On the brightly light stage of a shadow encroached hall his fingertips evoked power and emotion from an electric Gibson six-string as he poured himself into the raging crowd. It was like so many nights, playing a demigod to a sold out theatre of metal fans and tasting immortality in their cheers. The set was pure adrenalized passion, feeding madness to the masses and quickening their world-weary souls.
The fans knew him as Jax but his real name was Joe Allen and he was the fire behind the Electric Knights, lead guitar and back-up-tenor vocals that gave wings to the baritone who lead the band. Mitch had a barrel chest and a face that made the girls throw panties on stage but even he knew that it was Jax's speed licks and shadowy mystic lyrics that sold albums.
The particular night in question had played out like any other with the band satisfying countless ticket-holders and even finding time to be worshipped by a few lucky groupies. Less than a year into their first tour Electric Knights was one of the biggest names in Metal since Black Sabbath and enjoying every advantage. In a private room backstage Jax's Priceless hands were exploring every subtle curve of the nineteen-year-old flesh on his lap. She still wore her mini-skirt and matching red-heels but nothing else and having fished his manhood from behind the zipper of his pants, left him fully clothed as she validated herself on yet another metal-god's penis.
Lost in his high-riding lust that was nipping at the heels of his receding stage rush, his senses blended together until they cancelled each other out causing a black Zen of stillness. While Jax surrendered fully to what was happening, the enthusiastic groupie arched her back and ground her hips harder into his lap as she moaned heavily into the silence.
The guitarist couldn't hear excited exultations nor see her red curls pulse in front of her parted lips against her panting breath. He could not even smell her perspiring arousal or feel her muscles tighten around his. Had the nights ecstasy not robbed him of his senses he might have heard her carnal groans become screams of terror or see the lust in her eyes behind those tousled curls, dissipate into fear. He might have smelled the acrid copper-tinged aroma of blood as it spilled from the gashes opened by his fingernails or felt the percussion of her frantic but tiny fists upon his shoulder and chest as she fought vainly for her fleeting life.
The band's tie-and-suit manager did hear the commotion and cursed his eyes as they fell upon the brutal scene of a dismembered female body, whose bones had been broken and reshaped into what resembled something out of an H.R. Giger nightmare. His reflex to regurgitate was successfully staved off as he let the business half of his psyche see only a potentially embarrassing ruin for his clients and began the process of repressing future night-terrors and calculated how to remove what was once a carcass of a nameless slut he was sure no one would remember to miss.
When Jax woke up he was covered in blood and semen mixed with female secretions and remembered every detail of his inhuman act. Paralyzed by unbelief and unable even to cry, he looked at the bands manager who was screaming into his cell phone and pacing wildly. “We can pay it! Just get over here now!” The dazed guitarist allowed himself to view the range of his handiwork before squeezing his eyes shut and huddling over with his arms folded in front of him.
He wished with the deepest part of his soul that none of it was real that maybe one of the guys had put something in his beer but horrifically he had complete and total recall of the nights events. Even more sickening was his knowledge of how such a thing had been allowed and finding it near impossible to regret the actions he took that lead to young red-head's death.
It was before Joe had auditioned to play guitar with Electric Knights, an obsessed dreamer with an aching need to be best, the fastest, and the greatest speed guitarist alive-that it had happened. The only thing holding him back had been that his playing was mediocre at best and a decade of technical training had been unable to replace his non-existent talent.
Unwilling or able to surrender his dream, Joe Allen turned to the old shopkeeper of a little-known bookshop that specialized in forgotten magic. Joe's grandfather had been a professor of forgotten spiritual paths and was familiar with the old man who seemed to remain in business despite any apparent customers save for the odd browser.
