Farewell Tour by Chase Block

Farewell Tour

By Chase Block

The flashbulbs cast a strobe on the five, long haired, leather clad men in various states of their mid-sixties. The rapid clip of camera shutters accompanied the sound of shouts from the press corps. The sound of fame.

“You there! Liquorice lip!” The lead singer for Gatesohell, Roger Cummings, sat in the center of the table, calling on the reporter with a thin black mustache.

“Michael Cervil, Metal Digest. How does it feel, playing your last show, ever?”

“Pretty good, mate. Next question.” Roger said, eliciting chuckles from the assembly. “‘Za bit, how’z you say, whimsful.”

“Wistful,” Charles Sitton, the drummer, corrected him.

“Yea, ‘at’s wot I said, whimsful,” Roger said. “It’s been a long road, you know? To fink we started ‘ere in Forgesbury, now endin’ ‘ere, makes you feel we’ve gone full circle.” He spoke with a thick Kentish, informed by elements of Cockney he absorbed over the years he struggled to make it in London.

Black John, the rhythm guitarist, continued Roger’s thought. “Some people don’t realize, our first show was here at Forgesbury Odeon, opening for, who was it?”

“Cypher,” three of his bandmates said in unison.

“Right. An’ that show was the first concert played at the Odeon, ever. Now, our farewell show is the last concert ever played at the Odeon ’fore they tear the old girl down. It’s like ‘e said, wistful. Got lotsa mem’ries in this place. I mean, in this very room, I fucked a girl there, fucked one there,” he said, pointing to various corners. More laughter from the reporters echoed through the hall. Black John called on another, “You there!”

“Simon Stevens, Guitar Talk, question is for Ashford. On every Gatesohell album, there’s been a guitar track called ‘Nigel’s Song,’ but they’re all very different from each other. Every question you’ve ever been asked about this, you’ve always said you’d give a proper answer someday. With this last interview, isn’t it time for that proper answer?”

The lead guitarist leaned in, his eyes shielded by mirrored shades. “The song speaks for itself, knowottamean? It’s bits an’ pieces, innit?”

“With all due respect, sir, no, I don’t know what you mean. Could you elaborate?”

If Ashford was getting agitated, no one could tell. He remained cool, hidden behind sunglasses. The only indication came from the moments of uneasy silence as he neglected to answer. Davey Souter, the keyboardist, butted in. “Come on, man, ‘Nigel’s Song’ is just Ash muckin’ about. He does it all the time, in practice, in the studio, and when we isn’t payin’ attention, some producer starts recordin’ it. First album, we donno what to call it, so we named it ‘Nigel’s Song.’ Next album, same thing happens, we was jokin’ sayin’ we should call it ‘Nigel’s Song’ again. After that it just become a tradition. That’s it, man, all the story there is. Next question!”

Reporters clamored for attention, but the insistent reporter from Guitar Talk pressed on. “Sorry, one more, asking about the Amanda Fox case. We know from court documents some settlement was reached with her family after the ‘Virgin Blood’ lyrics case. Now you’re retiring, are you free to disclose details from that settlement, what I assume’s been sealed under NDA all these years?”

Everyone in the room stared back at the reporter, awestruck at his temerity, even his press colleagues.

Black John answered. “What the fuck kinda question’s that?”

“I’m a journalist, sir, just doing my job.”

Roger also chimed in, “Wot, diggin’ up the past? No one’s said anyfin’ ‘bout that for decades, mate. Nearly forgot ‘bout it meself. Not interested in ‘memberin’ all the details, neeva. Piss off, then, wouldya mate?”

The reporters jumped to be next. “Sir Bowler Hat.”

A man wearing a bowler atop his long hair, eyeliner, and earring spoke.“Thank you, Orville Hamilton, Forgesbury Gazette. Your persona as a band has always been that of devil worshippers, and-”

“Demon worshippers, mate, get it right,” John said.

“Yes, of course. You’ve been fairly consistent with it, can we expect to see more of this as you part ways after retirement? You don’t have to keep the charade any longer, do you?”

“What charade?” Black John replied to laughs. John and Roger always knew how to work the room. “Next! You there, casaba-tits!”

A well endowed woman smiled and stood, flicking the brown ringlets that cascaded over her shoulders. “Cathy Cornish, All-Star-”

“Yes you are, Miss Cornish,” Roger interrupted, with the sort of chauvinism that still worked among rock stars in their natural habitat, but was unacceptable anywhere else in modern society.

She shot back a seductive smirk. “What will happen to Nigel?” she asked, referring to the large animatronic demon that was a fixture on every album cover and at their concerts.

“He’s retirin’, too! Fink ‘e bought ‘isself a chalet in Lucerne or somefin’” Roger answered.

Cathy Cornish remained silent, maintaining an expectant smile, patient that a real answer was forthcoming.

Davey answered. “We’re considering cutting him up, selling commemorative swatches of his skin to the fans. Collector’s items, charity auctions, that sort of thing. Not sure yet.”

Black John spoke. “But I tell you wot, Cornish, you can have a backstage pass to the finale, and see for yourself  wot happens. You savvy?”

The buxom reporter winked at the table as she sat.

“One more question!” Black John said. “You, oxford and bowtie!”

“Randall Smith, Etcetera Magazine. Can we get a comment,  an epitaph, any word at all from Linus?”

Linus Trundle, the notoriously silent bassist was positioned at the end. He leaned back in the folding chair, his boots propped up on the table, arms folded. He smiled behind his own pair of dark glasses.

“Not bloody likely, mate. Fing you donno ‘bout Linus there iz it used to be he wouldn’t shut up, so Nigel snapped out ‘is tongue in ‘73.” The reporters laughed at Roger’s answer.

***

The night of their final show, Gatesohell literally brought the house down. A cookie-cutter arena built in the early seventies, Forgesbuty Odeon was slated for demolition, getting replaced by pricy condos.

As its floor emptied, Black John had his way with Cathy Cornish in the green room. His face fit her enormous breasts perfectly. He found all sorts of fun things to do under her skirt, until he took it off completely and introduced her to Little John. He finished inside her, and leaned back on the couch. She dismounted, then turned to pour herself a shot from the bar. John watched her perfectly shaped bottom as it jiggled its way across the room. At the small of her back, he noticed her tramp stamp was the old-school Gatesohell logo, the one used on their first three albums.

“You’re a big fan of ours, eh, Cornish?”

“The biggest. Since I was a little girl. My brother used to play your records all the time. Blew the speakers playing Howling Knight. Dad made him pay thirty quid to replace them, had to get an extra job at the corner shop./” Cathy tossed back the shot and then poured another, turning back around to bring it to Black John. Her mound was unshaven, like the girls had back when Gatesohell was in its prime, the way John liked it. The naked hourglass perfection that sauntered towards him brought back so many memories.

“Can I ask? No, nevermind,” she said, turning her face in embarrassment

“What is it?” Black John replied as he tossed back the whiskey.

“It’s just, that reporter. He asked you about Amanda Fox. I don’t know much about that, it was really before my time, and not much has been written about it since. Can you tell me what you wouldn’t tell him?”

He rubbed his fingers over her skin, which responded in gooseflesh. “I suppose if you was wearing a wire I’d know it. What I tell you here can’t leave this room, savvy?”

“Of course,” Cathy lied.

“She went missing at our show in, god it must be, what, ‘76?”

“I suppose,” Cathy said, knowing full well when it was.

“Well, I know what happ-” John was cut off by the door slamming open. It was Roger.

“‘Ello, ‘ello, wot ‘ave we here? Nice to see you again, love!”

Cathy instinctively searched for a bedsheet, finding none on the couch. Once she recognized the intruder, she relaxed. She would have bedded anyone in the band, and wasn’t ashamed to show them her assets. Black John had just gotten to her first.

“What is it, Rog? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yeah, well so is we. It’s time. Linus’ callin’,” Roger replied.

“Bloody hell,” Black John said, standing to pull on his pants, his cock swinging as he rose. Roger was unphased. “You want to come? Meet Linus?”

Cathy was beside herself. Linus wasn’t just mysteriously silent, he was extremely reclusive. There had been no interviews, no legends among the groupies, no tales among other bands they’d toured with throughout the decades. As she saw it, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. “Absolutely,” she stood and walked toward the door.

“You want clothes?” Roger asked.

She pulled on panties and a t-shirt, leaving the rest on the floor.

They led her toward the stage. The arena was completely vacant. The riggers and roadies that would normally tear the set down were all out celebrating the last show on the Farewell Tour, leaving time to pack it up tomorrow. Thus, the stage was still intact. The instruments were all still plugged in. The tallow candles resting atop tall wrought iron candlesticks were still lit. The massive cauldrons that bookended the stage were likewise still fuming. From her new point of view, Cathy could see there was a pentagram painted on stage, marking the position where Roger would take his place to sing. At three of its five points, Charles, Davey, and Linus waited.

Nigel towered over all of them. His ochre face, arms, and torso were currently frozen, but the sienna gossamer in his wings fluttered from the conditioned air that ventilated the arena. The light in his eyes still shined a thick crimson light. He was obscured only by Charles’ eighteen piece drum set.

Cathy walked, her smooth, bare legs catching the stage lights, her braless breasts bouncing with each step. She soaked it all in, a moment to savor.

Linus spoke. “Welcome. You have the rare honor of being our guest this night. It is to be our last.” His voice was a high pitched wail. It was eerily unsettling, and completely out of character for a legendary rock star. Cathy no longer wondered why Linus never spoke to anyone. He likely would have been lampooned. It was, however, ironic that he chose to play bass.

“Thank you for having me,” Cathy replied. “I’m honored, truly.”

“Oy, Linus, Cathy here was askin’ ‘bout Miss Fox,” Black John said.

“Yes, I was, that’s if you’re willing to share. It’s the biggest secret behind this band,” she said. The bandmates all burst into a hearty laughter. Cathy had no idea what she had said to evoke such a response. She was doing her best to be diplomatic.

“Lady you have no idea,” Davey said.

Linus started again. “Amanda Fox was much like you, even looked like you. I remember her well. She found her way backstage, saying anything she could to get in. But when we brought her to stand in the pentagon, it was discovered she was, pure.”

“Pure?” Cathy asked.

“A virgin,” Charles said.

“She was rejected, and disposed. An unfit offering,” Linus said.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Cathy asked, her voice tinged with fear.

“Nigel likes ‘iz girls slutty. Can’t abide virgins. They got to be defiled,” Roger said.

“I made sure you was broken in,” said Black John. He turned his head toward the motionless statue that loomed overhead. “Sorry you got to have my sloppy seconds, Nige, but I picked ‘er out special, just for you. Enjoy, mate.”

Cathy jerked her leg and screamed, ready to run away from these obviously deranged men. But she remained firm, shackled plantigrade by unseen bindings. Her only visible limitation was that she was in the pentagon herself, the center of the ensorceled star.

Her ears were drawn to the sound of a guitar, blaring from an amp just yards away. It was familiar, though she couldn’t place it. Her head turned to look behind her, and saw Ashford Carrington picking away at his Flying V. A few bars later, the tune shifted, and she realized what it was. “Nigel’s Song.” The first section was the track off Stalkers, their fourth album, followed by the cut of the same name off Dæmonægis, their eighth.

“I really do love this annual pilgrimage to Forgesbury. Gonna miss this place,” Davey said. Ashford continued to play..

“Do you realize, Cornish, how fucking difficult a year 1977 was? Servants of Evil was a total flop, we lost our record deal, all because that Fox bitch was saving herself. Dunno whether to blame her or Rog there for gettin’ too wasted to stick her that night.”

“Sorry mate,” Roger said, before turning to Cathy to say, ”I been ‘plogizin’ for that since Callaghan!”

“Then all that ‘Virgin Blood’ nonsense. We was just trying to give homage to Nigel. But the taste of that girl stuck with him for a damn long time. Couldn’t get it off his tongue. We been payin’ for it ever since. Now finally, he’s got a nice, tasty slut to keep him sated for his slumber. In a thousand years, maybe archaeologists’ll dig up Forgesbury and start this thing all over.”

Ashford played the last few notes of ‘Nigel’s Song’, which happened to be the portion that came from their first album. The ground hummed with ether.

“Oh, shit, almost forgot!” Black John leaned into Cathy with a dagger, using it to cut away her t-shirt and panties. She stood fully nude in the center of the pentagram, her pendulous breasts freed from encumbrance. “Nigel hates clothes. Get stuck in his craw,” She was too busy staring up at the demon coming to life to protest.

Linus opened his arms toward the beast, and spoke in his surprising soprano, “Great Nigel the Unclean, Warden of the Earth, we give you this offering to fill your belly, and to grant us prosperity until the end of our days! May you protect us in your millenial hibernation.”

The vibrations grew stronger, and Nigel’s body trembled. What looked like motionless scabs of latex suddenly resembled true flesh, the wings stretched out across the full length of the stage, and its mouth opened wide.

It roared.

Cathy screamed.

Nigel bent over, peered at her naked body with its deep crimson eyes, and smiled. The last thing to pass through her mind was that this visage looked just like the cover art on Gatesohell’s third album, Wings of Evil.