Fame Is Now Injectable

Part 2

Elsewhere, on the outskirts of the false front of Battery City, the sun beat down on the already-baked clay of the desert, taking all it's anger out on the few remaining plants and the rusted trailer resting in the middle. Whether it would ever move again was a mystery, but for now, the trailer lay stuck in the middle of nothing but broken clay and sand, melted paint perspiring off the dingy metal frame, wilting under the harsh, unforgiving heat. The smell of melting metal, refried beans, and sawdust filled the air, and puddles of once-bright paint lay unmoving on the floor. The remnants of a camping stove lay on a table resembling the desert surrounding it, living on nothing but a prayer. Four men, all with brightly mismatched outfits, sat on cracked, tacky leather seats in a faded white car, an inexplicably large painting of a spider on the hood, paint as cracked as the clay surrounding it. The radio blared old rock music, guitar solos mingling in the air with the laughter and cursing of the men. Colourful ray guns sheathed in patched leather holsters waited patiently, attentively. The leader of the group, electrifying red hair laying untamed and unruly on his head, instinctively placed his hand on his gun, resting his finger on the trigger, eyes watchful, scanning for any sign of danger.

These were the danger days.

"Hey Kobra, turn up the radio!" one of them asked, tangled black hair resting on his neck. A tall, blond man turned it up, the ghost of a smile on his face as he nodded along to the dancey beat. The radio was staticky today, more than usual, but the upbeat tune hyped the four up, all of them nodding along and humming. The only part they fully heard was the chorus.

"...gentlemen

Truth is now acceptable

Fame is now injectable

Process the progress

This core is critical

Faith is unavailable

Lives become incredible

Now please..."

The rest was drowned in static, not the uniform fake static playing on every other station, but real, annoying, buzzing static.

"Damn radio." the black haired one scowled.

"Don't worry, Ghoul. Jetstar knows how to fix it. Don't you?" Kobra glared at a man with afro-like brown hair.

The man sighed. "Yes, Kobra, I do know how to fix it, as I have done so every time you two decided to be whiny brats about the static."

Kobra mocked glared at him, and Ghoul rolled his eyes.

"Whatever, just fix it." he said. "Hey, Poison, what do you think?"

"Yeah, it was good timing. Needed a fun tune."

"Yeah, our "personal DJ" really outdid himself this time."

"Cheers to Dr. Death Defying!" The four men clinked dirty chipped glasses together, downing their drinks in one gulp. Jetstar slammed his cup on the dashboard.

"Jetstar, how many glasses have you had today?" Poison asked, looking concerned. He shrugged, pouring himself another glass.

"You okay?" Ghoul asked him.

"Yeah," he said noncommittally, taking a sip of his new drink. He made a face, then asked. "We got anything stronger?" he asked, draining the glass again. Poison and Kobra looked at each other, concern written all over their faces.

"Jetstar, I think you're drinking a little too much." Poison said firmly, grabbing the glass from the dashboard after he had slammed it yet another time.

"What's going on, bro? You can tell us, you know?"

No. No he couldn't. Nobody could ever know what he had done, what he had promised to do. Nobody could know that the strong, nasty drinks helped him forget the little deals he had made, the money he'd spent, the promises he'd "forgotten," the real reason he was on the run. The real reason he had abandoned his comfortable life as security of BL/IND to live in the wilting heat with three runaways.

But...these were his friends. He knew them. They would never turn their backs on him, would they? For a fleeting moment, Jetstar wished he could tell them everything, explain the whole, filthy truth. A ghost of memory haunted him, the nauseating breath hot on his neck, the low, rumbled words etched permanently into his mind.

"Think of your wife...the kids..."

A barely-spoken threat, but it lingered around the room, the words heavy and dense, the air thick with a sense of suspense and finality. This was his doom.

How he despised that thing, with his hateful, slitted eyes, his cat-like purr, his rumbling, thick voice.

He shook himself out of his thoughts to answer his friends, who looked more worried than ever at the black hatred he knew was swimming in his eyes.

"Just having an off day." he said, as he got out of the car to go into the trailer. He needed some sleep.

As he lay turning and tossing in bed, an unbidden fragment flitted through his mind, and he let out a low chuckle at how fitting it was. How true! Nobody was important for anything real anymore. It really is all an illusion. Their DJ really had outdone himself this time.

Fame is now injectable