Six Sentence Sunday: "Rock 'N' Roll Bitch Goddess."

And, yes, as usual there will be more than six sentences here, I'll give you the whole 999 words or so.  This one was written perhaps six or seven years ago, postscript to a break-up.  Well after, I expect, because the immediate reaction to the break-up was a slew or short stories--after a few months of brain dead nothing, of course--enough to make up a brief collection I called Missing, followed up by a novel called, The Corner Of His Eye, a meshing of Magic Surrealism and subtle Horror.  At some point after things had settled, I wrote this one, liked the character so much, the Glam Rock Star, Mick McGregor, though not in this more horrific form, that I've got over 10,000 words of another piece dealing with him written, the beginning of a novel or novella.  One of those backburner pieces all writers have (and I've mentioned before); something to jump into between things and, if it catches, ride it to the end; or something that just requires a certain mindset to write, one that's exhausting, which might be the reason this one is not finished yet.

Also of note, any time I can write original lyrics for a tale--or steal from my old notebooks and manipulate into appropriate shape for a story--I'm happy to oblige. The title of this story is also one of the big hits for Mick McGregor and his band, Petrified Girlfriend; yes, that's something I learned from the backburner piece. The story below even references lyrics I wrote many years ago, though none of those lyrics are here as they are really, really bad teenage stuff, but the title--"CCKSCKR," ahem, yeah, that's the license plate of the woman in the, er...song--was appropriate for this story.  I believe the lyrics here were probably written mostly on the spot, but if I'm wrong, does it matter?  hehe...just give this one a gander and enjoy its rather blunt and crude and leering smile trek into Rock 'N' Roll Horror.


***

Rock ’N’ Roll Bitch Goddess

by John Claude Smith

     “Every song is about her.”

     Wayne Tyler paused, looking hard into “Filthy” Mick McGregor’s black mascara-lined eyes.  There seemed an earnestness here that belied the glam rock star’s usually hedonistic, exhibitionistic, live-for-the-moment-and-hope-it’s-a-sticky-one philosophy. 

     Feeling as though more than the usual pat though amusing responses that interviews with McGregor typically deteriorate into was at hand, Tyler prodded:  “Every song is about her—Angie, right?” 

     “Is there any other?”  The far off, lovesick look in McGregor’s eyes is earnest, thought Tyler. 

     “You have mentioned Angie in the liner notes, listing her as the only person you ever thank.  Who is this mystery woman?”  Tyler finished his third glass of wine--McGregor had insisted on wine; it was quite good--and scooted it forward for more.    

     McGregor’s eyes squinted as he took in Tyler’s face, reading it as one would the fine print on a life insurance policy, or some such ludicrous invention.   

     “Angie Maxine Stabler, she’s the one, mate.  Love of my life, a life pretty much vapid and inconsequential without her.  I will love her forever.  I don’t have a choice.  She owns my soul.”

     Wow, thought Tyler, both ecstatic and a bit discomfited by McGregor’s unexpected blunt honesty.  Rock ’n’ roll, especially the retro, gender bending, teased hair and make-up adorned swagger that is glam rock, rarely really touched on something of such true candor.  Sure, love songs tried and there were millions of them, but just the shock of revelation here had Tyler at odds with where he would usually expect things to go in an interview with the premier glam rock God of the early 21^st century.  McGregor’s sincerity was most surprising.   

     Tyler needled:  “Songs like, ‘Bend Over Babe,’ ‘CCKSCKR,’ ‘Pleasure Chest,’ and ‘Rock ’N’ Roll Bitch Goddess’—they’re all about Angie?”

     McGregor smiled.  “You’re thinking those are just crude anthems to wayward sex adventures, but they’re all about her.  She makes it into every song, somehow.  She may be the focus of all my sexual fantasies but, usually, there’s something more within a line, within each song, because it’s not just sex that we have.  You don’t really have to look hard to find the line, a stanza, something there of substance amidst the sleazy lyrics.”

     Tyler scanned the lyrics of two of the previously mentioned songs in his head and thought, okay, maybe McGregor’s pushing it.  He must be putting on a show.  There’s no way about 100% of what he has written could have anything to do with anything but sex.  It was all sex trash rants.

     “It’s not all sex trash rants, mate.  It’s so much more.”

     Tyler scrunched his face, wondering if he had actually said that out loud.  Maybe he better slow down on the wine.

     “What happened?”

     “What happened with…what?”

     “What happened with you and Angie?”

     McGregor’s eyes squinted again, this time as if he was looking through Tyler.  “She’ll be here any minute.”  He smiled; it was a mischievous glint. 

     Tyler felt like he was being taken for a ride.  He expected some half-naked groupie to wander in and play the role as McGregor’s muse and offer him a blow job while she was at it.  He was privy for the game.

     “Don’t always think with your dick, Tyler.  There’s more to life than what is on the surface.”  McGregor’s smile broadened.

     Tyler knew this was going to be a good one, whatever McGregor was trying to pull.  McGregor’s practical joking manner had gotten other critics and interviewers into fairly embarrassing situations, usually with a camera recording all.  He glanced up to the bar’s security camera; its Cyclopean stare was directed right at him.

     “Don’t be so paranoid, mate.”

     Again, Tyler felt a pang of unease. 

     “Well…if she is going to be here soon—”

     “Now will do!”

     Within Tyler’s already blurred vision, McGregor’s face seemed to shudder.  The glam rock façade seemed to separate, pulling itself from the fleshy foundation beneath it.  The face below still smiled, but it was a more normal, scrubbed clean countenance, though a lunacy seemed to emanate from within.  As if maybe another layer was going to be peeled off, but no…  McGregor blurted a line from a song:

     “Rock ’n’ roll bitch goddess lives in my soul.”

     “W-What’s going on,” Tyler stammered.

     A tattered giggle of joy was spat from the cackling, wraith-like figure hovering next to McGregor.

    Abruptly, McGregor snatched the corkscrew from next to the wine bottle and plunged it into Tyler’s chest.  Tyler gasped in pain and shock.

     “Rock ’n’ roll bitch goddess, I pay the toll.”

     Tyler started to tumble, sliding off the stool.  McGregor caught him, twisting the corkscrew a little deeper.  The wraith-like figure—Angie--swooped down and mouthed the corkscrew, eagerly slurping up the blood, seeming to gain substance within the perverse process.

     “It’s paid with blood, warm, sticky and sweet.” 

     “Mick, please—”

     “It makes her real, my demonic love treat.”

     Angie released the drained body as she turned to face her paramour.  The body hit the floor with a dull thud and wheezed as a punctured tire.    

     McGregor cupped her left ass cheek and pulled her naked body close to his.  His erection ached for release from his spandex pants.  He rubbed it against her dark bush.  She opened her mouth wide and they kissed, him tasting the blood that brought her back to him, she tasting the desire that makes her real.

     “I suggest you two help me take care of this before you get all hot and nasty,” said the bartender, pleading to the deaf.

     It was already too late.  They had made way to the billiards table, Angie leaning over and McGregor plunging in full tilt boogie. 

     The bartender shook his head and thought, man, that rock ’n’ roll bitch goddess sure does have one sweet—

     “Watch yourself, mate!”  McGregor pointed back, shaking a finger at him, grinning as he thrust.

     “Yeah, yeah,” said the bartender, moving around the bar to dispose of the body.

 ***

The current piece in progress, tentatively called, "Coronado's Invocation," will actually include some original poetry, though the tone and such of this one is deeply serious and strange.  Most of what I write is quite serious, though it seems every few stories I need a break, my brain needs a break, and something like "Rock 'N' Roll Bitch Goddess" demands release--well, it IS serious but unfolds in a more amusing manner than strictly horrific.

Yes, I actually write mostly serious fiction.  Just check my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me for confirmation.  Serious as a heartache, as the cliche goes.  Well, ten of the twelve stories, at least.  Oy!  I Love Dread. I Love expanding the boundaries of what we call horror.  I am not a fan of the regular horror tropes.  Give me something more, please and thank you; something different.  

I know I've been sparse on this blog recently, but expect to pick up the pace soon, September probably.  I have some book reviews to write, have some novels to start featuring more diligently.  Have other writing to showcase.  Have more poems, dark music, art and madness to deal with.  Stick around.  Things'll get seriously dark soon again.

;-)

This is not "Filthy" Mick McGregor, this is David Bowie, of course, a Glam Rock God way back when he was at the forefront of Glam Rock.  A Lad Insane, Indeed.  One of McGregor's idols, for sure!