Remains of Maniacs by Matthew Wilson

Remains of Maniacs

by Matthew Wilson

I liked Dan Romeo’s music despite his murders and then in time, because of them.

Idiots shit on rock as a bad influence, that the lyrics Dan cut into his arms before each gig were a sign of madness rather than their own misunderstanding of beauty.

Pain is a constant companion of beauty for that is where our children come from and having no kin of my own I decided to birth my own music. I failed and realized I needed someone to teach me so I waited till the cemetery caretaker had gone home for the night before I climbed over the spiky gate and turned on my flashlight.

Dan’s family had bought him a fine marble headstone when they’d thrown him in the ground with the noose still around his neck, a stone which had been demolished by his victims' families within a week.

My rock god had gone to terrible lengths to find his inspiration but some men must go to dark places to get their name in lights.

Curious owls turned their yellow eyes at me as I threw the kicking sack over my shoulder and dared between the nettles. I didn’t know the woman’s name, only that she was in the wrong place and time when I trussed her up like a chicken but in her last moments she would serve her purpose to great music.

I had done my homework and deleted my internet search history as I squatted by the patch of grass scorched by angry villagers and quickly used the knife. I had practiced on cats and easily found her jugular. The woman only screamed a moment but her howls paled to Dan’s glorious music.

I waited till the ugly moon came out and make the blood look black upon my heroes grave. I knew all of Dan’s lyrics by heart but it was my favorite – Resurrection – that I sang with pride.

For a minute, nothing happened and I wondered if my sacrifice had been worthy but then the ground beneath me gave a terrible lurch and threatened to open up and swallow me.

Instead, the dead man in bloodied leather rose from his pit, his yellow eyes burned with hunger and his beard I’d so admired on the cover of his Hate the Nation LP smoldered like a pirates goatee.

I dropped to my knees and pushed forward his dented guitar he had beat his victims to death with. I had killed far fewer people to steal it back from the otherwise dull murder museum filled with the bric and brac of dark crime.

Dan Romero shook the maggots from his lovely head and studied me a moment, then took his guitar from my shaking hands and I knew he thought of me a fine student of rock

In the village far below slept the families of his victims. Those fools who’d tried to wipe the great memory of this musician from the world but there were still fans such as I who knew his music, impatient to write new classics with him.

Together, Dan and I left the stinking cemetery, drawn toward the village lights below. He had his guitar and I still had my knife. Yes, before help came in the morning, I knew we would make great music together.

This story was originally included in Issue #5. You can buy the entire print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/BenFitts666?ref=l2-shopheader-name