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Chapter Text

          “I don’t know if other people will find this as beautiful as I do, but there’s something special about how he picked me up out of a dumpster and set me walking again.”
 
Harry Du Bois to Speedfreaks FM, 8/7/46
 
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Kim Kitsuragi was never one to procrastinate, but he had today, and maybe that was the first sign that everything was changing. So, now he was hefting a full trashbag down three flights of stairs to the dumpster at almost one in the morning; if he didn’t do it now, he’d miss today’s garbage truck, and it would be rotting under his sink until next week.
 
He opened the door with his elbow and pushed it with his hip, because the heavy bag required both hands, and continued dragging it over the cracked cobblestones of the alley behind the apartments.
 
It stunk, like usual. Acrid and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He only wrinkled his nose slightly. There was the aftermath of rain, too, making the stickiness more slimy and bringing out the asphalt smell of the city. He dragged the bag to the base of the dumpster, and was about to open the lid, when he finally caught sight of a blurry white shape sticking out. 
 
He squinted. Even with his glasses he could barely see, and in the dark he was guessing between faceless forms. He leaned in, until his face almost touched it.
 
A greenish, discolored calf covered in wiry dark hair, squished under the weight of the dumpster lid. A black sock stretched over its foot, its big toe sprouted out through a sizable hole.
 
At first it seemed like a corpse. He’d have to report it to the RCM, lest he get himself involved, with his own trash and fingerprints right next to it.
 
A groan erupted from inside, muffled and tinny, and Kim jumped back. He hadn’t been surprised when he thought it was a corpse. Far more horrifying was that this leg belonged to something alive!
 
"Hello? Are you–” The leg swung and just barely missed his face. Kim frowned, and then pushed up the lid. He shoved hard enough that it went up, hovered slightly at the precipice, before hitting the alley wall with a scrape.
 
It’s a full body- he assumed, though it's hard to sort from the garbage strewn on top. The calf turned into a thigh, and that bent leg ended at an underwear-covered ass. The second gangly leg was kicked to the side, bare foot pressed against the rusted walls of the dumpster.
 
The lean stomach was sparsely covered with soaked newspapers, growing with uneven breaths. The body's spine was twisted in a way that would make a contortionist blush. Ass up, hips tilted slightly down slightly to the left; but the right shoulder was buried deep in garbage, the rest of the arm as well. The neck continued this awkward motion.
 
The body groaned as it untangled from itself and sat up, snorting like a hog getting up from the mud.
 
 A dark mess of hair colored by a pale mask. And in that sat orange eyes, yellow from drug use and red from irritation. The man's pupils were blown out to black, and stared through Kim instead of at him. On the very edge of his nose rested bright red shades, one lens was lost. The red continued down his chin, Kim assumed from a nosebleed.
 
He grinned a grimy yellow smile, a gap between his two front teeth. “... You saved me!” he rumbled.
 
For a moment, Kim thought he was hallucinating. Maybe he had fallen asleep and was only dreaming-walking down here. He blinked and pinched himself.
 
Even without his signature disco-era clothes, body-glitter, and silver guitar, his bushy muttonchops and mullet were unmistakable, and how could Kim not recognize him? Kitsuragi had a poster and box of records all bearing this man’s likeness.
 
“Oh my God, you’re Harry Du Bois,” Kim said.
 
He stared at Kim. His hair was sticking up on one side and his muttonchops seemed to be breaking away from his face in opposite directions. 
 
“Wuh?”
 
“What are you doing here in Revachol? Isn’t your tour two towns over right now?” The one Kim had been planning to go to, before unforeseen car troubles.
 
Harry was fully submerged in whatever buzz he had, his head slowly falling back down to the garbage. His eyes stayed on Kim. Eventually there was some focus, eyebrows knitted in concentration. It took a few more moments before he finally let out a huff. A sound of defeat.
 
“Babe, I have no clue what that is. But–” His arm lifted up with a waterfall of vegetable peels, and he gestured relaxed fingers at Kim, “Youuu… are very pretty. Or handsome. Very nice cheek…bones.”
 
Kim was at a loss of words. 
 
“Wow.” Frankly, too shocked to be flattered. His jaw fell loose and his stomach churned with some sort of insect, probably not butterflies. “You’re really like that, aren’t you?”
 
Kim had believed- or hoped- that everything he saw and heard from HDB was an act. It was a character to take on and off. If not, who could live like that? But, here he was, half-naked in a dumpster, forty miles away from any concert goers, and his first instinct when faced with a stranger was to flirt.
 
Harry hummed, drumming his fingers against the top half of a shattered beer bottle. 
 
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He said with a shrug.
 
What was Kim supposed to do? Ask for an autograph? An interview? A personal performance? A few seconds of silence passed, Harry’s eyes fell shut. Kim knew it was a miracle he didn't start snoring. Harry Du Bois was not in a good state, if he ever could be.
 
“Should I call you a taxi?”
 
His eyes popped open.  “You seem to– I seem to–... I don’t remember anything. You seem to know me. I do not.”
 
“Yes, we haven’t met.”
 
“No, I mean, I didn’t know my name until you told me. I don’t remember anything.”
 
Kim blinked. He tried again. “Do you remember where your tour bus is at the moment?”
 
“No. I have a tour bus?”
 
“Do you have a phone number? Or name? Or anything for someone we can contact? Maybe an ID or business card?”
 
Harry slapped his thighs and felt around for a second, then, he looked back up at Kim. “No pockets.” Nor pants.
 
It was in the middle of the night, so Kim didn’t know who he’d ask about this. His car was in the shop right now, too, so he couldn’t drive Du Bois to his next concert, even if that was the right thing to do. 
 
“I assume it is– a side effect of– this most recent bender.” The most likely option, Harry’s habits were well known in his community. “I’m sure your memories will come back in time.” And before that, what shall be done? He could feel his ears burning slightly as he considered his options. 
 
He exhaled a breath. “Since I do not know who to contact, if you need to, you can use my shower. I do not know if my clothes will fit you, though.”
 
“Sure,” His shoulders shrugged, “Sounds great.” 
 
There was a moment of silence, preparation, then, Harry shifted forward. “Uh-hup,” he groaned, grabbing onto the side of the dumpster, and attempting to pull himself out. Before Kim realized he had, he’d grabbed Harry’s hand, helping him stand in the trash and then clamber down.
 
“Fuck, my legs hurt. My everything hurts,” Du Bois groaned. He leaned on Kim, the front of his shoulder on Kim's back. Kim didn't push him off, and apparently Du Bois took that as permission to lower the rest of his weight onto him.
 
He was a long-legged bag of potatoes, not much more weight to him, and theoretically easy to carry. Although Du Bois seemed to purposefully shift his center of gravity at the most troublesome moments.
 
Kim stuck to the wall during the upwards journey to this apartment and wished the stairs had been constructed just a foot wider. Du Bois stopped trying to walk during the second flight, and simply let his feet bump into each step instead.
 
“Do you live in a– Skyscraper?” he huffed, mutton chops dusting against Kim’s ear.
 
“No. Just on the third floor.”
 
Du Bois’s head thumped right on Kim’s own, cheek pressed against his. Kim stumbled with the motion, more from shock than an actual physical force, and thumped the other side of his head against the wall.
 
He mumbled something. “You should. It would be cool.”
 
He smelled like vomit. And he was staying right there, his neck had given out with the rest of his body. He rolled himself in an elegant way, as if he didn’t believe his body could hold him, but he believed whoever was beneath him would catch him and lift him up. It reminded Kim of crowd-surfing. Kim stepped up another step.
 
“I’d prefer staying closer to the ground.” And it would be quite costly. And there were no skyscrapers in Revachol.
 
“But it would be cool.”
 
Kim hummed, not answering. He propped the man up against the wall while he unlocked his apartment, and then took Harry inside. He sat him on the couch.
 
“I’ll get you some water,” he said. Even though Du Bois should really shower before touching anything, Kim was pretty sure he’d fall and break his neck if he didn’t sober up first.
 
There was a soft chuff.
 
“Sure. I’ll take water.”
 
Kim had already gotten a glass and filled it up from the faucet. Handing it to the singer, he watched as HDB held it, trembling, up to his lips. He gulped it down greedily, and it sloshed past his lips, down his chin and wet the hair of his chest. It was the gulp, gulp, gasp that Kim associated with immaturity, and a lack of restraint or control.
 
The empty glass was set onto the coffee table.
 
Du Bois took another gasp, struggling with the transition from drinking to speaking. “You said my name was– Harry Du Bois?” He stared up at Kim.
 
“Harrier is the full first name. HDB is the more common nickname for you. Tequila Sunset from the original fans, but that era’s done.”
 
“That sounds right.” His eyes drifted over to the right for a moment, his downward sloping brows lowered further. A second or two passed, and then suddenly he snapped back to Kim with wide, curious eyes. “What do I– what am I famous for?”
 
“You make music.”
 
“Is it good?”
 
Kim didn’t know how to answer that. He wasn’t a particularly artsy guy. “It’s– passionate. Or deeply, deeply ironic. I enjoy it.” He liked the feeling of release he got from it. He liked seeing someone be so earnest on stage, to the point of self-flagellation and public humiliation. It gave him a sense of unwinding.
 
His ears were burning slightly, and he shifted from one foot to the other. “I am a regular listener and follower of your life. I can… attempt to remind you, if you want.”
 
Harry waved his hand over Kim, before flopping back, deep into the couch. “That sounds good.”
 
Kim looked turned to his ‘entertainment center’, a section on his wall dedicated to extraneous hobbies. A shelf of books and records, and a record player and a radio on top. Decorated on the wall above were a few posters, some of Tip Top racers, others of music artists. His eyes were drawn to his HDB poster, which was situated above his comprehensive HDB record collection.
 
The poster was a stylized drawing of the man using crazy colors in scribbled strokes as he sang into a microphone, his guitar hanging limp at his thighs. The vibrancy of the sketch polished and painted over the sharp horror one experienced at an HDB live show.
 
“Who’s that?” Harry asked. Kim looked over at him. He stared at the poster of himself.
 
“An artist’s representation of one of your concerts– of you.”
 
Harry chuckled. “He’s hot.”
 
The art highlighted what his audience loved best. The chaos, the color, the charm. The eye of the intimate storm created by Harry Du Bois.
 
He gave Harry a glance. Much less vibrant than the art, though still seemed to radiate the same principles. Nearly nude, speaking the first things that come to his head, presumably right off of a massive bender. A man skinning himself in front of the world– or whoever would watch. Kim enjoyed the performance. He wasn’t sure he would call it ‘hot’, though.
 
"Khm, The artist may have thought that, too."
 
Kim looked back to Harry's face. He was looking back. He had been for a while, watching Kim give him a once-or-twice-over.
 
He grinned, lopsided in a way that almost resembled a stroke. "Are you the artist?"
 
"No." Kim felt warm. 
 
"Oh." Harry sounded more surprised than disappointed. "You should draw me."
 
"I don't draw."
 
"It doesn't have to be good!" Harry wailed.
 
The tricky muscles in his face started tugging. A smile. The only way to counteract it by now would be to bite the inside of his cheeks, but that would be far more noticeable. He'd have to let it pass naturally. 
 
Harry noticed. He smiled back, a piece of gunk was stuck in his teeth.
 
“I think you would show off your art best,” Kim finally said. He wasn’t a conceptual guy, and he never planned on putting pencil to paper except to take notes and draw shitty maps.
 
Harry rumbled a laugh. "Alright. Let's get to that, then."
 
He looked to his box of records and began running a finger over the cardboard slips. Something he's far more familiar with than drawn art.
 
His finger paused on one, and he rubbed along the cardboard's cracking paint. “‘Serially Raped in Revachol’ is one of my personal favorites. But it’s kind of hard to recommend, as an album. They either tell you they love it or they never speak to you again…” He stopped on another album, pulled it out. “‘I Killed Disco’ is an earlier one. Maybe you would like to hear that?”
 
Harry shrugged. His face didn’t betray any recognition. He could just be high out of his mind.
 
Kim slotted the record onto the nub, adjusted the tracking weight slightly, flicked the switch for it to spin, and slowly set down the needle.
 
“‘Dolores Dei and the Bullet’ was one of the highest charting songs back in the early days. People thought you were going to be a one hit wonder…” He glanced from Harry’s face to the record player, searching for signs of approval, recognition, anything. Did he expect Du Bois to be flattered? That someone else could recite his life’s history? Kim was making a fool of himself.
 
He let the music start playing.
 
Du Bois wasn’t listening, but flinched, eyes wide open, when his own voice began pouring out of the speaker.
 
“I pawned the ring for a gun,” the recording crooned. “Her painted icon for a bullet…” It was still the synthesizers and piano and the 4/4 time bassline that made his music distinctly disco, but the minor key and rough, untempered vocals made it something new entirely. His breakthrough album.
 
“The red district in holy neon giving me horns on my mullet–” The raw grief in the man’s voice had been something unheard of in the genre when this album came out, even though it was almost a decade late for disco.
 
“–and here I was, a drunken Deon, looking to put lead in my gullet.”
 
This song, like many other HDB works, dealt with his divorce and the themes of suicide, religion, and death. It was smoother than what Kim liked, but the palpable emotion–
 
A shaky gasp yanked his attention back. Du Bois was crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and into his facial hair. He was clutching himself, holding his own arms. Kim took the arm off the record, and the music stopped.
 
“Do you remember, now?” Kim asked.
 
“I don’t… I don’t remember why it hurts. But I remember what suffering feels like,” Du Bois groaned, like a spoken lyric. 
 
Something inside Kim churned once again, familiarity in the most strained sense. This was HDB, an old friend he had never met, crying and in need of a pause. Though, you weren’t supposed to feel satisfied watching your friend's distress. 
 
Harry tugged at his hair and bared his teeth at the coffee table.
 
“Are you alright?” Kim asked, out of courtesy. This wasn’t a show. 
 
He held out his fist. And slowly, with much strain, managed to unclench his fingers. ‘Give here,’ They said, though the man himself fought to open up his jaws.
 
“The– circle– fuck, record, give. Give me the record,” he spat.
 
The record was in Harry’s hands before Kim knew what he was doing. 
 
“Wait–” The record, Kim’s only copy of the deluxe edition, and one of only 500 in the world, slipped under the artist’s mustache and into his teeth. He tugged it one direction and pulled his head up in the other, snapping a significant portion off. That was spat onto the floor, and he moved on to bite a new section.
 
His brain worked to unite previously unpaved neural roadways. By the time there were a few sparks traveling through, Du Bois was pushing the record down over his knee.
 
“Stop that!” He stepped towards Harry to hopefully snatch the record out of his hands, as if he could still listen to whatever was left (or at least treat its remains with some respect). 
 
It snapped right in half. A flurry of shards flew between the two men. Kim stared, aghast.
 
After that, Harry’s bout of destruction had finally stopped, the two halves of the record resting by his sides. 
 
Whatever relief Kim got from Harry’s performances could not make up for the loss of his beloved possessions. He grieved.
 
He weighed his choices, and sadly letting this incident pass was probably the best. He sighed, took a half a step back, and resigned himself to his loss.
 
All the anger– or whatever had caused Harry’s outburst– had left his body, leaving him looking quite deflated. And sad. He began to wipe the remnants off his legs and onto the carpet.
 
“Wait–” Kim interrupted, Harry looked up at him with sorrowful concern. Kim let out a breath. “I’ll get you a trash bag.”
 
“Sure.” Harry agreed.
 
A new trash bag was stolen from the sink cabinets and transferred to Harry’s hands. Though he struggled with it, the thin plastic clinging to itself and creating a puzzle far too hard for Harry to solve.
 
“Here,” Kim, after one too many painful seconds of watching this, took the bag back from Harry. “I’ll hold it open,” He held it wide open with both of his hands, and lowered it down in front of Harry. “Like this. And you put the pieces inside.”
 
Harry watched this solution with amazement. He nodded eagerly, a bit too fast, and winced from the pain. He quickly got to fulfilling his part of the plan.
 
When most of the shards were inside the bag, Kim knotted it closed. He dropped it into his palm, lifted it up, and dropped it again. It was shattered enough to look like bagged peanut brittle. He frowned and sighed.
 
Harry must have seen the dismay on Kim’s face. “I’ll make you a new one.” 
 
Kim shook his head, “No, you can’t. I don’t believe they’re making any more of these.”
 
The star exhaled. His hands went to his face for a moment, perhaps in embarrassment or shame, and then slipped down to rest on his lap. He looked up at Kim and swallowed. “I don’t want to get sober. Do you have anything to take?”
 
“I don’t have much; I have beers, if you want.”
 
Harry was about to say yes, but stopped and frowned. “No alcohol. I think I’m– trying to stick to ‘hot drugs’ right now.”
 
“... Pardon?”
 
“Drugs that keep me hot. Getting fat… is not hot. So–”
 
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Cocaine and speed are the best choices. They make you gaunt and discolored, the tuberculosis of drugs. You’ve never done heroin, and never plan to, but with the way things have been going, your resolve on that front might be short-lived. Frankly, I’m curious. I’d much rather we die from an overdose than anything else.
 
Harry had trailed off and was staring into space.
 
Kim shook his head. “I don’t have anything else. I could give you a cigarette.”
 
Du Bois sniffed, and then held out a hand. Kim patted his pockets, until he was able to find the Astras still sitting in his shirt pocket. He handed it to Harry, who put it in his mouth. “I assume that comes with a light?”
 
Kim flicked the lighter on under the cigarette. He had to lean forward slightly, since he was standing, and Harry hadn’t moved a muscle. The cig caught, cherry red and glowing, and then Du Bois took in a mouthful of smoke.
 
“Thanks,” Harry said. He looked into Kim’s eyes, past the huge frames of the man’s glasses. His face was still dewy with tears. 
 
He smiled.
 
“You’re a really cool guy, aren’t you?”
 
Kim raised an eyebrow.
 
“What’s your name? I forgot to ask.”
 
“... Kim. Kim Kitsuragi.”
 
Harry nodded. “That’s a cool name. I like it.” He tilted his head, inhaling the smoke, and holding it for a moment, before letting it pour out of his mouth and nose. “You’re– really nice. And cool. I like your jacket.”
 
Kim was thankful that he could not blush, and that Du Bois was more of a mess than anyone had probably ever seen him. Kim had very reasonable excuses for not taking advantage of the hints he was being thrown.
 
“Thank you.” 
 
“Is music your ‘main thing’? What’s your main thing? What do you do?”
 
“I’m a mechanic at a local auto shop.”
 
Harry considered this, looking over Kim, and then nodded. “Yeah, I should have known. Grease on your shirt, still.”
 
“A few seconds ago you could not figure out how to use a trash bag.”
 
“Mechanic’s a cool job.”
 
Once the cigarette was down to the filter, Du Bois considered it for a second, and seeing no ashtray next to him, he pushed the burning end into his own skin, and Kim could hear the sizzle. It joined a network of small, centim-shaped burns on Du Bois’s legs and on his left arm. There were ghosts of razor and knife cuts, too, but the cigarette burns were the most obvious, as well as the deep defensive scars on Du Bois’s hands from earlier days of fighting. 
 
Harry seemed calmer and less likely to injure himself (accidentally) if left unsupervised (also Kim was tired of the smell. He had a strong stomach, but that didn’t make it enjoyable). So, Kim stood up and offered his hand to pull Du Bois up. This time around he made an effort to stand on his own two feet.
 
“You should take a shower. I have some clothing in your size, still, I think. Then we can work on getting you back to your manager.”
 
HDB nodded blurrily, and Kim showed him to the bathroom, but he stopped at the door before he turned on the light. “I don’t remember what I look like.” He sounded scared.
 
“You don’t?”
 
Du Bois, staring into the dark bathroom, shook his head. “I don’t.”
 
Kim was confused, raising his eyebrows. “You just saw the pictures, didn’t you?”
 
“Those are just pictures. Drawings.” Du Bois’s voice was quiet and pensive. His tone sounded sad and a little frightened. He looked back at Kim, as if for reassurance, and then switched on the light. He beheld himself in the mirror, in nothing but his underwear.
 
His body. He was covered in discolouration. He was too red, too green, too blue, he looked like he was bleeding everywhere under his skin. He looked painted. But, his body was large, supple, his skin was stretched tight over his abs. He looked like a corpse, a hot, shapely corpse.
 
There were also the scars. He didn’t need to ask himself how he got them, since he had, on instinct, just given himself a new one. 
 
VISUAL CALCULUS: You had strong arms once. Your chest is weak and shallow. You are thin, small muscles dribbled over a frame built for a bigger, tougher man. Your chin is crooked and has a dimple. Your hair is greasy and falls over your eyes, but that will go away with a shower and a slight combing. You’re also in your underwear and not even trying to pose. You have good cheek-bones, but combined with your deep eye-bags and strange coloration, you end up looking more frightening than attractive. 
 
INLAND EMPIRE: You look like a Superstar. 
 
He steels himself. This is the body he’s working with. This is it. This is who he is. 
 
“Alright, unless you’re joining me,” Harry said, grabbing the doorknob and about to close it on Kim.
 
“Maybe another time.”
 
Harry came out fresh and clean, wrapped in a towel, and already, he looked much like the self Kim recognized. Hair soft and fluffy, muttonchops smoothed and groomed, and most importantly, no trash or goop stuck anywhere it shouldn’t be.
 
Kim had already grabbed the XXL charity race t-shirt as well as a pair of pants that someone had left a while ago. They hadn’t come back for it yet, and now, they never would. Harry still had his socks, and somehow, they were relatively clean. 
 
Hopefully, Du Bois wouldn’t be hung up about shoes. 
 
“We won’t find a taxi at this hour, but the RCM precinct isn’t that far.” Kim faced the wall as the towel dropped and Harry pulled on the clothes. “And it’s not raining anymore.”
 
“RCM?” Harry asked through strained grunts. 
 
“Revachol Citizens Militia.” Kim explained. Harry hummed and something was zipped up.
 
The damp towel was deposited on Kim’s shoulder, and he looked over at a clothed Harry. Perhaps the shirt was too large, but the rest of it fit well enough.
 
He patted his shoulder through the towel. “And we are in… ‘Revachol’,” he recalled, “and we are citizens. Am I a citizen?” 
 
“As far as I’m aware, you are.” Kim pulled the towel off his shoulder and deposited it in his laundry hamper. 
 
“Hm! Cool. Why do we need to go to the RCM?” 
 
“To take you back to wherever you need to be. To your employers, to your show. ” Not in Kim’s apartment. 
 
There was finally a flash of recognition, a moment of joy, that quickly fell into dismay cascading down Harry’s face. “Kim, I don’t think I want to go back.”
 
Kim’s hand rested on the doorknob. “Why’s that?”
 
“I worked so hard to get here, didn’t I? I ran off.” He had been on a bender of tsunami proportions because he was running away. For good. There was still a sinking feeling in his chest of dread that churned up his stomach. “Can’t I stay here? For a little bit?”
 
“Why would you want to stay here?” 
 
“I want to do other things. Other than my job.”
 
“What things do you want to do?”
 
Harry thought for a second. “Can I give you a hug?”
 
Kim blinked. The idea of HDB wanting to stay with him, and then asking him for a hug was mindboggling, but now that the man had showered, it wasn’t going to be physically unpleasant, and it was an opportunity he might never get again.
 
“Okay. Sure,” Kim said. Before he could even open his arms, he had been grasped around the shoulder, Harry’s head leaning against his as he held Kim like an octopus, squeezing gently. Kim stood with his hands down, but he felt Harry breathe in, and then deflate into the contact.
 
“I think I’ve wanted to hug someone for a while.”
 
Kim patted his back, and he finally broke away. “You need to go back to your tour. People are going to come looking for you.” And Kim didn’t want to be held responsible or tied to the investigation of such a missing person. Besides, HDB would never stop making music. He loved it. This bout of insanity had appeared with the amnesia and would disappear in only a little bit.
 
“I know.”
 
“Maybe you’ll feel better about it in a few days?”
 
“You think so?”
 
“Working always helps me,” Kim replied honestly. Finally, Harry nodded, and Kim opened the door.
 
Another long trek down the many flights of stairs, and they were walking on the still-damp pavement. The soft squish of wet socks and the measured sound of rubber boots against the ground made the walk almost musical.
 
“How far is it?”
 
“Not far.”
 
“Ugh. I like walking, but not when it all fucking hurts.”
 
“Khm.” ‘Never meet your heroes’ was taking on an interesting meaning to Kim. Not only might they be different than what you imagined, they might be exactly what you expected, even if they couldn’t remember a thing.
 
The precinct and the clubs were the only things open at this hour. Everyone else was asleep. Even in the precinct, the night-crew were scarce, bedraggled, and running on enough coffee to kill a horse.
 
When they walked into the 57th, they could already hear a man yelling. 
 
“I have a lot of money to throw at you! I don’t care it hasn’t been two days, he is a particularly vulnerable target–”
 
Harry and Kim shuffled in, and coming around the corner, both the person at the desk and the man looked up, and the man’s face immediately washed over in relief.
 
“Holy shit, thank God.”
 
The receptionist just threw their hands up, as if to say, ‘there you go! That’s why we wait!’
 
The man, a tall, broadly-built man with dark, shaggy hair, a sparse, wiry beard, and a pock-scarred face, walked over and took Kim by the hand. “You have no idea what a favor you’ve done me,” he said. 
 
Kim was almost jittered by how enthusiastically the man was shaking his hand. “I mean, I was just doing what… any good citizen would do.”
 
“Yeah, instead of holding him for ransom or keeping a sex slave, God, you have no idea what that’d fucking do to my goddamn–”
 
“I can’t remember anything,” Du Bois said. “I– sorry to interrupt. I feel like that’s important. I don’t know who you are.”
 
The man looked at Harry and then sneered. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Great. Okay, you’ve lost your memory now.” He addressed Kim again. “Here,” he said, holding out a business card that flicked between them faster than Harry’s eyes could follow. “Get in touch if you need anything. I’d stick around longer to blow you or something, but we’re dangerously close to– fucking– getting all off track. We already need to speed to Desrosiers.”
 
He pulled out a notepad, checking a schedule. “Alright, let’s roll, supershit.”
 
Harry looked over to Kim, waving slightly. “Well, thank you for–” But he was grabbed by the collar and dragged towards the door. “Hey! Wait! I want to–”
 
“Shut the hell up!”
 
And with that, Kim Kitsuragi watched Harrier Du Bois exit his life as quickly and awkwardly as he entered. 
 
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The tour bus had seats facing inward and a dining table in the front, and then in the back had a very small kitchenette (that was overflowing with plates), and then three cubby doors at the far end, all on top of each other. The rich leathers of the seat and shag of the walls was covered by clothes, wrappers, Harry accidentally sat on a chillum sitting out; Sticky stains of dried alcohol on the table, the seats, the floors. It reeked of common body odor. Harry had picked over some of the clothes and found socks and shoes that fit him, the wet ones going to the floor with their brothers.
 
The sun was rising, and even the faint greyish light of dawn stung his infant eyes. He tried to cover the windows by pulling at the obvious circle thing, which drew out a sheet of semi-opaque canvas from inside a hidden roll in the car, but he was struggling to find out where to latch it. The man had quickly pushed his hand away, scolding him about breaking “another one”, and easily snapped it into place.
 
The man then crossed the bus, a good half-a-stride away, and sat down on the opposite bench. 
 
The sun was rising behind Harry, behind the shut blinds, but he could still see the world passing on the opposite side. Trees swooshing in the foggy half-morning, more grey than anything, and still sticky with night. The man was a dark silhouette against the light. His head was bowed over paperwork, but he didn’t seem to be writing or reading quickly. It seemed to be an excuse to not look up.
 
Squinting through the glow, Harry finally spoke. “What’s your name?”
 
He scoffed. “Are we still fucking doing that?”
 
“Look, I don’t remember anything. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.”
 
“Not enough that you’re famous. You always have to be the center of attention.”
 
Harry continued staring at the man, trying to do his best impression of puppy-dog-eyes. 
 
The man met his stare for a few seconds, before finally rolling his eyes. He put a hand to his forehead, as if warding off a headache. “Fine. I’m Jean Vicquemare. I’m your tour manager ‘slash’ bodyguard. Mostly tour manager. And I’m sure you know about who you are.”
 
“Kim told me a little. Mostly about my music. I’m Harry Du Bois.”
 
“Yup. You suure are.”
 
“But I don’t– remember anything about it. I don’t remember any of the music.”
 
Jean suddenly got a wild look in his eyes, and then, he laughed, a hollow, evil-sounding thing. “Is that the plan? This is how you’re planning to get out of it? Fucking hilarious.”
 
“I don’t know! Get out of what, exactly?”
 
Jean pursed his lips, and folded forward, his elbows on his knees. “Alright. You seem to want the whole story. I’ll remind you, I’ll indulge you. Ptolemy Pryce of Blastosphere Records, your producer, was concerned about your profits. ‘You’re a wild card, can’t keep cancelling tours, Harry-baby, it’s making people mad, and it's eating away at our millions of dollars in sales!’ and so you said, ‘Oh, please, Daddy Ptolemy, please give me a tour, an Elysium-wide tour, I promise I’ll finish it and won’t quit halfway through like the other times.’ And he agreed to fund another tour, but to make sure you kept your promise, he picked the big bad tour manager who hates you, and promised that manager enough money to retire if and only if you finish this tour.”
 
Jean’s fingers were twitching. Harry imagined that he really wanted to lift Harry up by the collar right now. “You wanna know what that means? What I’ve got riding on this? With that money, I’ll never have to talk to a fucking celebrity again. It means if you die, I will put strings on your corpse and puppet you on stage all the way back to Revachol if I have to. And if you try to quit?” He chuckled darkly. “Well.”
 
Harry gulped. “Right. No… quitting the tour.”
 
Jean smiled. “Right.”
 
“Yup.”
 
“Glad we have… an understanding.”
 
Harry looked back at the bus interior as he felt the motor grumbling beneath him. At the back of the bus, he saw little cabinet inserts that seemed to be built-in beds. Jean was writing something at the center table as Harry stood up and opened the top one, then the middle, then the bottom–
 
“...What.” A bundle of blankets grumbled and shifted in the slot.
 
“Oh, sorry, was looking for mine,” Harry said, and slid the door shut again. He paused, his hand on the handle, then pulled it open again. “Are you—”
 
“Harry!” Jean snapped from the table. “Leave Judit alone!”
 
He shut the door again.
 
“What are you doing? People need to fucking sleep,” Jean continued.
 
“Well, who is that?”
 
“That’s Judit. She’s the keyboardist.”
 
Harry let out a little sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure he was able to play an instrument at all, so hearing there would at least be piano, no matter what he ended up being able to do, was freeing. “Do we have music? I don’t know the songs, so it would be good to–”
 
“God! Fine!” There was a few moments of flying papers as Jean dug through his bag, and finally, he handed Harry a roughly stapled pamphlet as well as a set list that looked like it had been spilled then sat on. Harry spread it out on the table, trying to flatten it, and then got to reading the set list. There were notes after a few of the songs, in several different handwritings.

The Coldest Thing in Graad
My Pimp, Heroin
Kraz Mazov Would Have Loved Disco
        Don’t forget the FUCKING FLAG!!
Raped by Vodka in the Backseat of a Coupris in ‘39
Bring in saxophone
The Pale is Lukewarm
Dolores Dei and the Bullet
Leave saxophone stage right for crew
COCK RAZZ
I swear to god stop making the stupid keep the change joke its not funny
Born Where Addicts Go to Die
Add extra SAD in the chorus
The Paranoid Falcon
Nilsen’s Broken Bridge
SHAKING, BLEEDING
Dog Tongue Soup
The Last Night Club in Jamrock
Retune to Drop D
Someone Touched Me Last Night! 
Brave Cowards, Hated by All
Be nice stop flipping off the audience. Its a good song.

Following the song names, he flipped through to the first song in the set list. He skimmed over the lyrics, the chords–
 
“The coldest thing in Graad is sleeping next to me.” What did that mean? Was sleeping next to him the coldest thing? Or, was the coldest thing in Graad a person, and the person was currently sleeping next to the narrator of the song? Or was the room not heated properly? Apparently he wrote this and even he didn’t know what it meant. Did that make the song good or bad?
 
He turned attention to the music itself.
 
ENCYCLOPEDIA: You definitely know how to read music. Which is good. None of this is particularly revolutionary music composition, and it’s all written by hand, most likely by you. All in 4/4 time with predictable chord progressions. The vocal tune isn’t noted down, just the lyrics, because this is of course, for the keyboardist. 
 
INLAND EMPIRE: As you look at the music, you can hear it faintly in your head. The chords aren’t familiar, but you can imagine what they sound like, just from sight-reading. And with the chords come the tune that seems most fitting. You can feel it pouring naturally out of your own imagination, your own spirit. This is your music. You wrote it. And it is easy to retread those pathways in your mind.
 
There was enough time to memorize everything if Harry skipped sleeping on the bus, but something told him that wouldn’t work out too well in his favor. He tried to at least get an impression of every song in the set, before he was interrupted by a sharp growl under his ribs.
 
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Wait, when's the last time you've eaten?
 
ENDURANCE: You can go 48 hours without sleep on speed easily, and much longer without food, but you seem to be on the latter end of much longer, and things are beginning to break down.
 
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Time to get something into that stomach of yours, and then crash. Hard.
 
Harry obeyed. When he was shaken awake by Jean, they were in Desrosiers.
 
          “People to this day think I was lying at Desrosiers. On the record, none of that was performance art. I had complete retrograde amnesia and only learned who I was in the twenty-four hours prior. Considering everything? It was a miracle, not a disaster.”
 
He was being asked to perform for an hour with only a vague impression of the lyrics and the tune. He had an audience of almost five-hundred people waiting out for him. The opening band was good, maybe, fantastic, potentially, Harry was too caught up in his own mind to hear anything.
 
The music ended on a crash. 
 
The crew gathered up their gear, the piano, and disappeared out on stage. Judit followed close behind.
 
Jean shook him out of his trance by his shoulder
 
“What the fuck are you waiting for, supershit? A red carpet?” A strap was thrown over his head and his hands were brought to a guitar. Jean pushed him towards his destination, “Go, Go!” 
 
It’s bright, but not bright enough. Harry can see every face out in the crowd.
Judit is right where she needs to be, her hands already positioned on the keyboard. Harry placed his hands on his own instrument.
 
She begins to play.
 
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Hearing the music, you know what you need. You remember looking at it. It’s G, Dm, C, Em, and Am. The only problem is how to make your hands make the chords and remember what their shapes are across the guitar neck. You know when and what should happen. But how?
 
INTERFACING: It has been baked into your muscles, your fingers, your skin. The calluses on your hand were formed to bolster against the metal strings. You only need to find one hold, the bass note, and then, your hand falls into place. And then, it’s just like riding a bike. You’re playing.
 
Something in him stirred that knew the words better than he did. All he could do was let it out. 
 
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: “You have cold hands, cold lips, an even colder stare. Warm, wide hips to keep the cold out there. Graad keeps us hungry, lust keeps us fed, and you look so lovely, snuggled up in bed. 
 
You say, ‘Stay here for a while,’ but I know I must go. My work has barely started. I’ve yet to touch the snow.
 
Bread and roses, to feed our guts and souls, and antlers in the cosmic undertow. We’re starved of everything but food. I’m starved of everything that’s good. The coldest thing in Graad is sleeping next to me.
 
Sleeping next to me, sleeping next to me.”
 
It was over, the being left his body, or at least, retreated, and he was in the cold after-shocks of a complete inner penetration. That fucked him. Really fucked him. He was dazed and drunk as he heard the applause and cheering reach a crescendo.

AUTHORITY: There is no way for you to lose. They worship you. They love you and hate that they do. You are an infernal idol to them, made out of the worst parts of their own reflections and spewed onto the open. You are completely and utterly dominant, the conductor of the orchestra of their minds. You have made them what they are. You are a god.
 
The crowd died down, the music did too. He had a sense they were waiting for him to say something. He grabbed the mic, and tried his best approximation of a smile. “Hi!”
 
A few faint ‘hi’s were thrown back.
 
“I’ve just suffered complete retrograde amnesia. I did not expect to be able to play that, to be perfectly honest.” Laughter. “Like, a genuine medical emergency. I did so many drugs I cannot remember anything. This is Desrosiers, right? That’s a city?”
 
          “And it was fucking terrifying! All of those nightmares where you’re asked to be in a play without a script or give a presentation you didn’t prepare for? I was living that! That’s what happened to me!”
 
“I think I was trying to kill myself. I woke up in a dumpster. All I know about myself was I woke up naked in a dumpster, and I wanted to kill myself instead of doing this.”
 
COMPOSURE: For the love of God, stop talking.
 
“Yeah, shutting up.” Harry pulled out the set list, swallowing. God, the lights were hot. He squinted at the writing again. “This next song is apparently called, ‘My Pimp, Heroin,’ and uh, good luck to me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
 
The drummer tapped the sticks in time, and Judit started playing with the beat.
 
INTERFACING: You know this one far less. It’s new. It’s not a classic. It has fresh irony and slightly experimental chords. You know maybe three of them off the top of your head.
 
CONCEPTUALIZATION: And none of the words.
 
Harry played as best as he could, but he never started singing. He made some juicy mouth sounds, but he didn’t know what to sing.
 
The crowd was getting quieter.
 
He only got to another two songs, knowing the chorus and verses to one, and nothing to the other, before he broke down, sobbing.
 
“I’m sorry, I don’t know these songs. I need help. I think I need to go to a doctor.”
 
And that was when everyone laughed. They thought he was doing a bit. 
 
“No, I’m not– joking. It’s not fucking funny!” Harry dragged his wrist across his eyes to wipe away his tears. “Stop laughing! Please!”
 
The show spun away into nothingness around him, and then, it was suddenly over. Did he sing the other songs? Did he just cry for the rest of the hour? He didn’t know.
 
Red and orange lights in the greenroom backstage. There’s Harry, Jean, and three other people he didn’t know. They clung to his sides and one man rubbed circles on his arm. 
 
Waking up from a dream pumped with adrenaline, his body suddenly remembered how weak his legs were, and he toppled down to the floor. Harry’s feet were pinned underneath his ass, and he was somewhere close to kneeling. The strangers joined him on the floor without a single question, though their falls were much more planned.
 
“Why are you here?” Harry asked.
 
“To get fucked up.” One took out a plastic baggie full of white powder, some larger crystals still visible.
 
AUTHORITY: They sit around you, your disciples. They bring you offerings to prove their reverence. Take it. You are a gracious host.
 
There was a plate that seemed to be set out for this purpose, with razors and short straws, and Harry took the bag, the plate (which was warm to the touch), the razors, and dumped a little, cutting it into equal piles, and spreading out neat lines. It smelled vaguely floral, a little like blood. He took a straw, set it down, and skied the line. The bitter taste hit the back of his throat and the smell filled him. He licked his finger, getting the residual powder of his line up, and passed the plate along. Then, he stuck the finger in his mouth, wiping it across his gums.
 
All of this was done without even thinking about it.
 
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Your nose burns and your throat is numb, prickly as it goes down. You can already feel your nose running. You should do some nasal spray, then another line, but you might not have enough if you’re splitting it between four people. Coke should be smoother than this. It’s definitely cut with something. But, you’re a little past caring about that. 
 
It was passed around the circle, the two men taking their share; the woman took less.
 
He talked about everything and nothing. The cocaine made his tongue loose, and he just kept talking, and they kept listening, laughing, and smiling, passing the plate and lines around again and again until it was gone.
 
The two men finally left. The woman hung back and shut the door behind them.
 
There was another shift in reality, a sharp blurring of time.
 
The woman pushing and pulling against him, he stumbled back onto his makeup table, sitting on a glass bottle that was sharp against his fleshless ass, cremes and body paint clattering to the floor. Her lips were soft, her teeth sharp. She nipped at his stomach, her hands pressed in at the bottom of his rips, almost like she was trying to find a handle in his bones. Her nails dug in hard.
 
She swallowed his lips, tasting like cherry liqueur and cigarette smoke.
 
“I’m such a fan, you’re so– tragic–” 
 
His hands hung limp on the table-top. 
 
“And you find that appealing?” he asked, in between kisses.
 
She moaned, her voice low and sweet. What a rich woman. She was rich. She had to be, that was how you could afford a VIP ticket. And she was wearing a dress and no underwear, sliding off his pants until she could get his dick out and clamp it between her large, soft thighs.
 
The cocaine in his system was making him fucking jumpy, but he still couldn’t find the will to move. She was objectively hot. She was the beautiful of the wealthy, white arms and smooth face and blonde, curly hair. The blonde was hypnotizing and he was finding himself staring at her hair more than where she was pushing their bodies together. This little touch of divinity alighting on his broken body, taking his filth inside of her, pleasuring herself with soft cries.
 
His skin looked grey next to the peachy-blush of her stomach. 
 
She had nothing to conceal. Her dress fell down her shoulder and rode up her stomach. She threw her head back with a sudden noise, and Harry watched as her throat moved. He swallowed in time. He decided he wanted more.
 
Harry’s arm sprung out and his hand pressed into the space under her belly button. 
 
PERCEPTION: Your fingertips dip into her malleable flesh until the hard muscles of her core. She’s warm. She moans. Your touch lessens and your hand slides across her stomach, leaving marks of grime on her already finished canvas. Oh, and she’s soft. A dusting of blonde hair covering the unshaven sections of her skin. Mainly, her stomach. Your grease slicks the short hairs down.
 
Harry’s nose was suddenly clogged with a sweet, floral smell. A fruit he can’t remember. 
 
Whatever had made him brave was escaping in each breath. It had been keeping his dead body from rotting, but now, left in her sun, it was being eaten inside-out, and the maggots were crawling into her and infecting her with his sickness.
 
Her skin soaked up the lights, she bled red and orange. His hand was a dark stain on the fuzz of her stomach. 
 
He needed to get away. 
 
HALF-LIGHT: Move, now, before you can’t!
 
There’s a second or two of nothing. And then Harry’s on the floor. 
 
PERCEPTION: You cannot separate the colors from one another. There’s movement, a sort of panning. And, after a long moment, you see legs. Two pairs, peachy and black. A woman’s and a man’s. The woman is missing a shoe.
 
“Out.” Someone- Jean- demanded. Harry doesn’t listen, though it’s not directed at him. 
 
Everything was suddenly quiet. It was just Harry and Jean and the buzz. But the ten, twenty minutes a line gave you was fading quickly, and there was the full-body ache of sobriety settling in.
 
Harry reached his arm to the side, fumbling to pull his memory of the couch into reality. His palm lands on the sticky surface, a success, and he drags himself up onto the cushions. 
 
He felt digested, new, fetal, and trembling. Was it weird to say he felt like a baby, not like this overgrown, over limbed, awkward thing?
 
“God, you’re awful. You really are a fucking asshole. That’s the reason the only people trying to keep you alive are paid.”
 
“Yeah.” Harry sighed, leaning back into the couch. He ran a hand down over his chest and stomach, then down his thighs. “Yes.”
 
“This is, by far, the worst job I’ve ever had.” He wasn’t looking, but he heard the slight glug of Jean’s silver flask. “Makes me want to kill myself.”
 
Harry stopped groping himself and finally turned to look at Jean. The man was taking another gulp of alcohol, and his throat bobbed, a voice box moving underneath his scarred skin with sparse whiskers down his neck.
 
"You can do that?"
 
Jean forced out a bitter laugh. Then, he met Harry’s eyes, scoffed, and looked down the neck of his flask. “Yeah. Yeah, you can kill yourself. Maybe you should. Would make a great fucking show,” he grumbled.
 
           “That’s where it all started. I had two ideas for how to up my game. Start writing about someone new, other than that sad ol’ breakup story. And next, well, you know what.”
 
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Speedfreaks FM was a favorite in the garage. HDB music used to be pretty rare to find on the radio, but the disk jockeys of Speedfreaks were big fans. Kim found himself tapping his foot to the beat of that husky baritone talking about drugs, sex, self-harm, and fame.
 
Kim hadn’t told any of the other mechanics that he had met Du Bois. He was half-convinced it wasn’t real. If it was real, he wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. But then again, it wasn’t his responsibility. Kim respected him for his music and enjoyed it. That was all Kim needed to do as a fan. 
 
He pushed out from under the car on his little rolling cart. “Yes, it’s leaking oil.” He rubbed his hands on a rag as he stood up to talk to the car’s owner. “Most likely a degraded engine gasket. We stock the Fevre gasket here, but this is a common problem, especially if you’re using this for racing. Engine overheats a lot.”
 
The teen swallowed and laughed nervously. “Oh, uh, no, no… No racing here. That’s–”
 
Kitsuragi raised an eyebrow. “These are street racing mods.”
 
“Uh.”
 
“Do you want to replace the gasket today?”
 
“Today or tomorrow sounds good.” 
 
“Alright, leave your number at the front desk, and we’ll call you when it’s done.”
 
The teen nodded and left. Kim took a moment to light a cigarette and lean against the Fevre. It was a wonderful car, fast as hell, but they tended to burn out quickly, and you were wrenching it more than you were driving it after six years or so. He drove a Kineema, which was fast and reliable enough to race in smaller outings, as long as you took good care of it. Kim became a mechanic half because he wanted to race and couldn’t afford a good car and the repair costs.
 
The boombox in the corner stopped singing and started talking.
 
DJ FLACIO: “Mesh, taking a break from the music–”
 
DJ MESH: “YEAH-HA?”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Well, I’ve been hearing crazy stuff about HDB’s new live shows.”
 
DJ MESH: “YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT GOING TO SEE THE WILD ACTION?”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Maybe! But also, I think it’s only a matter of time before the RCM busts one of those up. ‘Washed Up’ has been the edgiest he’s gotten.”
 
DJ MESH: “REALLY? THINGS ARE GETTING THAT INSANE? EVERYTHING’S BEEN SO WEIRD SINCE THE DESROSIERS MELT DOWN!”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Yeah. Last one there was a ‘body fluid splash zone’ cordoned off. And, you think, what could be splashing at a live show? Well, he dumped a bucket of vomit on the people standing in there.”
 
DJ MESH: “HOLY SHIT! THAT’S H-HELLA *NASTY*! AND IT WAS JUST SITTING ON STAGE WITH HIM?”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Apparently. People got pretty upset, but he told them, and, I’ll quote him here, ‘You stupid *bleep* retards, it was in writing what was going to happen, but you ignored the signs to stand closer to the stage. That’s not my *bleep* fault.’ What do you think about that?”
 
DJ MESH: “WELL–... HE *HAS* BEEN GETTING MORE ARTSY WITH HIS STAGE STUFF RECENTLY.”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Yeah?”
 
DJ MESH: “IT SEEMS LIKE A CRAZY-PRACTICAL METAPHOR! HE’S WARNING PEOPLE THAT GETTING TOO CLOSE TO A STAR IS ONLY GOING TO HURT THEM HARD! IT’S LIKE, A WARNING AGAINST P-P-PARASOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS!” 
 
DJ FLACIO: “That’s really deep.”
 
DJ MESH: “THANKS MY BROTH-EE. IN HONOR OF THAT GROSS-ASS STORY, LET’S THROW ON ANOTHER *HDB* CLASSIC! ‘*L-L-LESBIAN DOLORIAN NUNS AND THE SECRET TO IMMORTALITY*,’ BY HARRY DU BOIS!” ”
 
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“You come here for the music! For the disco, right?” he cried, throwing his arms open to the audience. They screamed. Excitement pulsed off in waves, “FUCKING WRONG! YOU’RE HERE TO WATCH A TRAINWRECK!” There was another roar. 
 
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Now this is a fucking high. You want attention like this forever. You would do anything to keep them watching forever. You would do anything for attention.
 
           “I’ll be honest, I was a bit out of my mind. It wasn’t right for me to do that, but I did it. I won’t say that it didn’t feel good. I felt tangible and also wholly out of myself. I thought if I died there, I’d live forever.”
 
He had worked on his set this time, actually learned how the music came out over his tongue. At this point he was a set of lungs, a throat, and a mouth. He was an incredibly blunt instrument made for screaming until it collapsed. His music was hellish cacophony. It was pleading, begging for pain and death, and these people knew the words by heart, jumping up and down and crashing together in the pit as if this was their anthem.
 
His music had once been disco, he thought. He had once been a fit and beautiful star dancing across the stage. But now, music and body had become a shattered reflection. He was parading his own corpse on tour for their enjoyment. The guitar was the same simple chords and progression that he had heard on the oldest records of his. 
 
His pianist banged the keys like she was trying to kill them, the drums sounded like gunfire, and Harry screamed.
 
They all loved it.
 
He was drenched in sweat as he took the microphone down from the stand, and laid his guitar down on the stage.
 
“This next one… is really quite special. You’re very lucky to have bought tickets for this show, of all shows.”
 
Harry gave a mischievous smile. “This might be my last show as you see me. No, I’m not retiring, cool your jets. I’m being mysterious. This next song, I like to call, ‘The Death of Harry Du Bois.’”
 
And he let his mind flow out of himself, his mouth and fingers forming the unnatural, guttural snarls of the verses and chorus.
 
ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: "Disco biscuits, disco brains! Disco’s dead, and here again! My only love’s the drugs and stage, anything to disengage. Drown my humanity, I’ll kill myself–"
 
 Harry took control of himself again. He was in his body and nowhere else. “After a lifetime of drugs, alcohol, sex, rock and roll,” he said, rhymically, letting hoarseness creep into his words, “and nothing to show for it but a destroyed body and empty soul, this display before you has meant absolutely nothing!”
 
He reached into his jacket, feeling for the cold metal left there.
 
“You learned nothing from this! It’s a theater to shock and awe!” He pulled it out, raising it up for them to see. “Now watch me! Bear witness! Don’t fucking look away!”
 
He raised the gun to his mouth.
 
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Speedfreaks FM had been spending more time talking about music news, because HDB was making more music news than ever. It was larger than the everyday suffering people faced. A rich asshole who was off his rocker in every fathomable way and made a living doing whatever horrified people the most, apparently. He also wrote music on the side.
 
Kim was working on his Kineema in the garage. A quiet day for work, so he got to use the tools in the shop to fix up his own stuff. And listening to Speedfreaks. 
 
The music had cooled down for another talk show segment. Mesh and Flacio gabbing about the newest shows and hearsay.
 
DJ MESH: “WE GET SOME PEOPLE CALLING IN WITH FULL BA*LONEY*! SO, WE GOT A GUY IN THE ENTOURAGE, AND HE’S GIVING S-S-S-SSS-SSSPEE-EED FREAKS FM THE FULL SCOOP.”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Yes, everyone, welcome– fuck, we forgot to give you a cool name, didn’t we?”
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: The responding voice breaches through static, voice distorted through two recorders, “Aw, yeah! Well, hm. Later! This is, this is just too insane. It’s crazy!”
 
DJ MESH: “YEAH, S-S-SPILL!”
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: “Playing some old classics, he seems like he’s fully recovered since the Desrosiers show. Seemed. Playing the songs, everything was going well, and he premiered a new single that hasn’t been released.”
 
DJ FLACIO: “Holy shit?”
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: “But, before he did, he said some cryptic stuff about us being lucky to be at this show specifically, but that he wasn’t retiring. The song’s called, ‘*The Death of Harry Du Bois*,’ but at the end of it, he actually pulls out a gun and goes to shoot himself!”
 
SPEEDFREAKS FM: Both Mesh and Flacio’s voices were overlapping so much at this point, Kim couldn’t understand what either of them was saying until their man on the inside shouted them down.
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: “–me talk! Let me talk! He gets tackled by the fucking tour manager!”
 
DJ MESH: “HOW DID YOU KNOW IT WAS–”
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: “And he gets held down right on stage, and this guy kicks the gun away, everyone’s screaming, freaking out, but then, HDB yells out, ‘It’s not real, it’s not real, don’t hurt each other!’ Which, thank God he did, otherwise, there might have been a stampede.”
 
DJ MESH: “THAT IS GUT-WRENCHINGLY INSANE!”
 
THE UNDERCOVER CALLER: “Yeah! Literally bonkers, I don’t–”
 
Kim let the voices filter out, the words caught on the grates leading to his brain. 
 
Suicide by gun, blatant and to the point. Distinctly not HDB’s style. That sounded weird to say, but Du Bois had done something like that before. He had had a tank of piranhas brought onto stage as a prop, but then pretending to jump into it. Of course, it was a magic trick, and people had known it wasn’t real.
 
He threatened suicide on almost every occasion, but it was always something stupid, silly, almost funny. Stuff the audience knew they couldn’t believe. But this? This was just– sad. Plausible.
 
Dear God, it was plausible.
 
Was he actually trying to kill himself?
 
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Living was like watching a roll of rapidly burning film. 
 
He would be singing in one town, blink, sleeping on the road, fucking in another. Every moment completely unrecognizable, and yet, it all blended together into noise. He was drowning in a pool, getting dragged out, vomiting water onto the tile. He was signing autographs. He was alone, slobbering drunk, weeping as he dragged up any memories he could grasp in his fried brain to sell them to his audience.
 
He’d wake up inside of someone or with someone inside of him or on him. He’d find himself in places he didn’t recognize. Wake up with no hours of sleep to begin another four hour drive, set-up, play, sign shit, strike, check into the hotel and crash. Wake up again. Jean always the cattle-prod , making sure he was in the right place at the right time, wiping his face when he was too high or drunk to know what was going on.
 
The big fish of the universe had swallowed him up, and now, reborn from its bowels, he was shat out into the current. He was spinning in it, like frog spawn under the ice. And, he was barely able to see his surroundings as he tumbled head-over heels in the rapids. Even when the tour ended, the high-ride didn’t stop.
 
But he could always look up and glance at the shaky image of the sun through foggy glass. A hopeful safety. The man who had caught him. Calm. Imperceptible. Wonderful. ‘Kim’. A night. Harry had known him for a night. But it had been his first night. The memory of it was twisting, growing wings and eyes and becoming something wholly unreal in his brain’s melting pot.
 
All he could do was write poetry. Music to die to.
 
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It had been a year and a half since Kim had Harry Du Bois in his apartment. The “Washed Up” Tour had concluded with fanfare. Despite the bumps in the road, all of the good/bad press had made it a huge success for everyone involved. Six months later, HDB dropped a new album to critical acclaim.
 
It was shockingly fresh. It still dealt with suicide and remorse, but there was far more grim acceptance, and the main features of the song no longer referenced Dolores Dei or women. There was a new figure that the songs were written to. Many people were speculating on whether or not Harry was finally over his divorce, which seemed impossible after six years of him freaking out about it.
 
Kim loved the songs. He listened to them a lot. So, when another Revachol show was announced, Kim saved up and bought himself a ticket.
 
Compared to the two other HDB shows he’d been to, this was far more crowded. The line had been long, and Kim got in late, half-way through the opening band’s set. 
 
Kim wanted to be near the stage, but not on the fence. So, he picked to the furthest side, also closest to the exit, pressed up against the wall. He was where the fence ended, so, theoretically, when an artist was leaving or coming out, he could reach out and touch them, but while they were on stage, he’d only have a side view. He was also a little next to and behind the biggest speakers. If he didn’t have his earplugs in, he’d have gone deaf years ago. (This was where he preferred to stand. Away from the moshpit.)
 
The house lights went up as the opening band cleared their stuff off stage. Tarps were pulled off of instruments, and the whole stage was cleared for the headliner. The lights went down, and from backstage, came the man himself. Harry Du Bois, in person, again, brushing past Kim without even seeing him, just an inch or two away, before climbing the metal steps and walking out on stage to a wave of cheers and applause.
 
Or had that been a glance back? No, HDB wouldn’t even recognize him. Kim was one face in a million.
 
The first song played without a hitch. Music lifting you up and slamming you back down into the ground repeatedly until you cough up all of your inhibitions and your regrets from the day and vomit them onto the floor. That’s why Kim loved this shit. He banged his head and pumped his fist in the faintest effort to shake off his emotions and let them go into the air.
 
“Oh, great,” Harry said after the song was over. “God, I’m getting sweaty up here. How are we Revachol?”
 
A chorus of answers.
 
“Hey, the Slunts were great, give them a hand! And go buy their merch. They’re great for coming in to play on such short notice. I don’t know if you guys noticed, but apparently, Our Somber Expression broke up a week before this show, and didn’t tell anyone until yesterday. Which was perfect, and Jean definitely didn’t find that stressful.”
 
Harry was scanning the crowd as he talked, and everyone laughed a little, giving half-hearted claps for the local band. What was Harry looking for? He was definitely staring into the audience with a presence of mind that he usually didn’t have.
 
Their eyes locked. Kim looked to his left and to his right, but there was no one else that Harry could have been squinting at. Kim was pressed up against the wall.
 
Harry leaned into the microphone. “Hey, can we get the houselights up for a second?”
 
The lights went up, and everyone blinked at the new light.
 
Harry was looking right at him. 
 
Harry Du Bois was always smiling, always that half charming, half horrific expression that he had worn since the death of Guillaume le Million, his musical father. His grins were forced, devil-may-care, and anything but sincere, and everything but lovely.
 
So now, with the lights on, a sea of faces were turning to see each other, and see what Harry was looking at. Kim was only looking at him. Green-grey eyes became silver, watercolor lines of delicate, precious pink spilling over Harry’s cheeks, ears, and lips, and his smile broke out of its rigamortis, shaking off years of paralysis to become something that stretched its shaky, ragged wings in the air.
 
In a room of a thousand people, Kim was the only one to see true joy bloom on Harry’s face. 
 
“It’s really you! Kim!”
 
Dumbly, Kim pointed to himself. Surely, he meant some other Kim?
 
“Yes! Kim Kitsuragi! Get on up here! Se– security, let him up–” 
 
He was frozen to the floor. Someone pushed him forward, and his body left him standing in the corner as it was led up around the corner, up, and Kim Kitsuragi stumbled on stage. He was standing next to Harry Du Bois in front of a thousand people. He could see the reflections of the lights in his own glasses, how his hand went up to shade his eyes for a second, until the house lights went down, and there was a vague cloud of smoky figures stretching to the back of the building.
 
His heart tripped in his chest, and his whole chest felt tight. His ears were burning hot. His whole body felt hot and sweaty, and not just because of the dancing and the lights.
 
He was gripped around the shoulder and squeezed.
 
“This guy saved my life! Phase four would have been phase dead without him! You guys owe him a lot! Or, he owes you all a lot, depending on how you look at it,” came the voice of God from the speakers above and echoing softly from the man that was right next to Kim’s ears.
 
“So, this next one– yeah, you guys know it– I know this is everyone’s fucking favorite on the album! This song is for Kim!"

HARRY DU BOIS: “Baby, were you an angel, or does the worm say that of the bird? You gathered me from my cradle. My gratitude was childish and slurred. Covered in bottles, bruises and trash, my umbilical chord still attached– What did you gain, pulling me from the river? All I deserved was an earned death of my liver.”
 
“But now my head’s clear, as clear as I can make it now. I’m begging you to lend your ear: I’ll tell you what time didn’t allow.”
 
Kim finally grabbed the microphone. This song was his song. His knuckles were white, and he sang as loud as he could. He had only sung in the shower, humming to himself. But this song, he had heard it on the radio almost every day since it was released, and he had gone out and bought the album a week before, listening to the songs over and over again. He knew it by heart.
He could sing.
 
KIM KITSURAGI: “You dazzled me, nearly blinded me, but now I can fucking see myself from your eyes! You’re lifting off my disguise, so I can see myself naked and trembling and covered in blood with needles inside me, used cigarette butts.”
 
The lyrics didn’t matter. He was a conduit for some larger artistic vision that was not his own. He felt the air vibrating in his chest and throat, and it was so much like speaking, except muscle memory and pure love pulled it out of you. 
 
KIM KITSURAGI AND HARRY DU BOIS: “But you smelled like an Astras, and glowed like the dawn, and your face was the Righteous. You made me belong.”
 
They looked at Each Other. For only a moment, They were alone together.
 
The music filled the room until it was thick in the air, and then as suddenly as it came, it dissipated into sparkling memory.
 
The crowd cheered.
 
“GIVE IT UP FOR KIM KITSURAGI!”
 
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          “HARRIER DU BOIS: “I think the main point of this is that– life isn’t promised, and death comes swiftly. In what condition will it take us? I haven’t made many public statements in the past, and this will probably be my only one. Some people get better. They can leave the drugs behind. Most don’t, though. I’m not extraordinary. I’m not special. I’m not going to get clean. I’m just going to die. I know that. My fans know that. Everyone knows that.
 
I’m not a good person either. I’ve fucked up a lot of people, but mostly myself. I’m pretty glad that I’ve kept everyone away, even after my complete amnesia, because people see me through this half-lensed dream, and it means nothing ever means anything. The hurt is temporary because I am temporary. I’m not even real. I can close my eyes and see things real people can’t even imagine. And I have a sense for these things. But, no, that sounds crazy. I’m crazy. I’m legitimately crazy.
 
But, you’re both interviewers. Not priests. And this is a radio show, not a confessional. It’s the most I’ve got, though. I already speak candidly enough through my music that I don’t have much else to show anyone except a bit of genuine honesty across these waves out into the Pale Abyss.
 
I’m addicted to attention, to more drugs than I can name, my life has been interesting, a whirlwind, and never happy. I’m glad I lived it. I accomplished some good stuff. I hope no one lives like I do. I hope no one idolizes me ever again. Enjoy my music. Thanks so much for being a listener to me, and to my art.”
 
Harry Du Bois to Speedfreaks FM, 8/7/46
 
Editor’s note: Less than a week after giving this interview, Harrier Du Bois died in his Jamrock home from a heart attack at the age of 39. Witnesses say he collapsed in the middle of a party, but they neglected to check his pulse or call for medical assistance until it was too late.
 
Controversially, Blastosphere Records released all of HDB’s unreleased and unfinished music only a month after his death, titled, ‘The Leftovers’. There are special editions available by mail-order featuring a photo of Du Bois’ actual autopsy. Blastosphere Records has stated it was a decision based on the “spirit of HDB’s art that was in line with what he would have wanted.”
 
See page 19 for more on the mishandling of the HDB estate, how one Kim Kitsuragi is suing for royalties on ‘The Leftovers’, and how Du Bois’ expressed wishes are being ignored by BR.

Chapter Text

MISSING SCENE

Once the show was over, Kim’s heartrate far too elevated to be healthy, he was tugged backstage, and Harry grabbed him and held him. Kim would have been shocked, but he didn’t think anything could surprise him again tonight.

“Oh my God, Kim…” HDB said, rocking them back and forth slightly. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Really? Me?” Kim's voice had a new layer of scratchiness to it from his singing. It was almost startling to hear.

“Of course you!” Harry pulled back enough to stare at him in the eyes.

“To be honest, it would not have been surprising if you had forgotten all about me.”

Kim had done nothing but rehabilitate him, get him up and running, and set him loose. He wasn't supposed to remember their brief interaction, Kim had no intention of breaking the natural order.

“Forget you? How could I? You’re the first memory I have. At least, a memory that I made and don’t remember through fog.”

“I’m– flattered." A pause, Kim had to remember where he was. "I don’t know what to say.”

Kim's throat was itching, burning like he was coming up with a cold. He had never sung quite that loud before. There were people cleaning the stage behind them, some briefly popping in to drop things off.

Harry stared at Kim, and Kim stared at Harry, and they thought about each other. It was borderline romantic. Maybe it was.

“This is– sudden. And out of the blue, and feel free to say no, but would you want to do a few more shows with me?”

“What?”

Harry's hands rubbed up and down Kim's arm, squeezing. “Yeah, I loved your singing, and I felt like my– God, it meant so much more having you there. That song was about you–”

“I pieced that together.”

“Really? Did– did you like it?”

“I sung it in the shower every day for a week. And that was before I knew it was written about me.” There was a squirming of embarrassment in his gut that was quickly snuffed out.

Harry’s face was glowing. Happiness really was the best cosmetic.

“So? What’s the verdict?”

Kim startled, he had to look anywhere else besides the man's eyes, otherwise, he'd be forced to accept right away. “I– I have work–”

“And I can pay you for it!”

“You will?” Kim was looking at him again, and every caution was slowly crumbling down.

“Yeah, it’ll be like a paid vacation. Come on, Kim!”

Harry Du Bois talked as if they knew each other. As if they were friends. That wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t entirely honest. But, Kim was too giddy to think about that.

“Alright," He breathed out, "I will.”

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Kim bore witness. How else could he describe what he saw?

Self-flagellation to the point of obsession. He saw martyrdom. He saw decay.

It was a religious experience. He could describe it in no other words. He saw life and death and rebirth in one continuous explosion, and specifically, in one continuous man.

It was not his place to intervene in divine rights, now, was it?

He liked to think that he was a good influence. When Kim refrained from drugs and alcohol, especially around the host of fans that HDB attracted, he would watch Harry dose up, and then step outside to be with Kim, away from the commotion.

“Probably a good idea,” Harry would slur, his eyes blown wide with substances. “I usually end up with jizz in places there shouldn’t be. From people who I know didn’t ask.”

Kim liked to think this was enough.

HDB’s bisexuality had long been contended by the fans, particularly, the straight fans, as he had only ever had one public relationship, and it was with the woman, Dora Ingerlund (who was never available for comment). They said his declared bisexuality was a stunt for attention.

But Kim Kitsuragi, this seeming nobody, who was now on stage next to him, never more than an arm’s reach away, who had songs written about him, and always had Harry’s hand on his shoulder or his hip, was dusting that away. He was now in the spotlight, if only for a time. Three shows. Three shows, and that was all it took.

(Your life was never exciting. Enjoy it. Soak it up, lover boy. Be the sponge for their cedar oil and nitrate. Perhaps you will be immortal, like he is.)

Harry was spiraling towards a certain terminus. Kim felt a cold, wet satisfaction. He didn’t want someone to live like this. This was miserable. But, Kim’s deep death-instinct was fed by watching Harry take a knife to his own legs and thighs and by shooting the aluminum train until he was deaf and dumb to the world.

All to the sultry, slow, song of disco.

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Harry beckoned him into the recording booth. No sound engineers. They were just using up tape like it was nothing. It was nothing to Harry. Just hundreds of dollars for a few usable minutes of sound.

They sang a song together, acoustic with smooth, traditional voices. Harry’s bass contrasted nicely with Kim’s smooth tenor, and they almost sounded beautiful.

Harry was bleeding through his pants. Kim was on his third cigarette, leaning back in his chair.

Harry shut off the recording.

“Do you… like me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Of course I like you, Harry.”

Harry Du Bois crossed his hands over each other, and then moved each hand up and around until he was hugging himself. “I really like you too, Kim.”

Kim nodded.

“You’re– you’re who I make music for. People like you. I know you need it.”

“How do you mean?’

“I hurt all the time so that you don’t have to. I think. That’s what the, uh–... That’s what I gleaned from your– oh, you know what I mean.”

“I do like your music.”

Harry smiled. “I’m glad. That’s the only thing I could ask for.”

“And for me to come on tour with you.”

“That too! I’m so grateful for it. You’re– it’s just–...” Harry fell into silence, then sighed. “Sorry. Words are harder when I’m trying to make sense. It’s easier to be honest when there’s a level of artistic rendering between you and the feeling.”

Kim took another drag of his cigarette.

“You told me to go back. Do you still think you’re right?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to keep making music?”

“I hope you do.”

“That’s good enough.” Harry laughed, and then pumped his fist in the air. “HDB ‘til the day I die!”