a short story by Michael Aronovitz
WARNING: These short stories contain horrific images and extreme violence. For every action, there is a reaction, and because music has reached such an unprecedented level of artistry, the evil in the belly of the world has crept to the surface. Please read with extreme caution. Each month, a different super-star band will be cursed, haunted, stalked, and terrorized by vicious serial killers, demented miscreants, blood-sucking zombies, and hideous demon-spirits. Fear is a disease. You will be infected.
Lead Characters:
Danny Worsnop – lead vocal, keys, programming
Ben Bruce – lead guitar, vocal, keys, programming
James Cassells – drums
Cameron Liddell – rhythm and lead guitar
Sam Bettley – bass
Heavy Reading:
Before you delve into Volume 3 of MUSIC HELL, we strongly encourage you to enhance your reading experience by streaming Asking Alexandria’s self-titled fifth full-length album, Asking Alexandria, released on December 15th, 2017, via Sumerian Records.
Danny Worsnop and Ben Bruce skidded to a halt beneath the EXIT sign with the burned-out lamp head. Before them was a dim stairwell leading to the basement level of the Pennsylvania Convention Center.
“Can this be right?” Ben asked, breathless from the run.
“Seems so,” Danny whispered.
“Save your pipes,” Ben said, “I mean, I get it. This is supposed to feel weird, like a wrong turn or something, but that’s the point, right?”
They pushed through and clapped down the stairs to the dark cement landing. Danny was in the lead and he came on so hard he had to put his hands up to brace himself before banging against the steel door. He took a moment to cup his hands and peer through the small window with the diamond wire in it, his breath making misted ovals at the bottom. Parking garage, empty except for a space halfway down to the right. It was a Pennsylvania Convention Center Camaro as promised. Vintage. But the part about it being in mint condition was a bold-faced, mother fucking lie.
Danny shoved the door open and they rushed through the archway. It smelled like an old viaduct. The concrete in here was darkened with street grime, and there were watermarks shadowed up the walls in the creases.
Backed in to slot #53 was the Camaro, 1981 – Z28, just like the parade creature had promised, but the roof was bashed in as if a boulder had fallen on it. The front end was mangled, the grille bashed flat, and the hood was tent-pitched up, blocking most of the shattered windshield area. The front fender hung off it like an arm in a sling. The side panels were scarred and scorched with black streaks and most of the paint had bubbled and flaked.
“So, what’s so special about this piece of shit,” Danny grunted. He strode over to the driver’s side door and reached for it.
“Don’t, man,” Ben said. “It’s not worth the risk. There’s too much here we don’t know.”
Danny looked back at his best friend since grade school, and choked out the words in a gravely rasp.
“I’ve got to get my voice back and sing tonight, Ben. No matter what. And I can’t keep running away from the dark shit.”
It was the mascot, the stalker, the freak in the parade outfit that caused this whole mess. Of course, they hadn’t seen him at first. The band had just walked out of the Hampton Inn and gathered there to nail down their plans for the day. The morning sky was gray and there was steam coming up from the street grates. Sam and James were stamping their feet. Ben blew on his hands. Danny almost had to shout over a passing commuter bus, and he wished he’d worn a heavier jacket.
“Right then,” he said. “Meet back here at 4:00 PM, yeah?”
“Which room again?” Cameron said offhandedly. He was looking over Sam’s shoulder, thinking he saw their Uber with its hazards flashing in the valet parking area.
“Mezzanine 7,” Danny said, “first on the right off the elevator. They have a big conference table in there and a smart board.”
“Don’t know how to work those,” Ben said, grinning.
“Don’t need it,” Danny said, “just a note pad and a pen is all. I want to review the light cues, making sure we’ve all got the pattern and sequence.”
No one joked about that one. Last night at the Rams Head Live! in Baltimore, there were a couple of times that they’d been caught out of position during the climactic breaks in “Someone, Somewhere” and “Killing You.” Didn’t really taint the overall effect of their show, already hailed by critics as “magnificent and massive,” but it made the changes come off with less of a kick. Danny had come to a place where he was working on the little things, the small imperfections. Was it a bit of a pain in the ass? Sure, but he hadn’t lashed out. It was good, it was fair, and everyone was in agreement that welcoming him back into the fold was the best thing they’d done in their careers. No offense to Denis or anything, but no one sang like Danny Worsnop. Period. And he didn’t have to go to a scream vocal all the time to stay heavy.
Their new music proved it.
Their fifth album from Sumerian Records was self-titled for a reason. It was like a second chance to debut, to open themselves to the world with something fresh, adrenaline-charged, and above all, authentic.
Cameron strode off with Sam and James to catch their ride to Dirty Franks down South 13th Street where they were meeting up with some old Jersey friends for a few shots and beers, and Danny suddenly gripped Ben by the shoulder.
“What? Fuckin’ hell.”
“Look,” Danny said. He pointed across Race Street to the Pennsylvania Convention Center. There was a figure there dressed in what looked like a parade costume: a huge light brown teddy bear wearing oversized reading glasses and dancing around like a circus creature.
“That’s Clutch!”
“Who?” Ben said.
“Clutch,” Danny said, starting across Race Street. “He’s the mascot for the Philadelphia Auto Show. I thought it closed February 4th, but maybe I was wrong.”
Ben laughed, jogging next to his friend. Since making the “Into the Fire” video with the old-school black Mustang, Danny had become somewhat of a muscle car junkie. He’d mentioned the Auto Show a week ago actually, and though Ben couldn’t have really cared less about stuff like that, approaching some street performer in a bear suit was far better than asking concert audiences to help them work out Danny’s issues with alcoholism, right?
Still…if this was the official mascot for the show, then where was his sign board, the table with tickets and coupons, the rack with the merch and cheap giveaways?
∴ If this newsletter has done anything for you, it would mean everything to me to hear it. Hit reply and tell me what you think. One sentence is enough. Regardless, thank you for reading. Thank you for reading in an age of increasing illiteracy, cultural stagnancy, and attention divestment. You are doing something revolutionary. ∴
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