Courage: Chapter 1
I'm probably crazy for doing this (okay that's a given) seeing as how I'm not finished with my other fics, but eff it. This story is screaming to come out and play ;) I got the idea for this one while watching VH1--don't ask me, I don't understand how a series of random music videos tie into BT *shrugs* In any event, I have this one planned like a standard ep with guest characters that don't appear later. Call it an extended one-shot if ya like ;)
* I do not own the BT series characters. They belong to a much-more talented author. I am however, more than willing to take credit for characters/scenarios not featured in the books or television series. Not making any money. No copyright infringement intended*
“Ok guys, you’re up! I want to see that crowd fired up and heads banging, you hear me?”
Marshall Langtry, cigar clenched tightly between his teeth and round face slick with sweat, hustled the members of his latest money maker out from behind the stage and out into the screaming crowd. Their style of music left much to be desired compared to his own tastes, but the tidy profit that the previously-unknown garage band called The Minions brought in, was sweeter than honey. Every time they gave a sold-out performance in some of the bigger provinces or booked a gig in one of the more “trendy” clubs-though Marshall considered them little more than gathering places for the city’s deviants, or “goth’s” as they preferred to be called nowadays-he could literally hear the money piling up into his bank account. The little idiots had been so eager to make it big, that they had effectively signed themselves over to one of the most unscrupulous bastards in the Toronto music scene and saw very little profit. Sure they were hot, but as far as accounting went, they were losers in more ways than one.
He straightened the collar of his custom-made suit and rubbed his hands on a monogrammed handkerchief. He had practically been up to his elbows in overzealous fans that had swarmed the band as they had entered the building, and the guys, true showmen that they were, were more than happy to pose for pictures and sign autographs. It wasn’t their congeniality that pissed Marshall off, it was the fact that they were doing it for free out of the goodness of their hearts. He wanted to gag.
“Goddamn waste of valuable resources,” he muttered winding his way carefully around the sea of cables that snaked their way on the floor. “Don’t they realize that they can make a killing selling that stuff at some of their venues?” He would have to have a little talk with them after the show.
From the other side of the curtain came the sound of the guitars tuning up and preparing to get into the first track. The crowd roared and screamed, chanting “Dex! Dex! Dex!” over and over again. Dex Barnett, the lead frontman, lived up to his status and he never failed to drive the ladies wild.
Marshall grinned privately, reveling in the sound of the crowd getting worked up to a fever pitch. “Now that is music to my ears,” he whispered swaying involuntarily to the soaring guitar riff that erupted from the stage, “that is the sound of money being made.” The song built up and he expected to hear Dex’s powerful voice filling the packed auditorium, but there was only the sound of the music carrying on without him. Confused, and more than a little concerned, Marshall made his way to the curtain and peered tentatively out from the corner.
Dex stood there front and center clad in his leather pants and vest, microphone clutched so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white. One by one the instruments began to drop off, and Chad the bassist approached him, concern written all over his face. A murmur went through the crowd, but after a few tense moments, Dex shook his head and said something that seemed to reassure Chad who went back to his place on the stage. Dex motioned for them to restart the number, and the crowd stomped their feet and cheered wildly in eager anticipation.
Dex stalked the length of the stage confidently, body swaying to the rhythm of the music, flashing his brilliant grin at some of the ladies in the front row. They squealed and screamed his name, which only encouraged him more, and when his cue came, he raised the microphone to his lips.
Silence.
Dex seemed to shrink in on himself and stood rooted to the spot, eyes glazed with the microphone in a death grip. A scattering of boos erupted from the crowd and grew so loud that it shook the walls of the concert hall. Chad and the other band members rushed towards him, but Dex had collapsed to the stage, shivering as if he were freezing. Frantic, they heaved him up and began walking with him towards the back of the stage, where Marshall stood cursing at them above the roaring of the crowd. Visions of fame and riches slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, and when the volley of shoes, bottles, and other portable items began raining down on the stage, he knew that he and The Minions were ruined.
Dex was trembling so bad he could barely walk, and his eyes were wide and staring, the pupils dilated to the size of marbles. To Marshall, it looked like he was scared shitless, but of what? Surely not stage fright-that was beyond ridiculous. It had to be something else, something that eventually affected all band members at one point in time at the apex of their career. It had to be drugs, pure and simple.
“Goddamn it, Dex if you’re strung out on me, so help me God I’ll throttle you myself!” He made a move to grab a handful of the leather vest that he wore, but the other guys held him back.
“Cool it, Marshall he ain’t on drugs, okay? Dex wouldn’t touch that stuff in a million years; he looks scared or something.” Marshall took a deep calming breath and willed the vein pulsing in his temple to stop throbbing before he gave himself an aneurysm.
“Fine. So it’s not drugs. What is it then?” He peered into Dex’s face and into his eyes. They looked haunted and hollow like he was gazing out on some nightmarish landscape that only he could see. Marshall hooked his fist under his chin and brought their faces level, then asked the question that was on all of their minds.
“Well? What the hell is going on with you?”
Dex didn’t have any answer for that either.
TBC
* I do not own the BT series characters. They belong to a much-more talented author. I am however, more than willing to take credit for characters/scenarios not featured in the books or television series. Not making any money. No copyright infringement intended*
“Ok guys, you’re up! I want to see that crowd fired up and heads banging, you hear me?”
Marshall Langtry, cigar clenched tightly between his teeth and round face slick with sweat, hustled the members of his latest money maker out from behind the stage and out into the screaming crowd. Their style of music left much to be desired compared to his own tastes, but the tidy profit that the previously-unknown garage band called The Minions brought in, was sweeter than honey. Every time they gave a sold-out performance in some of the bigger provinces or booked a gig in one of the more “trendy” clubs-though Marshall considered them little more than gathering places for the city’s deviants, or “goth’s” as they preferred to be called nowadays-he could literally hear the money piling up into his bank account. The little idiots had been so eager to make it big, that they had effectively signed themselves over to one of the most unscrupulous bastards in the Toronto music scene and saw very little profit. Sure they were hot, but as far as accounting went, they were losers in more ways than one.
He straightened the collar of his custom-made suit and rubbed his hands on a monogrammed handkerchief. He had practically been up to his elbows in overzealous fans that had swarmed the band as they had entered the building, and the guys, true showmen that they were, were more than happy to pose for pictures and sign autographs. It wasn’t their congeniality that pissed Marshall off, it was the fact that they were doing it for free out of the goodness of their hearts. He wanted to gag.
“Goddamn waste of valuable resources,” he muttered winding his way carefully around the sea of cables that snaked their way on the floor. “Don’t they realize that they can make a killing selling that stuff at some of their venues?” He would have to have a little talk with them after the show.
From the other side of the curtain came the sound of the guitars tuning up and preparing to get into the first track. The crowd roared and screamed, chanting “Dex! Dex! Dex!” over and over again. Dex Barnett, the lead frontman, lived up to his status and he never failed to drive the ladies wild.
Marshall grinned privately, reveling in the sound of the crowd getting worked up to a fever pitch. “Now that is music to my ears,” he whispered swaying involuntarily to the soaring guitar riff that erupted from the stage, “that is the sound of money being made.” The song built up and he expected to hear Dex’s powerful voice filling the packed auditorium, but there was only the sound of the music carrying on without him. Confused, and more than a little concerned, Marshall made his way to the curtain and peered tentatively out from the corner.
Dex stood there front and center clad in his leather pants and vest, microphone clutched so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white. One by one the instruments began to drop off, and Chad the bassist approached him, concern written all over his face. A murmur went through the crowd, but after a few tense moments, Dex shook his head and said something that seemed to reassure Chad who went back to his place on the stage. Dex motioned for them to restart the number, and the crowd stomped their feet and cheered wildly in eager anticipation.
Dex stalked the length of the stage confidently, body swaying to the rhythm of the music, flashing his brilliant grin at some of the ladies in the front row. They squealed and screamed his name, which only encouraged him more, and when his cue came, he raised the microphone to his lips.
Silence.
Dex seemed to shrink in on himself and stood rooted to the spot, eyes glazed with the microphone in a death grip. A scattering of boos erupted from the crowd and grew so loud that it shook the walls of the concert hall. Chad and the other band members rushed towards him, but Dex had collapsed to the stage, shivering as if he were freezing. Frantic, they heaved him up and began walking with him towards the back of the stage, where Marshall stood cursing at them above the roaring of the crowd. Visions of fame and riches slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, and when the volley of shoes, bottles, and other portable items began raining down on the stage, he knew that he and The Minions were ruined.
Dex was trembling so bad he could barely walk, and his eyes were wide and staring, the pupils dilated to the size of marbles. To Marshall, it looked like he was scared shitless, but of what? Surely not stage fright-that was beyond ridiculous. It had to be something else, something that eventually affected all band members at one point in time at the apex of their career. It had to be drugs, pure and simple.
“Goddamn it, Dex if you’re strung out on me, so help me God I’ll throttle you myself!” He made a move to grab a handful of the leather vest that he wore, but the other guys held him back.
“Cool it, Marshall he ain’t on drugs, okay? Dex wouldn’t touch that stuff in a million years; he looks scared or something.” Marshall took a deep calming breath and willed the vein pulsing in his temple to stop throbbing before he gave himself an aneurysm.
“Fine. So it’s not drugs. What is it then?” He peered into Dex’s face and into his eyes. They looked haunted and hollow like he was gazing out on some nightmarish landscape that only he could see. Marshall hooked his fist under his chin and brought their faces level, then asked the question that was on all of their minds.
“Well? What the hell is going on with you?”
Dex didn’t have any answer for that either.
TBC