser, smarter, more cunning.

Alas, the past cannot be changed. If it could Mady would not have slept with Anderson Stone, another member of their team.

Whatever had possessed her? The drink, she’d had far too much and honestly thought it was a good idea, she thinks looking back. It hadn’t been and anyone who had not consumed liver threatening volumes of alcohol would’ve known it.

Blinking away her thoughts, Mady realises Colin is looking to her. It seems the brilliant disgraced scientist and her partner, in professional terms only, thinks he must defer to her to get him out of this hole he finds himself in. She wants to sigh, exhausted, because more often than not this is what she is called upon to do because Colin does have a tendency to blindly blundered his way into a position he should’ve avoided, seen coming but did not, somehow.

She believes it is principally due to his ego being the size of a planet. In fact, it might rival Marin Wren’s. But unlike their largest backer, Colin has no filter between brain and mouth. Yet, he so rarely fumbles in the presence of his colleagues, which is why Mady has come to wonder if this disconnect is due to some inadequacy Colin feels being in the presence of a man like is sat before them currently. She is no psychologist so cannot say for sure, though is very much feels like that must be the answer. If she ever finds out for definite, who knows how she might, then continual rolling of her eyes shall follow for a dick measuring contest really should be beneath Colin. Especially against their employer, who there is potentially no one that measures up to.

Yes, a couple people in the world are richer. Many are younger and of significant wealth too, but none have the kind of long proven successful track record in business that he does.

Generally the rich rise and fall. Some persist, until they don’t. But through all of that there has been Marin, bucking the trend, blazing an untouchable trail.

If Mady was not an employee she would ask him to tell her stories of what he has seen. Yes, she is fully aware she could read about it in books and likely has, but firsthand accounts from the mouth of someone who was there will always trump other options. Alas, Marin’s health is deteriorating at an increasing rate and they are no further than they were eleven months ago, which is only marginally further than they were two years prior to that. Yet, Mady is aware Mr Wren was not expecting a miracle. Though at this rate Colin and the rest of the team she works with won’t succeed in their lifetimes either, which will almost definitely be shorter than Marin’s. That is why she fixes the old man in his electric wheelchair with a look she doesn’t have a name for and then states, “We are doing all we can Mr Wren but you have to be prepared for the reality that we might not…”

“I know.” The businessman says cutting Mady off midsentence with an expression on his face that is more resignation than irritation.

In that moment Mady doesn’t think one of the oldest men on Earth has ever looked more frail and elderly than he does right now, in this moment. Seeing it shocks her as up until this point Marin has always been a belligerent multi-trillionaire, about what she would’ve expected from someone with his wealth. Now however, all she can see is a desperate old man who is pleading for more time while simultaneously aware he likely isn’t going to get it. From anyone else she would expect a hint of; I have never been refused anything before in all my life. That isn’t what she gets from Marin however. And then it’s gone, replaced by a steely determination that is married with, “I’ll be back in three weeks and there will have to be results, however small.”

Hesitantly, Colin queries a couple notches short of full-blown panic, “And if there isn’t?”

The response offered is not verbal in any way. Rather, it comes in the form of a look. A long, hard one with what the greying scientist takes as; you don’t want to find out, so get back to work.

“We’ll get it done, Mr Wren.” Are the promises which leap from Colin’s mouth without thought.

Right now the greying man would say anything to escape the looks he’s getting. Not only from Marin but now from Madeline Gough-Ince who has murder in her eyes, but evidently wants to keep it hidden from their employer. It’s why Colin does a swift about and then begins to hurriedly scurry away. Mady follows in hot pursuit. Unlike Colin she is not at all fearful, no she is angry. She wants to shout, scream, demand to know why Colin has promised the impossible and how he plans to deliver it. After all, in making the promise he has, at the very least, damned himself and her to failure, but may also have condemned the remainder of their team as well. They too won’t be impressed when they learn of this, she thinks barely able to contain her rage.

When finally they are far enough away that she thinks it safe to exclaim she fills the empty air with, “What the FUCK was that? Why did you make that promise?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Colin counters watching Mady’s face turn a dark colour somewhere between red and purple.

“Not that! It was a test. You failed it. But worse than that, you handed him a loaded fucking gun!”

“We’ll crack this, I know it.” Says the greying man trying to bluster his way through but failing as Mady can see in his face he doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Rather, that he’s spouting them solely in hopes she is stupid enough to buy them.

If she were not already redlining with anger that would put her over the top but she is and so Colin’s belief she is somehow dumb enough to believe his bullshit will be filed away for another time, a later date.

“Are you going to tell the rest of the team?”

“No. Why would I do that?” Exclaims Colin with a genuinely confused expression carved into his face.

Has it not dawned on him that he might have damned us all to the same fate as him if we fail?

“Because Marin will likely boot us all, kill the programme if we don’t present him with a breakthrough in three weeks! Not even the usual month!”

“Oh.” The sudden drop of Colin’s face as well as the instant disappearance of his usual flush complexion informs Mady that he had not considered the potential ramifications. Or at least hadn’t until she’d pointed them out several seconds ago.

An urge to wring his neck sits at the forefront of her mind. It’s a battle to resist, her hands even twitch as she mentally acts out the process in her head. Then it vanishes leaving her cold and empty.

“We need to get back to work.” Are the last words out her mouth prior to her marching off in the direction of the main labs they’ve been squirreled away in working diligently.

“Mr Jameson…” Hearing his name shouted from behind sends Colin cold, icy. He hopes more than anything he’s imagined the voice calling to him. Yet, there is no choice but for him to check. Still, his shoulders sink in the seconds prior to him turning and finding that yes the voice was real and that Marin Alexander Wren in his electric wheelchair is behind him.

“Mr Wren, what can I do for you? Do you need directions to the ex…” Colin begins trying to act as if he is not gripped with terror and wondering if Marin has heard all that was said with Mady.

“Don’t be a dunce all your life Colin. I need no pointing toward the exit. This building is a hangar not a maze. A blind chinchilla could find its way out of here walking on only one leg.” The tone is exactly as you might imagine it, chastising.

Again Colin gulps. To say he is afraid of the paraplegic businessman is an understatement. Especially now he’s promised something on behalf of his team who, as Mady has pointed out, may all have their lives ruined for the price of failure.

“Miss Gough-Ince…”

“What about her Mr Wren?”

“She is not to accompany you any longer.” The old man’s tone is hard and monotone.

Colin’s jaw drops, visibly, leaving his mouth agape. It’s not a pretty sight in Marin’s eyes, even if he cannot see the full extent of the greying scientists gob. To make matters worse the expression is not short-lived either for Colin is lost for words, confused. He could’ve sworn that of the pair of them Marin vastly preferred Mady to him and yet…

“Are you removing her from…”

“No, I’m not. She’s brilliant. And if you fail to produce results will be given full ownership of this project.” Colin’s feathers ruffle at hearing that, though he does not dare interrupt to protest.

“But she can’t keep digging you out of the holes you make for yourself. She is not your nurse maid regardless of the fact that she does it because she is well aware that you and I don’t see eye to eye. Truthfully, we both know it, but her job is not that, so I’m removing the issue of her covering for your mouth. How you inform her is up to you, I care little except for results.”

Without pause Marin slams one of the sticks of his electric wheelchair hard to the right, the wheels angle and spin turning the chair a little under a hundred and eighty degrees. It’s enough and just as Colin is shaking himself free of his disbelief and closing his mouth Marin is racing away. He does not look back, nor call out any final parting words. In his mind the meeting is over. It was as he expected, fruitless. Or had been until the point at which the chief scientist on the age regression project, perhaps the most brilliant of all, in regards to said field, agreed thoughtlessly to his ultimatum. It had been a fifty-fifty as to whether he would. Either way Marin would consider himself the winner. After all, he’ll either get results or won’t. It changes little, other than who might head the project going forward three weeks from now.

Pages: 1 2 3

Don’t Listen

Carve a path that is entirely my own.
I’ll make it lead right back to home.
Cause when I’m done I will prevail,
Just going to ignore your chants to fail.
I’m me and refuse to bend to your level.
My victory will be all that I revel.

Weave a thread that means most to me.
It will pass through all your negativity.
Acknowledge none of what you like to spit,
Each phrase is likely bathed in hatred.
Not something I intend to endure.
My world is the vaccine and cure.

Roll down the tracks that come from my hand.
This is what haters cannot stand.
Not that I care what any of them think,
More focused on what joys I can drink.
Taking in all the beauty.
Positivity will drown out the snooty.

Retired upon my bountiful shores.
Still oblivious to the bores.
They whine and spit all just the same,
Never satisfied you won’t play their game.
Which is why I stick to my own road.
That way they could never reach me and goad.

So if you want the same for you.
Bid all the voices adieu.
None of them will bring joy.
If they claim so its just a ploy.
Cause the choice resides inside you.
Just like me, follow it and you’ll prosper through.

Bump

Ghouls and goblins.
Things you don’t want to meet.
Linger in the shadows.
Ready to cut out the meek.
Plus teeth like knives,
With smiles so cruel.
They chatter in tongues.
And they’re coming for you.

Devils and draugrs.
Weilding all wordly fears.
Stand on your shoulders,
Armed with vicious spears.
Plus teeth like knives,
With smiles so cruel.
They chatter in tongues.
And they’re coming for you.

Mark out your circles.
Hide under lights.
Regardless they’re coming.
Only some might survive.

Jekylls and Jesters.
Both possess twin sides.
One wrong move,
You’ll drown and subside.
With eyes filled with torture,
Musical and vile.
They cackle like hyenas,
Don’t sleep tonight.

Mark out your circles.
Hide under lights.
Regardless they’re coming.
Only some might survive.

Wolves and warlocks.
They’ll take out your eyes.
Darkness is brightest.
Whenever they do rise.
With eyes filled with torture,
Musical and vile.
They cackle like hyenas,
Don’t sleep tonight.

Mark out your circles.
Hide under lights.
Regardless they’re coming.
Only some might survive.

Bathory

Stolen from their once safe beds.
Only to be beaten and scarred ’til death.
And no one wanted to say a word.
Then one day voices were finally heard.
Investigation into the claims of pain.
Accounts scrawled across journals most insane.
Sentencing heard from three hundred souls.
Claims that more than double had been felled.

Countess of blood,
You pretended to be misunderstood.

Virgin blood used to extend your youth.
None of that has been confirmed with proof.
Just a psycho with an addiction.
Loved delivering pain and affliction.
Young women sliced away from life.
Torture and mutiliation was rife.
Not an ounce of remorse did flow.
Up to the day you died in that cell so…

Countess of blood,
You were never misunderstood.

Sick twisted soul that held power.
All these souls you did devour.
Violence was your source of joy.
Used these people just like a toy.
Cast them out still with thirst.
You’d have murdered all of Earth.
Stripped young ladies down to bone.
While you sat grinning upon your throne.

Twin Flame

Love, light and plenty of fire.
All of them build to desire.
Shot through the heart to alight.
Made a spark that fuelled just right.

Passion filled the air to bursting.
Both of us were thirsting.
Eager for a taste at heaven.
The watchers said number seven.

Passed the chalice to take a sip.
Then you did bite my lip.
Forged the inferno and stacked it high.
Throughout it we pair did cry.

Oblivious to the world beyond.
To their words we did not respond.
Lost within this group of two.
I am you and you are me too.

So call us selfish and lay the blame.
Neither of us will feel shame.
For this time is ours to grip.
And we refuse to let it slip.

Warped Glory

This time round I have a story in which there are no heroes. It might seem like one or two are but they aren’t meant to be. It’s a world in which everyone is out for themselves. At the time of writing it there was no thought as to what inspired it but looking at it now it has Deus Ex and Cyberpunk 2077 in there, just without the majority of the more advanced technology found in those. Don’t really want to say anymore than that or I might ruin what happens. So without further delay, here is Warped Glory.

Backstage at the Run-Run club, a bar popular with many of the locals in Arami City, Deshawn Jevons has only just entered the premises. As is often the case with the narcissist bassist and founding member for the hugely lauded Crow Murder Revival, he swaggers through the backstage corridors. They are tight, overly so, not because Deshawn is a large man, he’s about average, but because Run-Run is an old building. One of the oldest in Arami, a feat it has achieved only due to the clientele who oft frequent its private rooms. Ones which overlook the dance floor where most of the attendees cavort about with reckless abandon while drinking themselves into a stupor. That isn’t all they have a tendency to do but it is the only act that is legal.

However, that does not mean that the other acts are done in private. No, that rarely happens. And if Deshawn were not backstage, but rather in one of the private rooms with their window wall, he’d soon spot the sort of indulgences the patrons like to partake in.

Alas, tonight that is not going to be possible, and having wound down a number of tight spaces, ignoring the queries regarding whether he is who he looks like, Deshawn reaches CMR’s rehearsal room. Immediately he pounds through the door, which he closes and locks behind him.

“Where the FUCK have you been?” Are the first words which greet him.

They are uttered before he’s had chance to turn about and take in the room, or its occupants. Not that he needs to. He has been to Run-Run enough over the years to have the layout memorised by heart.

That was not always the case. In fact, he still recalls the first time CMR had played here. He was much younger then, barely a teenager, but overly wide eyed and in awe of the world. There is no way Deshawn could be accused of such things now. He grew cynical quick. That, in his eyes, is what happens when you’re allowed to experience the truth of the world around you. Rather, than be shielded and protected from it, like he had been growing up outside of Arami.

Regardless of what he has become, Deshawn continues to recall the smells of his youth. All of them make his stomach turn. To him they were not pleasant. Most seemed to be various species foul stinking shit. He’d worked as a lad shovelling it out to help. Not that he was ever given the choice. It was either do as his father said or face the belt. That was a long time ago and he hasn’t seen his ‘family’ in many years. For all he knows they might be dead. He doesn’t feel anything when considering that possibility.

At one time, when he’d first ran away from home, there had been days when he had wondered. But his aunt, may her soul rest, had been more of a mother and father than his actual parents had ever managed. Sadly, she’d also been a bit of a corporate whore. Something Deshawn didn’t learn until many years later. Perhaps mercifully by that time she’d grown ill. It might sound cruel but that stopped them from fighting. And for all her ‘mistakes’ he continues to hold the woman, not her profession and career, in high regards.

Well aware that a fight may be about to ensue, Deshawn spins round to discover the three other members of CMR plus their manager there waiting. All but CMR’s drummer, Gypsy, have affixed the bassist and founding member, sole remaining too, with damning looks.

“Relax Roe, I’m here aren’t I?” Is the reply given to CMR’s manager, the man who issued the question, a demand really.

“Nearly an hour late, dude. What the fuck is…”

“Cool it. I’m here. We’re playing.” Deshawn interjects meeting the stares with one of his own.

The only difference is that his stare urges the angry men to challenge him. He wants it, craves it. He even believes a fight might be good fun. He hasn’t had one in a while. Not a decent one anyway. Then again he doubts his manager, vocalist or guitarist would be capable of rating high enough to be considered decent in a fight.

Bean, CMR’s vocalist, is all bark, Roe is short and aging, while Zen is more interested in being the sheep that follows the herd. In this case the herd is Bean and Roe. Gypsy meanwhile has a tendency to stay out of it. A great drummer but a crap rockstar, that is for sure. The man has almost no opinions he is willing to give. He just wants to go with the flow. Stay out of arguments and play his kit. Usually that’s a good thing, but every now and then it would be nice to hear what he thinks. Deshawn has tried to pull it out of him. Five years and so far he’s got nothing. It could be Gypsy has no opinions, in a completely different way to Zen, and if that is the case then the founding member of CMR guesses he can live with it.

Aware that the battle is a lost cause because CMR is Deshawn’s, Roe shrugs, admitting defeat but adds, “Your set is fifteen.”

“In fifteen, got it.” The bassist replies finally breaking his stare now that it appears abundantly clear the confrontation, which never materialised, is over.

“No Dee, your set is fifteen minutes long. Not you’re on in fifteen. You were supposed to be on an hour ago.”

“Fuck that Roe! CMR play forty minimum. You know that.” Is the anger infused reply from Deshawn who once again is spoiling for a fight.

Who he intends to fight matters little to him, but that is exactly what he is craving.

“Then you should’ve got here an hour ago like you were supposed to Dee.” Bean stresses taking the side of CMR’s manager. Something he often has a tendency to do. And if Deshawn didn’t know him better he’d guess it is with the ultimate goal of pushing him out of the band.

That isn’t happening. Not now, not ever. That is the assurance the bassist and founder would give. Especially, considering CMR has had five vocalists to date, proving that Bean can and will be replaced if he forgets his place.

“Shut the fuck up before I break my bass over your empty skull, dickhead. You’re the vocalist. Nothing else. Don’t even write our lyrics. So zip it before I show you the real meaning of pain.” The bassists’ wide index finger points towards Bean, who to his credit shows no signs of fear. Alas, there is one thing that will forever, in Deshawn’s mind anyway, count against him. That is Bean, real name Matthew Harrington, is from a rich background.

You might be wondering how rich. He’s a corporate director’s son. In fact, both his parents are corporate directors. So if there is anyone who would be labelled a poser, if it got out, then it would be Bean. Especially, since he’s kept his background and family a secret from the world.

How the media haven’t found out and ragged on him, well that might have something to do with Roe issuing legal notices that dissuade them from considering such actions. Lest they wish to face a potential legal battle with a minimum payout in the paperwork being ten percent of the infringing companies profit for the last eighteen years, for each member.

Yeah, Deshawn might think Roe is a shitstain, but he’s a useful one. At least he is at times, very certain and specific ones.

In the face of Deshawn’s threat there is no reply. Not that he expected one, at least from Bean anyway. Though, with it clear that the matter is resolved, well not really but about as close as CMR ever get to a resolution, the bassist shoves his way past, grabs his bass, does a quick check concluding that it is tuned well enough for Run-Run, he meets eyes with Gypsy who he nods to and gets a reciprocal one back in response as he air drums and then announces, “We gonna get this shit done?”

Bean and Zen exchanges looks while around them the paint continues to peel off the walls. No one could ever say that the backstage area of Run-Run is a paradise. It isn’t. It’s much like every other rundown club in Arami that is owned by a greedy balding douche, and that is all the independent ones. There aren’t as many indie clubs as there used to be. Most are corp. owned establishments now, which is why CMR struggle to get booked. Not that it’s dampened their prospects. They could take up a residency in Run-Run, or any of the other clubs like it, and be set for life.

Thousands always turn up whenever they are due to play. Thankfully, unlike some of the remaining indie spots, Run-Run is on the larger side. Nothing compared to many of the corp. ran mega clubs but you can pack a good eight to nine thousand in. It’s cramped, hot, sweaty and dangerous if you do but in Deshawn’s mind that is the beauty of rock n roll. The real stuff he means; not the corporate controlled dross which fills the mainstream to bursting with aims set on guiding the young and impressionable to be obedient little bots.

Before realising he never did get a reply from his bandmates, except for Gypsy who did a quick little number on a nearby wall, Deshawn is walking up the ramp that links the cramped stage to the area behind it.

It wasn’t easy getting to this point seeing as fans had been allowed, which in reality means they gained access by nefarious means, into the backstage area in hopes of meeting CMR. The bassists reply to such an obstacle? He barrelled right on through them delivering sneers and shouts in their faces. Evidently these fans are lifers, the name given to the most hardcore of CMR’s supporters, as all they did in reply was mirror right back at Deshawn what he had thrown at them.

As ever the bassist was at the head of the single file line that is the bands members. It’s a little thing but something he insists on seeing as he is CMR. The others might not like it but that is the truth. He was here before all of them and he will be here once they are all gone. Something he likes to remind them all of as often as he can.

Truthfully, he might sack Bean tonight, after this gig. He’s been getting far too big for his boots. Thinking he’s here because he’s somehow indispensable, a unique performer. What a dick, Deshawn thinks, because he couldn’t be more dispensable if he tried. There is nothing unique about him. And he only sounds good because the rest of CMR are playing alongside him. Who would he be without them? The answer is no one. So, maybe it’s time to prove that to Bean. Either that or commit the cardinal sin of sinking his career for good by releasing information about who mummy and daddy are. The media would be hungry for that, until they’ve had their fill and all that is left is the carcass of his failed musical dalliance.

Having stepped out onto the stage the first thing that had hit Deshawn, as it always does, were the blinding lights. He continues to squint, with his dark eyes narrowed, hoping that it’ll be enough, the pain will pass soon and that they will have adjusted.

Inevitably they do and within a few extra seconds they prove it by growing accustomed to the brilliance. A smile slides across Deshawn’s face, spanning from ear to ear. Then it twists into a snarl; the trademark expression for which he is best known.

Yet, many continue to believe its part of some sort of act. The truth however is that it’s the result of a fight he got into as a teenager. It hadn’t been pretty and the damage he suffered in that brawl means that it is easier for him to snarl than it is for him to hold a smile. Something he has stated every time he’s been asked about it in an interview only for people to continue to get it wrong. Not that he cares, not really. After all, what people think of him is of little concern. At one time it was and would have been, but those days are gone. He does what he wants, when he wants. If that wasn’t obvious by his late arrival it will be once he’s finished with this performance.

With all the band members of Crow Murder Revival in place, Bean screeches into the microphone, “Run-Run are you ready for the Revival?”

It takes a great deal of restraint, something he does not have much of off-stage, for Deshawn not to roll his eyes at the utterance of his bands vocalist.

Nevertheless, it cannot be argued that the statement, as contrived as it might be, has the desired effect as the crowd goes wild. To be blunt, they look wild too but then they always look like that when CMR play. It’s the effect the band has on its fans; the bassist is pleased to get to say while Bean continues to drone on about something or other. He really couldn’t try any harder to look like he’s anti-corporation if he tried.

To Deshawn it sounds forced, but whether it does to anyone else, he can’t say. And no, Zen and Gypsy do not know Bean’s background. They know his upbringing but not that their vocalists parents are the epitome of what is largely wrong in Arami.

Yes, the city is a corporate haven; one that was built by the man for the man. Yet, it is in as much a state of decay as any other city in the world, whether that be New York, London, Berlin, Moscow or New LA. No one speaks of the original Los Angeles, for that brings too much pain for everybody involved.

Finally, the count from Gypsy begins. Deshawn was beginning to think Bean would never shut up and that he’d have to deck him so they could get past the forced frontman ego portion of the show. But thankfully, just as the thought had crossed the bassists shaved head the lights had dimmed. Then the drums kicked in, Deshawn accompanying them soon after.

A little intro between the pair is completed before Zen adds his gut punch of a guitar lick. It dances atop the rhythm set by Dee and Gyp, the nicknames oft used by the rest of the band to refer to one another. After all, let’s face it, calling everyone by their full first name, even if it isn’t there actual birth name, can get a little taxing. Short is better. That is why CMR songs barely ever reach three minutes. Because of that Crow Murder Revival, as sweat pours, bodies gyrate, pogo, fly and shove, manage to get through nine songs.

When it is over, Deshawn is not only bathed in sweat, Run-Run always having been poorly ventilated and cooled, but pumped with energy. So much so he could go at least a couple more times he reckons. Alas, their set is done. They were meant to be the first of the night. Yeah, it’s odd that at Run-Run the act who gets the longest stage time is the first but it works for CMR and seems to have little effect on attendance for the rest of the evening. Likely because everyone is so pumped up and filled with adrenaline that they just want to keep on partying. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a Monday night or a Friday, like today, the patrons always go hard. So hard they have to be turfed out; unwilling to leave at what they know is closing time. To achieve that, well that is when and where the clubs security enters the picture.

Big, hard guys the lot of them and none have qualms about using bone crushing force to eject anyone non-compliant with their orders. That is regardless of size, orientation, faith, yadda yadda so on and so forth. And yes, there are always, inevitably, a few for do not comply. It’s to be expected in a city rife with corporate hate. Which in itself is funny because some of these very same people desperate to stand against the crushing fist of the man will themselves be corporate slaves who come Monday will jump back on the wheel that is crushing their souls to dust.

The bassist gets the feeling those people don’t see the irony in it. And when he was younger he would’ve sought the ‘posers’ out to flatten them. Nowadays, he dreams bigger, much bigger. Alas, the size of his dreams have no bearing on how easy it is to get from the stage and back to the rehearsal space, which is it say infinitely more difficult. Still, he’d call it a good time. Especially when some misplaced fuckstick dared to call his character into question by besmirching it with claims he’s a corporate supporter.

The girl in question who was responsible for blurting such accusations? Deshawn laid her out. He doesn’t usually hit women but made an exception seeing as she looked, in his eyes, more manly than most beer swilling drunkards who fight under the overpasses every night before getting up whenever they do to perform manual labour on building sites.

With CMR back in the rehearsal space, dubbed as their dressing room too, Zen wastes no time in cracking open a fresh bottle of spirits. It’s the only type of liquor the guy will drink. What brand it happens to be is anyone’s guess. Yet sadly his tongue gets no looser when he’s fucked up than when he’s not. To the point that you would be forgiven if you thought he never got drunk. The reality is that he does, often. To be honest, Deshawn suspects Zen might be intoxicated most of the time. But while he continues to play and perform the bassist has no issue with it.

First time he fucks up though, he’ll be out the door. No way back, no mercy, no remorse. Deshawn doesn’t give a shit what problems that might cause. Chiefly because any issue will be a short term one only. After all, there are plenty of guitarists out there who would kill to take Zen’s place. Most will be worse, some will be better and the rest will be almost identical. At least that is what the founding member believes.

Not that such a thing matters as Zen isn’t getting canned tonight. Bean should be. He’s still grinning like a prick but Deshawn doesn’t have the time tonight and having set his bass down makes towards the exit.

“Where you going Dee?” Gypsy questions sounding more than a little hurt.

You see CMR’s drummer is the longest serving member, after its sole remaining founder. And while he doesn’t share his opinions he does like to share when it comes to celebrating. The only problem is that Zen and Bean are not his kind of party people. Deshawn on the other hand very much is.

When they first got together, Gyp and Dee would tear it up; party without ever planning to stop. It’s how they wrote so much of CMR’s music, in the earlier days at least. Then, as inevitably they always do, along came managers, record labels and all that other corporate bullshit. The stuff Deshawn really hates with a passion. Also the sole reasons as to why CMR have had seven cancelled contracts, each netting them a seven figure paycheck.

And in hopes of counteracting, at least some, of that corporate fluff Deshawn has moved onto other things. These other things are illegal, not drug illegal, no far worse than that. You see, he’s become something of a terror around Arami. Even runs with this camera guy named Spectre who films all the corporate hating acts that they perform so they can be posted online for the world to see, and they do see it.

The only reason Deshawn isn’t in handcuffs is because he keeps an otherwise low profile. If he didn’t the authorities would have… well, they’d have done nothing except probably tip the corporations he’s made trouble for off, so they could enact some payback for themselves.

For anyone sat there thinking, why if the cops know do they not do anything? Well, it’s because there are two sets of law in Arami. One is the police and the other is corporate security. The police are poorly funded and were only implemented to deal with petty thefts, so the populace would have someone to blame and call on in their hour of need. Meanwhile, corp. security is the real law in the city. They, and yes there are a number of different security firms as each answers to a different corp., deal with issues that directly affect their respective paymasters’ affairs.

Obviously, that means as a result they couldn’t care less about the little guy, the individual. Unless you are a director or a board member, that is. No, they care only about what affects those whom are their employers.

“I got somewhere to be.” Is the reply uttered by the bassist who makes no effort to halt his progress toward the exit.

“Fuck, you gonna go run with that shitbrain camera douche again, aren’t you?” Bean exclaims trying to play the big hard man but failing miserably, in Deshawn’s eyes anyway.

“Zip it Bean. What I do with my time is my business. That is, unless you want to drink through a straw for the next few months.”

Hands raised in surrender while making attempts, ineffectively, to make it look as though he isn’t terrified, Bean sidesteps so he is no longer blocking a section of the closed door which Deshawn is heading straight for.

To beat the bassist of CMR to the destination, Bean had been forced to rush beyond his limited capabilities. It had almost resulted in him stumbling over a chair and coffee table. If that had happened Deshawn would’ve stuck around, a few minutes, only to laugh. Yet, it would have been more effective than this weak attempt to get in his way.

“He’s gonna get you in serious shit Dee, don’t do it. Corp. security are after your head. If they find you…”

It’s already too late to warn the bassist for he is out the room and part way down one of the several corridors which permit him backstage exit from Run-Run and so Roe trails off, gives up his attempts to dissuade the Crow Murder Revival’s founder from deserting a night of partying to partake in whatever dumbass stunt called a ‘cause’ that has been dreamt up this time.

Frustrating isn’t a strong enough of a word for how the bands manager feels, but he’s got nothing better to describe his feelings on the matter.

Pages: 1 2

Spawn

Wind the wires around my jaded shattered heart.
This moment is the one from which I will make a start.
Build a prison to contain all my sorrow.
It will be started at some point in the ‘morrow.
Until then the pain still tends to bite.
Each new pass I start to feel nearly right.
Sick to say but it is honestly true.
I am me and not an ounce of you.

Pricked my thin skin with barbs atop this pole.
Each new wound felt like a successful goal.
Then came in my mental quake.
It spat about how I am a mistake.
Fractured by the days in dream.
A moment through which I tended to scream.
Bile trapped in the back of my throat.
I could sense I was about to choke.

Tear the fat from across my ruined soul.
I sold it to the one claimed to be most foul.
Winged fallen creature of blood.
The same that bathes in the fountain of mud.
I bow to it and state my claim.
Inform that I wish to be bathed in flame.
Wretched stench I pass to thee.
Words he offered freely.

Isolated on the mount of unperturbed pain.
From this angle I managed to build my fame.
Tangled down in the hollows.
Sucking out the bone marrows.
Feasted upon the joys of unending stain.
These memories brought me back again.
Light the path to what I’d become.
I adore the beating of this drum.

Twisted beneath the tree of terror.
From here it only ever gets better.
A chant drenched in virgin grit.
Convulsing within the filthy pit.
Statements that were passed to you.
Don’t dare claim that you have no clue.
For I am this and you joined me.
Together we will descend and breed depravity.

Incitement

Leech off ideas born from the few.
What you claim never started with you.

Break down and assimilate,
Every word makes you hate;
Can you really say it’s healthy?
To me it seems like inequality.
A fascination with being right.
Every moment wanting a bright…
Light to shine as if that’s proof,
Of every word you say being truth.

Scratch out the lines from before.
The hand that wrote them you abhor.

Doesn’t mean they weren’t justified,
Each person has their basis inside;
Individuality which is unique to them,
Doesn’t mean they’re on some chem.
Not that you would actually agree.
To you they are the enemy.
One dimensional in your approach,
If you didn’t say its an infested roach.

Pick at the scab of truth and fact.
Those who speak are sent to the rack.

Watered down power once held.
Peace is what you want felled.
Bowing down to a higher power,
Under them you continually cower.
Afraid of what might come to pass,
Why you insist on being crass.
Victim without an attacker.
You are the maddest hatter.

Weave through and feast upon,
Gorge yourself until democracy is gone.

Wittled down free spech and will.
Forged zombies to execute your will.
Guns in hand and brains all mush,
Violence gives them their only rush.
But statements say it wasn’t you.
We all know the source of them too.
As truth is not something you can speak.
Doing so in your eyes is weak.

Putrid rancid sack of flesh.
With no one good can you mesh.

Merriment And Tale

I want more than an empty void.
Then come calls for a man called Lloyd.
No idea what its all about.
Then appear the suits with a smirk and some clout.

Motions are what brought you along.
One day they might be long gone.
But at no point did I agree to this.
Then comes in the final punching fist.
A strike so hard that the world goes blurry.
I don’t mean me cause everything has fury.
Stacking up counters until someone shouts win.
Grumbles then follow with a claim its: no such thing.

Ruckus and chants seem the same.
They all end up in pointing fingers for blame.
What a disaster that was bred right here.
Someone hurry up and hand me a fresh beer.

Writhe to the left and wriggle to the right.
One, two, three then shriek in fright.
Costume party filled with no host.
Who will be the next one that decides to boast?
It always happens and then descends to a brawl.
It’s more civil to be nailed to a wall.
So don’t step in unless you like the violence.
Personally I’d rather spend these moments in silence.

Bang of the gong that chimes off-key.
Is that true or was it all just me?
Can’t place whether what I see is true.
Fine I give up, and simply join the queue.

Shackle my legs and name me Sonny.
Its a joke and I don’t care its not funny.
And just cause someone is breaking in,
Doesn’t mean that I will do a thing.
After all you wanted me to stay quiet.
Sick of how I always apparently start with Wyatt.
But that’s not true cause I don’t know the guy.
Still stating such results as I wave goodbye.

Lesson not learned I couldn’t give a damn.
Lets see if we can get back on the tram.
I know I’m drunk and we’ve been all night.
And no I don’t want to start any fight, alright?

Scramble And Roar

I took the idol and ran for my life.
Sick of being here without a guide.
The light is so dark it might as well be night.
Nothing makes sense when you’re deep in the fight.
So take my hand and just speak to me.
I’m not some demon like they claim me to be.
Stitches and scars are most evident.
But that doesn’t make life a sacrement.
As we all have time that we never can fill.
It might be short and fleeting but its too still.
So open your arms and scream out loud.
Whatever came before doesn’t mean we’re proud.

Stand on the cliff but don’t look down.
What’s on my head isn’t really a crown.
Too much strain may crack all of the mirrors.
And I chuckle at claims of being the biggest of sinners.
Howdy-do but the response is mute.
Get better answers from a rotten root.
My head is pounding from all of the quiet.
Rather be out in the middle of a riot.
Fat chance of that with all of these sheep.
All they do is go bleet bleet bleet.
Makes me think that our time will soon be up.
If that’s true then I might as well cut.

Pound on the concrete and scream to the breeze.
Seconds that pass by will soon just freeze.
I sound so insane when I ramble as I please.
But that doesn’t mean that it comes forth with ease.
For moments are hardest when focus is strong.
You may think me stupid and claim that I’m wrong.
Shrug is my answer to the words you have said.
Along with claims that I should go back to bed.
Cause why does it matter one way or two?
I nod and I answer just like you want me to.
So get off my back and let me carry on.
I might even twist some words into song.