pan6467

PROLOGUE

The bluish smoke from the cigarette found the sole sliver of light and rose up to its source, a quarter sized hole in the nicotine stained blind. He laid on the bed, his bottle of Maker's Mark half empty on the floor in arm's reach. He couldn't sleep without the booze and the pills. A tough lesson they taught him.

He was in his place now and he knew sleep was coming. He knew that one day the combination of the pills and booze would put him to sleep permanently, but he didn't much care anymore. Life had taken a strange turn and slammed him into a brick wall. Sometimes when his head was clear from the booze and pills and the Meth and coke, he would realize he was an unfortunate. So many of his friends had died from the drugs when they were young enough not to grow up and live in Hell. There were a few that had cleaned themselves up, but they were still on the outside looking in and waiting...... waiting...... waiting.

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CHAPTER 1


J.C. awoke to the phone ringing. He reached down and grabbed the bottle of Maker's Markand took a swig as he rose and stumbled to answer the phone.

"Yeah, it's your dime but my time so make it good," he sighed into the phone, then took another drink.

"J.C. Northcutt?" cam the answer from an unfamiliar voice.

"Yeah," he said mockingly into the phone, "you called me you should know who I am. Now who the fuck are you and what do you want?"

"Mister Northcutt, sorry to bother you, but your manager said this was the best time to get a hold of you....."

"Well, you have me, but not much longer, unless you cut to the point."

"Ok," the man's voice started to speed up and unsure, "I'm Frank Stafford and I am trying to get a hold of you and your band... well what's left of them."

J.C. laughed. "Dude we broke up 5-6 years ago. We called it quits before the phone stopped ringing."

"Well, you see, Mr. Northcutt... Can I call you J.C.?"

"Sure." J.C. answered as he found his pack of Winstons and pulled one out.

"Well, you see, J.C., I ... well, I am Frank Stafford and I...."

J.C. interupted, "We've already covered that... Frank, was it?"

"I'm sorry, just, well, I'm talking to an idol of mine and I'm nervous."

J.C. lit his cigarette took a deep drag, exhaled and replied, "Well, I'm here, now what the fuck can I do for you?"

"Sorry, anyway, J.C. I work for Zamprata Records and it seems that you still owe us one new material album and we need you to confirm the band breakup and that none of you are planning solo projects. This is just so we can take this obligation off the books."

"I see, we owe one more album? Well, tell your people that we definately broke up. And as far as I know the rest of the band dropped off the Earth when we played that last gig."

"Ok, then. So can I pencil you as coming in at 3 P.M. Friday to sign an affadavit confirming that."

Taking another swallow, J.C. answered, "Yeah, I can be there."

"Good then see you at 3 Friday, I'll send a limo to pick you up."

"Cool," J.C. said as he hung up the phone and dove back into the safety of his bed.

J.C. took his last drag off the cigarette and thought about the band as he drifted back into a slumber.

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I just love people who use the excuse "I use/do this because I LOVE the feeling/joy/happiness it brings me" and expect you to be ok with that as you watch them destroy their life blindly following. My response is, "I like to put forks in an eletrical socket, just LOVE that feeling, can't ever get enough of it, so will you let me put this copper fork in that electric socket?"