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?"

pan6467

Sean Christopher was outside his Lexington, Ohio home playing tennis with his son as his lovely wife came walking toward them phone in hand.

"Honey, it's some guy from Zamprata records, he says he needs to talk to you," she said.

He ran off the court and took the phone from her as he kissed her, in a way that she missed.

"Hello, Sean here."

"So good to get a hold of you Mr. Christopher. Frank Stafford here, with Zamprata records. Do you have a moment?" Came the reply from the other end.

Sean didn't recognize the British accent but he hadn't talked to anyone from the label since that last concert, the concert he said farewell to his fans and best friends at. He had to because the rock star life was killing him and the respect he had for the band members that were family to him.

"Sure, after all you helped me make the money to pay for this."

"Mr, Christopher, may I call you Sean?"

"Please."

"Well, like I said, I'm Frank Stafford at Zamprata Records and well, we have found that your band owes us one more album. Now, we realize this is just a formality, but we need you to come in this Friday and sign an affadavit stating that the band nor you plan to release any new material."

Sean laughed. "I haven't even picked up a guitar since that last concert man, let alone try to write any music."

"I know, but it is something we need to close off our books."

"I see, well.... " Sean hesitated, "Friday, huh?"

"Yes sir."

"I can be there, I guess." He hesitated then asked, half scared of the answer half waiting in anticipation for a positive answer to it. "Have you talked to J.C, Phil or any of the other guys?"

"Well, you are my second call, I did get a hold of J.C. and he'll be there."

Sean wanted so badly to ask how J.C. was but couldn't, besides it sounded like they'd see each other Friday.

"So, Sean I'll send you plane tickets and have a hotel ready for you to spend the weekend here in L.A. I do have one more question. Do you know how I can reach any of the others?"

"Well, the Sandels last I heard had a bar going in Phoenix and Phil........ I can't answer for. After that last show and the fight, none of us really have talked to each other."

"I see, well thank you, Sean and I'll see you Friday at 3PM?"

"I'll be there, but you may want security around ...... you know we had that reputation as fighters and destroyers."

Frank laughed a polite laugh on the other end as he hung up.

"Perhaps, I can take the family to Disneyland and use that as an excuse for going," Sean thought as he tried to figure out how to explain the trip to his wife.
=======================================================

__________________
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?"

pan6467

The bar was dimly lit and except for Mary setting up the tables, only Mark and Mike were there. They were discussing how to get the nightclub back on it's feet. After the drug bust and the parking lot shooting business crashed.

"Mark, we have got to do something. It's been 2 months and we are dying here. Maybe another 2, 3 months at most and then we're broke, bro." Mark said as he looked at the books trying to make the figures somehow look good in his head.

"Mike, you worry too much. We'll make it, besides we aren't...." the phone rang and interupted Mark.

Mike reached for the phone and answered.

"Sandel's Beach House, Mike speaking."

"Mr. Sandel, Frank Stafford from Zamprata Records, do you have a moment?"

"Sure, but I don't know why you're calling me the band broke up. Mark and I have moved on."

"I understand, but there seems to be a problem and we need for you and your brother to come to L.A. and sign off on you contract."

"I see, well we can probably be there in a month or so."

"Well, I've contacted J.C. and Sean and they are coming in Friday at 3 and we would like to get everyone here at the same time to sign."

" I see. Well, Mr. ummmm...." Mike said trying to sound disinterested.

"Stafford."

"Mr. Stafford, Mark and I run a hot nightclub and Fridays are our busiest night, we really can't afford to miss out."

"Well, Zamprata is willing to pay travel expenses and reimburse you for the lost time."

"Well if you are paying the least we can do is be there. You say Sean and J.C. will be there? Fuck, haven't seen those assholes since the the fight. You keep J.C. from my brother man, Mark's been clean now for 4 years and that waste of a fuck loves to take down others into his paranoid delusional drug trips."

"I assure you, this will be a strictly professional meeting. We just need all 5 of you to come in and sign off on your contracts. We'll buy you out and you're done."

"What about Phil? You mentioned Sean and J.C. what about the true brains and soul behind our music, Phil."

"We've tried to locate him but it seems noone knows anything about him after the split. Family, friends, noone knows anything, I was hoping you or your brother may have something.... if not then we'll have to have a member of his family sign off as a power of attorney."

"Fuck that man. The band was his family, the fights and the final breakup of the band destroyed that man. He was better than all of us combined. I can tell you this about him because I was the closest anyone ever got to him. With the money from our last record, he bought a boat and parked it somewhere in the Virgin Islands. He knew the end was coming fast and he told me he was just going to spend his life sailing the Carribean and writing his memoirs."

There was a deafening silence on Stafford's end of the phone that lasted for seemingly minutes, before a relieved voice answered, "I see, do you know how to contact him?"

"No, by the end he trusted noone, said J.C. and that fucking slut of a sister was out to destroy him and take away everything he worked for. That last fight was over how J.C. was taking the band over and using the press and his sister to destroy Phil's life. He thought we were all in on it, and I'll admit he was right about everyone else, but not me, I loved that man more than myself at the time."

"Well, I thank you Mr. Sandel and I hope I can find him."

"Try looking up a yacht called 'Rusted Tiger', you'll find him."

__________________
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?"

pan6467

It was Thursday 3 PM when Zamprata's private detective finally contacted Frank Stafford.

"I found him, Mr. Stafford," came the gruff voice over the phone. "His boat is off the coast of Jost Van Dyke. Noone really talks much but what I did find out is he comes in once, twice a week gives a show at a bar, they give him some food and a little cash and he goes back to his boat."

"Have you made contact yet?"

"No, I wanted to wait and see what you wanted to do."

"Well we need him here in less than 3 days do whatever it takes," Frank Stafford said coldly as he hung up.

Jack Dillon knew what that meant. He had known Philk and all the Steel Tigers back when they were playing to thousands and their songs were overplayed on every hard rock radio station. He never got too close to Phil, noone really did except Mike Sandel and even then there was tension and distrust on Phil's part that everyone saw except Mike. Back in those days, when everything was going right everyone ignored the man's eccentricities. Hell, the rest of the band was so in awe of his talent or in J.C. and Mark's case so stoned, that they may not have seen the madness.

Then Phil married that bitch sister of J.C.'s and the end came fast. Jack remembered how he never saw a man so in love yet so blind to what a woman could do.

__________________
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?"

pan6467

Jack Dillon walked into the sparsely lit beach shack of a bar and looked around. The people in here were not tourists, they were the ones who society turned their backs on, the drunks and the burnouts, who for whatever their reason dropped out of life and came here to escape the real world.

"Hi there 'tender. Do you have a Dr. Pepper and maybe some peanuts?" Jack asked as he sat on a well worn barstool.

"I got booze." Said the bartender in a voice that had smoked way too many cigarettes. The Bartender stood about 5 foot 9 and weighed probably 250 pounds, most of which appeared to have been muscle that he allowed to turn to flab.

"I'll take a water then."

"I told ya, I just have booze. Water, and anything else is just used as mixers," said the bartender as he glared suspiciously at Jack. "Now either you buy booze and mind your business like everyone else in here or I ask you to leave."

The bartender looked over Jack's shoulder and nodded. Jack looked to see a man in the corner, leaning his chair against the wall. He had a well worn fedora covering his face patted at his left shoulder, which harnessed a pistol.

"Now, sir you either order or my friend there takes you for a walk down the pier."

"Sorry, didn't know house rules," said Jack, as he laid out 10 crisp $100 bills. "I'm just here to meet up with an old friend and to have a drink. I'll take a Bacardi and pineapple juice."

The bartender smiled and turned away to pour the drink, "now you're talking. Who's your friend, I may know him."

"Phil Andrews, he runs a little sloop around these parts called the "Rusted Tiger". Know him?"

The bartender stopped pouring and looked at Jack's reflection in the mirror. Jack saw the bartender's hand slowly reaching for a revolver he had not very well hidden between bottles.

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I'm an old friend of his from 10-15 years ago. Just want to see how he's been."

"He ain't got no friends. The man is a hermit and keeps to himself. He hurts noone and noone bothers him."

The bartender whirled around with gun in hand. Jack could tell the bartender was nervous and not one to truly know how to use a gun. Jack could handle him, but the man in the fedora stood up with his pistol, in unshaking hands with the look of a man that has killed for fun, Jack knew he better talk fast.

"Ok man, look, I'm just from the record company and they sent me down here to talk to him about reforming the band and maybe trying to go out for one last show."

The bartender put his gun down and smiled. Jack looed back into the corner the man in the fedora was sitting again, his feet propped up on the table.

"Why didn't you say so. I been talking to him, trying to get him back out there since he started coming in. Hell, I loved his music and the band. Thing is he comes in on Sundays, plays his set and disappears for the next week."

"So you have no idea how to get a hold of him? We need him in L.A. tomorrow."

"Nope, but if I were someone hiding, I'd choose that little sandbar bout 20 miles due East. It protects a cove and only someone truly desperate to hide would find a way past that sandbar and get into the cove."

"Thanks." Jack said as he stood up to leave. He pushed the bills towards the bartender. "Keep the change."

"Sure thing, good luck man. He's a talented fuck that needs a true audience not these dregs."

Jack left, thinking how good that Rum would have tasted and how easy it had been to order it. "10 years of sobriety and I could have blown it in 20 seconds," he said to himself.

Jack walked with purpose to the touring company with the island's only helicopter.

"Need to go pick someone up."

"Sure, mon." said the man behind the counter in a Jamaican voice. "Where will be picking up this person."

"A cove 20 miles due East."

"That's some hazardous area mon. Wind sheer that will tear apart my chopper, I'm not sure I can do that. Even if we do make it, there isn't much of a place to set down."

"I'm willing to pay 10 grand for the ride there and 50 when you bring us back. Would that be enough to cover any wind sheer damages?"

"Right on, let's go."

The helicopter was old and looking in need of repair. Jack followed the tour guide pilot into the ride and buckled in. After a rocky takeoff the ride was fairly smooth. As the pilot pointed to the cove, the turbulence from the wind started to rock the airship.

"You can do this?" Jack asked, a little fear in his voice.

The pilot just smiled as he steered towards a well kept and very nice looking yacht. The pilot landed smoothly on the yacht's helipad and Jack got out.

There was a man standing alone on the deck, the sun behind him so that it made it difficult to see his face.

"Jack, old friend," the man said walking towards him. "I've heard about the others getting together in L.A. Friday and I figured they would send you."

The man turned out to be Phil Andrews. Jack walked towards him and gave him a welcome hug.

"Phil, good to see you. So you're coming then?"

Phil laughed. "I don't think I want to record another album, Jack. J.C. and his sister set me up, they took everything I publicly had and thought they left me with nothing. But such is life."

"Then if you knew I was coming why didn't you run? You know that by midnight Friday your contract is officially over, I think you could have hid till then."

"Jack, my friend I'm tired of running. I like you Jack I wanted to tell you no face to face."

"But we have the Sandels, and we even have Sean."

"How is Michael? You know he was a great friend from the beginning all the way through the bitter end. He's a good man." Phil said glaring out at the sea.

Before Jack could answer Phil continued, "Let me tell you a story Jack and if you honestly could go back and be with those guys then...... well.... I'll go."

"You have a deal, Phil"

__________________
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?"

pan6467

"We started out the 5 of us playing clubs in Mansfield, Akron, Canton, the mid sized towns, but we knew we got our break when we hit Cleveland. I wrote a few songs in no time and we improvised the music when we got there. We all trusted each other back then.

The Sandels, Sean, and I, we were all family. Hell, we grew up together, we knew each others secrets and where the bodies were buried so to speak. Our families had timeshares in Nag's head and we'd vacation together. I got that fuck Sean his first lay in Columbus when we were 17. The 4 of us snuck into a club and drank till we got stupid. Then Sean and I snuck out of the hotel room and found some drunk 20 something housewives who were out because their husbands were on some kind of a trip and .... well needless to say Sean lost his childhood.

It was then we decided to live like that and we dedicated our live to the band. We started playing parties and local bars for tips, when J.C. started following us around like a lost puppy dog. He soon became one of us though. Those were the best times.

Never met such a fucking cocky ass in my life before then. Thought he knew and could do it all. His confidence was overrated except for his guitar playing. Man, the fuck knew how to play that guitar. Made Eddie Van Halen look like an amateur to us.

I met J.C.'s sister and we made her our manager and I made her my wife, but wasn't all that serious at first.

We got the rep as a party band but the best sound and energy onstage. Then some guy from Zampata came along wanting to sign us. It was J.C. that took over. Hell, all I cared about was making music, fucking the groupies and blowing my mind. J.C. sold us a song and dance and told us how Zampata was going to make us bigger than any other band. So we all signed on the dotted line, never reading a word of it."

Phil stopped and shook his head wiped his eyes and took a drink of his lemonade.

"Well, we ended up huge. 15 number 1 singles, 10 multi-platinum albums, we were the biggest concert draw in the world for 7 straight years. Problem was the only one getting money, was J.C.Don't get me wrong we didn't live in poverty, but while J.C. bought mansions in Aspen, Jamaica, and La Jolla with cash..... course he calimed the houses were the band's and anyone of us could use them at any time. But whenever we asked, he'd make a lame excuse. Meanwhile, the rest of us were living in debt with mortgages. But it was all good, we still lived lives we never thought possible.

You knew all that, though, Jack. Hell, you were there. What you and the band didn't know was I found the contracts in Diane's drawer one night. For some reason I decided to read them over. Turned out, the contracts gave all ownership of the band's music to J.C. and his sister, he had everything. All we were considered was his support and our share was 15% divided 4 ways of all the royalties and tours.

I felt used and went to J.C. and his sister and that's when the fighting started. Diane had J.C. so fucked up on the drugs she was feeding him he had no idea what was going on. I went to the others but they were all doing their own thing and none of them would listen. Mark tried but Mike was so drugged out and hanging with J.C. so much that Mark was more scared of Mike overdosing or worse killing someone in a car accident.

Sean was into Stacey and he got lucky with her dad being so rich. He didn't really care about what was going on. All he would say is that we signed the contracts and if I had cared so much why didn't I read it then.

J.C. and Diane had the band so wrapped around them that I knew I could never win. So when it came time to record, I sat out and demanded my fair cut. Zampata knew I was the band, regardless of what J.C and Diane tried to say, so they cut me a deal to play.

And that was it. By the end of recording we had stopped speaking to each other, Diane and I were divorced, and the band was dead. Our last tour the only 2 talking to each other were Mike and J.C. and that was about drug deals. All we did was get onstage play and when we walked off we went seperate ways and met onstage in the next town for the next show. Course we weren't the only band doing that, I suppose.

The last show, all we did was fight even onstage. We sounded like shit, Mike and J.C. were so fucked up and off tempo that the audience nearly rioted for their money back.

When I walked offstage, I didn't want anything to do with any of them. They all betrayed the fans, the band and me.

I walked away owning only the songs I'd written for the last album and the ones I sold to other bands. I was the lucky one. The Sandels barely had enough to buy their nightclub, Sean married into big money but none of it was his."

Phil stopped and sighed, "So that's it, Jack. Why would I want to go back to that?"

Jack stared at Phil and saw a man that had given up.

"This is your chance to go back and correct the mistakes, bro. You sign the release we pay you and you're done."

"I just don't know if I can face those fucks anymore. Every song I wrote was a part of me and they let that bastard and his sister steal it all."

"Look, Phil I sympathize with you, but you signed the contract also and you have this last obligation to make. If you don't come Zampata could sue you for whatever you do have left. Besides man, all you guys are forever bound to each other until you sign off."

"Ok, fuck it, maybe we'll all hug and kiss...... or we could all just draw guns and truly end it."

__________________
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?"