Title:           Horrors! 8 - As Thousands Screamed
Author:          Mr_Sympathy
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/rNiEVGtQ
First Edit:      Wednesday 18th of February 2015 12:08:21 AM CDT
Last Edit:       Wednesday 18th of February 2015 12:08:21 AM CDT

As Thousands Screamed
by Gregory Nicoll
 
"We got the guy," the young security officer announced proudly. "He's history now."
 
Darrien said nothing as he lowered his brown Ovation acoustic guitar to the floor of the dressing room. A dull hollow note sounded from the instrument as it touched the stained red carpet. He reached for his cigarette case, fumbling with its tiny brass latch. "You're sure this is the guy who was sending me all those notes?"
 
The officer nodded. "Yes- we even found another one inside his backpack, along with some reinforced gloves and wirecutters. Dropped it as he was slipping out. We figure he was gonna sabotage your stage pyrotechnics, but got scared and bolted. Detective Ford's got the note now. I'm sure he'll show it to you if-"
 
Darrien shook his head as he lit the tip of his Salem Light. "No, not until after the concert.""I sure understand that," said the officer. He paced awkwardly for a moment and added, "Well, I'd better get back there."
 
Darrien waved him out. He took a deep drag of the warm, sweet smoke as the door swung closed with a metallic click. The air in the small, narrow, windowless room smelled faintly of pine-scented cleaner. The aroma clung to the food on the deli meat tray, to the tiny pink Vienna sausages in their pool of tomato sauce, and to every drop of the red wine. Darrien took another hard drag on the Salem and then stubbed it to death in the crystal ashtray.
 
He was free now.
 
Every stop on this 66-city route had brought another of those mysterious notes- notes telling him this was his last tour ever, that he'd never touch a guitar again.
 
And now the menace was over at last, here, on the very last show of the tour.
 
Darrien picked up the Ovation and gently strummed a warm C chord, The smooth wide strings yielding easily beneath the tips of his fingers. He smiled at the thought of his fans, and how startled they would be to see him with this mellow instrument instead of the screaming red guitars he played in public. He glanced at the wall clock and realized that he was almost due onstage, where he'd open the show with his beloved trademark leap-and-windmill downstroke on one of those six-string fire engines.
 
Idly he picked at the callused fingertips of his left hand. Constant performing on this tour had built up hard layers there. He could squeeze out a lit match between any two fingers and feel no pain, not even warmth. The glistening roundwound strings of his stage guitars gave his music a deep, throaty intonation, but they sure were hell on his hands.
 
However, Darrien long ago resolved himself to pay this small price to practice his art. His music was his life, and his life was his music. And nobody- especially not some demented note-writing nutcase- could take that away from him.
 
Darrien stood and stretched, then stooped toward the mirror and adjusted his black leather stage costume. Satisfied, he left the room and made his way down the corridor. Ron, Paul, Ed, and Jasmine were ready, dashing out in front of the crowd as soon as he appeared. A roadie whipped the smooth black leather strap of a Gibson Explorer over his neck and gestured toward the stage, Where Leo was already laying down the opening drumbeats.
 
Darrien took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began to run. As he reached the stage, he leaped- and while still in midair he pressed a C chord and delivered a devastating downstroke.
 
But the sound from the amplifiers, now booming out over the ocean of cheering fans, was wrong: flat, muted, clipped. It lacked his trademark sustain. Something burned and stung on the fingertips of his left hand, and he realized that blood was pouring down the guitar. His fingertips seemed to have melted into the strings.
 
Darrien stepped back in shock, then collapsed.
 
Razor wire, he thought. My? strings? replaced with? razor wire.
 
Like Vienna sausages in tomato sauce, the fingertips of Darrien's right hand lay motionless in a pool of blood on the stage floor.
 
And out in the crowd, thousands were screaming.