The Day Music Faked Its Own Death - a fictional story by David Charles Kramer
Holy Body slammed back another shot of tequila, the amber liquid burning a familiar path down his throat. The cramped confines of the tour bus felt like a sardine can compared to the sprawling concerts he usually graced. This whole tour was a mess. The bus groaned to a halt, engine sputtering its final breaths.
"Great," he muttered, tossing his glass into a half-empty bottle collection on the table.
Across from him, Mickey Mallens, the seventeen-year-old opening act, barely looked up. He was a good kid, Holy Body would give him that. Talented, too, despite the nasally whine that passed for singing. But the teenager's meteoric rise to fame, fueled by catchy tunes and a savvy manager, felt like a personal slight to Holy Body's hit song after hit song. The tour manager, a greasy-haired man named Frankie "The Fixer" Falucci, burst into the lounge, his face a mask of panic. "Plane's ready, Holy B," he wheezed. "Gotta get you to the next gig."
The irony wasn't lost on anyone. While the famous rockstar headlined, a radio DJ with a silver tongue and a microphone was raking in the real money. "About damn time," Holy Body grumbled, shoving himself to his feet.
The private jet was a luxurious escape from the cramped bus. Plush leather seats, endless alcohol, and a big surprise awaiting everyone on the plane that no one would expect. Mickey, suddenly shy, hovered near the door, clutching his backpack. The other singer on the plane, The Big DJ, held court at the bar, seamlessly transitioning from smooth radio charm to nervous chatter.
As the plane roared down the runway, Holy Body found himself reminiscing about sold-out shows and screaming fans. He downed another drink, feeling a familiar bitterness rise in his throat. "This whole tour is a sham," he declared to the empty air. "Mickey's a one-hit wonder, Big's voice is awful, and I'm the only one here carrying the load!" A nervous giggle escaped Mickey from his corner. The Big DJ, however, remained composed. "Come on, Holy B," he soothed. "You're the legend, the one and only Holy Body. We're all just here to celebrate your legacy."
Holy Body snorted. "Legacy? This is a low paying tour I should have never agreed to!" Suddenly, a metallic glint caught his eye. Mickey, pale-faced and trembling, had pulled a small handgun from his backpack.
"What the…" Holy Body's words died in his throat as the teenager pointed the gun at him. "This changes," Mickey choked out, his voice cracking. "This tour ends now. You're washed up, Holy B. It's my time. I told you in my song ‘Oh I'm Dead’ that your girl Cindy Lou won’t be around no more."
A primal instinct took over. Holy Body reached into his own jacket, a reflex honed by years of shady deals and questionable friends. His hand closed around the cool steel of his concealed weapon. In a flash, two shots rang out. One clipped Mickey's hand, sending the gun clattering to the floor. The other was a shot to the heart.
Chaos erupted. The pilot shrieked, the plane lurched violently. The Big DJ, ever the opportunist, tried to reason with Holy Body, a desperate plea for the rockstar to maintain control of his weapon. But the adrenaline coursed through Holy Body's veins. His life's work, his legacy, threatened by a teenager? He wouldn't allow it.
Three more shots, quick and precise, echoed through the cabin. Mickey slumped to the floor, moaning. Big DJ, his eyes wide with terror, crumpled into his seat. The pilot, his face a contorted mask of fear and rage, threatened to call air traffic control.
Holy Body, fueled by a cocktail of anger and panic, made his move. He lunged for the cockpit door, ignoring the blood oozing from his newly-acquired scar across his temple. Landing the plane was never part of the plan. The impact with the ground ripped the world apart.
The next few months were a blur. A hospital bed, sterile white walls, doctors with concerned faces. They spoke of brain damage, of rehabilitation, of a future that stretched before him like an empty canvas. But what was the point? He was a man condemned, a murderer facing the ultimate punishment.
Then came the scientists, enigmatic figures with a gleam of ambition in their eyes. They spoke of technology, of time manipulation, of an impossible chance at redemption. It was a gamble, a chance to erase the past and forge a new future. Ultimately, the choice was simple. Death row or a chance to rewrite his legacy. Holy Body, the man who had tasted fame and fallen from grace, embraced the offer.
"Great," he muttered, tossing his glass into a half-empty bottle collection on the table.
Across from him, Mickey Mallens, the seventeen-year-old opening act, barely looked up. He was a good kid, Holy Body would give him that. Talented, too, despite the nasally whine that passed for singing. But the teenager's meteoric rise to fame, fueled by catchy tunes and a savvy manager, felt like a personal slight to Holy Body's hit song after hit song. The tour manager, a greasy-haired man named Frankie "The Fixer" Falucci, burst into the lounge, his face a mask of panic. "Plane's ready, Holy B," he wheezed. "Gotta get you to the next gig."
The irony wasn't lost on anyone. While the famous rockstar headlined, a radio DJ with a silver tongue and a microphone was raking in the real money. "About damn time," Holy Body grumbled, shoving himself to his feet.
The private jet was a luxurious escape from the cramped bus. Plush leather seats, endless alcohol, and a big surprise awaiting everyone on the plane that no one would expect. Mickey, suddenly shy, hovered near the door, clutching his backpack. The other singer on the plane, The Big DJ, held court at the bar, seamlessly transitioning from smooth radio charm to nervous chatter.
As the plane roared down the runway, Holy Body found himself reminiscing about sold-out shows and screaming fans. He downed another drink, feeling a familiar bitterness rise in his throat. "This whole tour is a sham," he declared to the empty air. "Mickey's a one-hit wonder, Big's voice is awful, and I'm the only one here carrying the load!" A nervous giggle escaped Mickey from his corner. The Big DJ, however, remained composed. "Come on, Holy B," he soothed. "You're the legend, the one and only Holy Body. We're all just here to celebrate your legacy."
Holy Body snorted. "Legacy? This is a low paying tour I should have never agreed to!" Suddenly, a metallic glint caught his eye. Mickey, pale-faced and trembling, had pulled a small handgun from his backpack.
"What the…" Holy Body's words died in his throat as the teenager pointed the gun at him. "This changes," Mickey choked out, his voice cracking. "This tour ends now. You're washed up, Holy B. It's my time. I told you in my song ‘Oh I'm Dead’ that your girl Cindy Lou won’t be around no more."
A primal instinct took over. Holy Body reached into his own jacket, a reflex honed by years of shady deals and questionable friends. His hand closed around the cool steel of his concealed weapon. In a flash, two shots rang out. One clipped Mickey's hand, sending the gun clattering to the floor. The other was a shot to the heart.
Chaos erupted. The pilot shrieked, the plane lurched violently. The Big DJ, ever the opportunist, tried to reason with Holy Body, a desperate plea for the rockstar to maintain control of his weapon. But the adrenaline coursed through Holy Body's veins. His life's work, his legacy, threatened by a teenager? He wouldn't allow it.
Three more shots, quick and precise, echoed through the cabin. Mickey slumped to the floor, moaning. Big DJ, his eyes wide with terror, crumpled into his seat. The pilot, his face a contorted mask of fear and rage, threatened to call air traffic control.
Holy Body, fueled by a cocktail of anger and panic, made his move. He lunged for the cockpit door, ignoring the blood oozing from his newly-acquired scar across his temple. Landing the plane was never part of the plan. The impact with the ground ripped the world apart.
The next few months were a blur. A hospital bed, sterile white walls, doctors with concerned faces. They spoke of brain damage, of rehabilitation, of a future that stretched before him like an empty canvas. But what was the point? He was a man condemned, a murderer facing the ultimate punishment.
Then came the scientists, enigmatic figures with a gleam of ambition in their eyes. They spoke of technology, of time manipulation, of an impossible chance at redemption. It was a gamble, a chance to erase the past and forge a new future. Ultimately, the choice was simple. Death row or a chance to rewrite his legacy. Holy Body, the man who had tasted fame and fallen from grace, embraced the offer.
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