Bat's in the Belfry Webcomic

EVERYTHING I WANTED
by Eric Alexander

“Thank you, and good night!”

Leaving the stage, he exchanged high-fives with the backstage crew, allowed costuming to remove the glitteringly gaudy ensemble he had been dressed up in, and wandering down the hallway to his dressing room where a cardboard yellow star displayed the name “Bret King”. The name still seemed strange to him, but as he reached out to unlock the door, he glanced at the upside-down letters on the knuckles of his right hand...

B-R-E-T.

A quick glance to the left hand at his side revealed the other half of the tattoo job...

K-I-N-G.

It had sounded a lot better than Brent Kinsley, especially considering his new rap-metal image he'd defined for himself here in Vegas, so it had only made sense to go ahead and have his name legally changed to Bret King. Definitely cooler.

His backstage room was a sty, just like always. Clothes were strewn about the floor (some not his own), various accessories littered the area, and empty beer bottles lay here and there. He didn't care. He'd ask one of the crew to tidy up things, but not right now.

Right now he was just tired.

Bret grabbed a discarded t-shirt off the bed and wiped his face with it, the sweat pouring off his body, underneath his fur. He rubbed it under his armpits, exposed from the white a-shirt he currently wore, and threw it into a pile of clothes in the corner. Making his way to the mini-fridge, he pulled out a cold bottle of beer and twisted off the cap, flicking it into the trash-can across the room. It bounced off the wall and made it into the can.

At least he wasn't a total slob.

He collapsed into the chair in front of the large mirror and finally removed the cheap sunglasses he'd kept on since the end of the show. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the well-lit room and he began removing the three long gold chains he wore around his neck, one of which held a large dollar-sign at its end.

That's what it was all about, wasn't it? The money.

And the fame.

He'd gotten both since leaving Silver Stopper... leaving Carlson's Corners. Man, what a backwoods place. Rural city, Hicktown, USA. Nothing at all like Vegas. Here it was like a 24-hour carnival that ran seven days a week.

Silver Stopper...

Man, those were some crazy times. His mind drifted back to those seedy little places where the band would be scratching just to make a dime. That seventies stoner-rock sound they use to play. That crazy blond fro he used to have... what the heck was he thinking back then? He took a swig from the bottle and examined himself in the mirror. Crew cut, goatee, earring... yeah, a much better style.

Things had been a lot better without Silver Stopper dragging him down. Without all that hick town crap and the hassle and scrounging... and without...

The door opened without a knock.

“Hey, Bret!” a couple of high-pitched female voices rang in unison.

Bret didn't even turn around. He just took another swig.

“Gonna come party with us?”

“Come on, baby!”

Bret stared into the mirror at his red-rimmed eyes. His eyes shifted to a picture frame laying face down in front of the mirror. He glanced through the mirror at the two girls. Candy and... he couldn't remember the other's name. Something inside him told him he should remember, considering all he'd done with her, but right now it didn't seem important.

“No, thanks. Get lost.”

Jilted, the girls harumphed and, flinging a few over-the-shoulder insults, slammed the door and left. It didn't matter. Bret was sure they'd find someone else to keep them entertained for the evening. That's just how it was. If you weren't wanting to have a good time then they weren't interested. You were kicked to the curb in a heartbeat. Besides, having a good time with those two meant hitting the hard stuff and Bret had decided alcohol was all he cared for tonight.

He guzzled down the rest of the bottle and went for another.

Down the hall he could hear the rest of the band shouting and whooping it up. None of them had come to check in on him. Probably too busy “entertaining”.

He sat back at the desk when he noticed a flashing light. He'd left his cell phone on the desk before the show and apparently somebody had called and left a message. He flipped open the phone and checked the screen.

Scott!

A smile crossed his lips as he punched the buttons to hear the message. What was Scott up to now? He'd said he was moving back to Carlson's Corners. Still mooning over Greta. He wondered if Greta knew who else had been mooning over her. He'd figured it out, after all, and he couldn't be the only one.

“Hey, uh, Brent? It's Scott. Listen, I know things are probably going pretty well for you, but I've got some news for you, man. I'm down here in Carlson's Corners with Greta and you won't believe what just happened. She ran into Röskva Winthers at a convenient store. No lie, man... the Röskva Winthers... from the K'rrzina movies! There's more, too.

“She's not doing the K'rrzina role anymore and she's got her own metal band. She's got a big concert going down in Stratosburgh in a couple of weeks and she's invited Silver Stopper to be the closing act! This is huge, man. Give me a call back. Greta's calling Elsie and I'm going to call Ramana. Talk to you later!”

Bret closed the phone and placed it on the desk, moving as if he were in a trance. He thought about listening to the message again, just to be sure if it was real, but instead decided to take another swig from his second beer. He finished it off and grabbed a third. Come back to Silver Stopper? But he had everything he wanted here, didn't he?

No, not everything... He reached for the face-down picture frame.

The door to the room opened again. Nate, the band's lead guitarist was standing in the doorway with some girl draped over his shoulder. She squealed and giggled and he put her down.

“Hey, Bret, aren't you hangin' with us tonight? Candy brought the 'caine and we got some hot groupies over here. You're missin' it, man.”

“Nothing but trash...”

“What?” Nate walked inside, forgetting the girl on his arm and leaving her at the door. She quickly lost interest and made her way back down the hallway to where raucous noise erupted from one of the rooms. Bret turned, now bleary-eyed, and stared at the white goat as he approached. “What're you talkin' 'bout?”

“It's nothing but trash... all of it...”

“You're drunk,” Nate replied. “You oughtta come over next door and get livened up.” Nate spied the picture frame and picked it up, examining it. “Y'know, you oughtta throw this thing away. It's not healthy, bro.”

Bret shot up out of his seat and snatched the frame out of Nate's hand. “Don't ever touch this again,” he growled. “You understand me?” Fatigue and the alcohol were mixing together, making his mind seem hazy. A thought surfaced form the back of his mind about how he'd remarked to the tattoo artist about how funny it would be that the last thing a guy might see before getting knocked out would be his new name tattooed on his knuckles. He was thinking that it might be Nate's turn now. “Get out of my room.”

“Whatever. Go sleep it off. You don't want me here, I'm gone.” And with that, Nate left the room.

Bret stared at his cell phone, tempted to dial the number and call Scott. Not now, though... he wasn't sure he'd sound right. If anybody could detect his soberness (or lack thereof), it would be Scott. Scott had been there enough times to drag him out from under a table or pull him up off the floor to know. So, the old gang had gotten a shot at the big-time? Silver Stopper getting back together? Bret laughed to himself. Probably just wishful thinking. Even if they did perform at Röskva's concert, there was no guarantee that it would really end up going anywhere. Would he really want to take that chance? To give up everything he had now?

He laughed a cruel laugh then. Trash... Candy and her friend, women who only wanted him for one thing, a band who couldn't care less about him if he weren't making them money... His mind wandered back in muddled images of the days of Silver Stopper. Saving Scott from those neo-Nazi punks when they found out Scott was Jewish. Had he really swung that microphone stand at those guys? A self-satisfied laugh... he'd probably broken one guy's collarbone.

Evenings spent having the gang over, playing board games and watching TV... wandering those city streets late at night without a care in the world... playing in those run-down little shacks on the weekends...

An overwhelming feeling of longing came over him then. Those really were better times, weren't they? All the things he had thought would make him happy... and they were garbage... a lie...

If only he could go back.

But could he...?

He took the picture frame with him, downing the remainder of the third bottle, threw it into a corner and fell forward onto the bed. He turned the frame over and stared at the beautiful white canine in the photograph. Why had he treated her the way he did? Why didn't he realize what she'd meant to him when it had really mattered? Why did his temper always make things worse? Why couldn't he shut it off? Of all the women he had ever known...

“I'm sorry,” he whispered as tears filled his eyes. “Ramana, I'm sorry...” as sobbing wracked his body until he fell into slumber.

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