The crowd erupted into chaotic screams as Incorrigible, the world’s biggest rock band, made their way to the stage. Wasting little time, they picked up their instruments, immediately breaking into the song, “Are We Alone.” With a bombastic riff behind his gravelly voice, Kirk Cochoran belted out the lyrics, eventually screeching the final lines.
The candles and the stained glass
Comforted my heart
As the bitterness in my brain
Tried to tear their world apart
I am no one
I am someone
Isn’t life so odd
I am no good
I am so good
A child of some God
The audience went crazy as the feedback from the guitar Kirk was playing continued to hum, even after the song had come to a thunderous conclusion. He let the instrument hang from its strap, freeing up both of his hands. Kirk then grabbed the microphone stand and pulled it up to his skinny, five foot nine inch frame, almost as if he were humping it.
“It’s great to be fuckin’ home!” he screamed, causing the crowd to cheer. “We’ve played all over the world, but I can tell you, Portland’s where the party’s at. This is also a special night for us. One year ago today, we released “Corporate Generation” as a single.”
Tommy Hanes, the band’s bassist, and Carlos Russo, the drummer, began to play the rhythm section of the song, while Kirk tantalized the fans with his introduction to the decade’s biggest hit.
“Tonight we want to bring it back to where it all started,” he continued, unplugging his fancy red Fender guitar and trading it for an old, worn out, black model.
The feedback from the amplifier intensified as the old guitar came to life. The high pitched humming was so loud it brought pain to Kirk’s ears. He immediately tried to turn it down using the control knobs on the instrument, but nothing was working. The unsettling noise became shrill enough that even the half-stoned crowd couldn’t take it any longer. Kirk reached down to unplug his line, and that’s when all hell broke loose. A surge of electricity made its way through the guitar and into the rocker’s body. He began to shake from the current ripping through him. Saliva boiled from his mouth as he fell backward onto the stage.
“Cut the mother fucking power!” Tommy Hanes screamed.
Security, roadies, and emergency officials stormed the stage. The electricity was cut off, but sparks still flew from Kirk’s gyrating body. By this time, the genius songwriter of his era was on fire. His eyes had exploded from out of his head, and cooking brain matter splattered the stage like popcorn from a popper. Security officers tried to spray him with fire extinguishers, but nothing could douse the blaze. The power was completely dead, and so was Kirk. The electricity that had settled into his body refused to leave. Blue sparks continued to fly as the pile of charred bone and flesh burned its way through the bottom of the stage and down to the next level of the building. Hoards of people soon pushed their way to the scene, hoping it was all some sort of tricky gimmick that had been perpetrated by the band. The sight of Tommy Hanes down on his knees, throwing up, and Carlos Russo bawling hysterically, should have been a clue to them it was no hoax. By the time the event was over, all that remained of Kirk Cochoran was fourteen pounds of cremated ashes and a rock and roll mystery for the ages.
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