In It For the Fame
Inferno's sprawled out on a chair and he has a headache. There's a dry, cottony taste in his mouth, and his body aches. There's a liquor bottle at his feet, high-heeled feet and fishnet legs and when he licks his lips, he can taste dried, waxy lipstick and metal.
It takes all his strength to lift his head and survey the room.
He doesn't recognize where he's at, or most of the people he's with. They're all in various states of undress, grouped in twos, threes, fours and more. They all look as dead as he feels, but there's no blood, only body glitter and spilled champagne and lube and semen and occasionally a discarded condom oozing onto the floor.
He's the only one alone, sitting on his cushy, bowl-shaped chair like a throne, and he's the Queen of Decadence, lording over his subjects.
His King was nowhere to be found. He hated these parties, hated any sort of social interaction all together, but sometimes, he'd be there in the morning anyway, all neatly pressed and pristine, a carton of cold take-out in one hand and a bottle of aspirin in the other. He liked those mornings best, because as all the other rockers and movie stars and hangers-on slowly woke from their drug and alcohol induce stupor, he would be the only one with someone by his side after the music fades and the lights go down.
Because he and Scorponok were more than just two bandmates having a quick tumble on the back of the tour bus when there was no one else to do; they were Colony.
It didn't matter if their bodies were flesh and that their bond was limited brief flashes of physical contact. Their hearts were steel and their pulses sparked in sync, electricity flowing between them in ways no human could ever hope to understand. And every moment they lived, and breathed, and sang, and drank, and danced, and fucked, and strove to attain perfection in the service of the true Queen, guided always by His hand from the shadows and the balcony and carefully worded text messages sent to their phones. Every performance, every party, every step he took, every smile he faked, every kiss he stole was painstakingly planned from beginning to end.
And the world danced along with him, nothing more than puppets on a string.
It takes all his strength to lift his head and survey the room.
He doesn't recognize where he's at, or most of the people he's with. They're all in various states of undress, grouped in twos, threes, fours and more. They all look as dead as he feels, but there's no blood, only body glitter and spilled champagne and lube and semen and occasionally a discarded condom oozing onto the floor.
He's the only one alone, sitting on his cushy, bowl-shaped chair like a throne, and he's the Queen of Decadence, lording over his subjects.
His King was nowhere to be found. He hated these parties, hated any sort of social interaction all together, but sometimes, he'd be there in the morning anyway, all neatly pressed and pristine, a carton of cold take-out in one hand and a bottle of aspirin in the other. He liked those mornings best, because as all the other rockers and movie stars and hangers-on slowly woke from their drug and alcohol induce stupor, he would be the only one with someone by his side after the music fades and the lights go down.
Because he and Scorponok were more than just two bandmates having a quick tumble on the back of the tour bus when there was no one else to do; they were Colony.
It didn't matter if their bodies were flesh and that their bond was limited brief flashes of physical contact. Their hearts were steel and their pulses sparked in sync, electricity flowing between them in ways no human could ever hope to understand. And every moment they lived, and breathed, and sang, and drank, and danced, and fucked, and strove to attain perfection in the service of the true Queen, guided always by His hand from the shadows and the balcony and carefully worded text messages sent to their phones. Every performance, every party, every step he took, every smile he faked, every kiss he stole was painstakingly planned from beginning to end.
And the world danced along with him, nothing more than puppets on a string.