That’s what the fans at a concert wonder, too, when the music stops going from ear to brain and instead enters directly into the bloodstream, and you find yourself utterly at the mercy of the electric guitar, bass, organ, and drum. It’s possession, body and soul.
A version of this story was published in mangled form by an enterprise called Cog magazine. What follows is the first publication of the full, unbutchered text.
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WITH FHIENDS LIKE THESE ..
You’re getting fat, Sam Parker. Too fat and too old. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you go around with bad ladies, yes. Why don’t you wise up, Parker? Cut out the stogies, lay oS the liquor, read a good book once in a while.
Why don’t you shut up, Sam Parker. I can’t, Sam Parker sighed. I’m you, He chomped down defiantly on the cheap cigar and gave the dingy exterior of the club another look. Name: Going Higher. Parker shook his head slowly. Going down, more likely, into the depths. Just like him.
The only hint of brightness on the exterior, which fronted on equally drab Pico Boulevard, was the small neon sign that belligerently shouted “Beer on Draft” to the uncaring double-lane strip of tired asphalt. It hadn’t been a good week for Mrs. Parker’s little boy. On Monday “Deanna and her Performing Pups” had played their first engagement under his aegis. In the middle of the act, what does one of the rancid bitches do but take a sinking leap into the audience and proceed to put the fang to a couple of hysterical moppets. Sam’s abortive relationship with Madame Deanna had dissolved faster than a headache tablet. He escaped partnership in three separate lawsuits only because the apologetic madame had providentially signed her name to their agreement in the wrong place. And now this.