Duckegg had kept his nickname when the band became famous. The girls loved it, all of them claiming it’s cute and sexy. It became a massive forty-year trend to wear extra thick spectacles, even if they didn't need them. Tens of thousands of people fucked up their eyesight just to be like their hero.
His reputation as the greatest base guitarist the world had ever witnessed, only just nicked ahead of his reputation as a legendary lover of dozens of beautiful groupies after every live gig. And this was one of those gigs. It was up there with the best of them, marginally ahead of the legendary concert in Berlin in 1989 that is said to have been the catalyst for the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall where dozens of beautiful German girls from both sides of the iron curtain performed sex acts on them that even the lads perverted minds hadn't thought of.
He remembered that night with excitement as they played out the last of their hits on the world’s largest stage. Knickers and bras flew everywhere giving the lads a glimpse of what they had to look forward to at the after-show party after even more of the white snow had been snorted up their noses.
*
Freddy once bragged to the tabloids that the band had spent at least five million on cocaine over the years and the media loved it. In any other reality that would have been the end of the band, but not our lads, oh no. Their legendary status grew to unprecedented levels as the lads could do no wrong. The price of Charlie had gone through the roof after this revelation and the drug cartels of South America made them into saints because of it. A gig wasn't a gig without a mountain of snow to lighten the mood. He'd done dozens of lines already since waking up that morning and was flying high when they thundered onto the stage twelve hours earlier to give their adoring fans a performance they would never forget. He looked out onto the crowd of screaming fans with lots of them wearing their thick glasses as his angelic voice made love to their eardrums and after seeing all these Duckegg glasses, he thought, it’s a mad world, but I love it.
It was their third encore, and as the last song was coming to an end, excitement welled up inside him at the thought of the after-show party only being a matter of minutes away. It turned him into a ravenous demon, hungry for more drugs and desperate for the women that would do anything to please them in their nightclub-sized dressing room. He started to salivate as his mind began to drift.
*
Andy hadn't grown tired of performing live for forty years. The muscles in his arms and shoulders had grown strong whilst performing as a legendary drummer for thousands of live performances. and his muscles liked to be used. But this gig was special, it marked forty years since they spectacularly appeared on the world music scene and turned Scunthorpe from a dirty backwater steel town into the Mecca of amazing music that it had become.
It had been Andy's idea to build ‘Steel Town Stadium’ – a live, open-air arena so big, you could fit four Wembley stadiums inside it. It had been Andy's idea to build an international airport close to the stadium. And it had been Andy's idea to play that gig in Berlin in 1989. Andy had lots of ideas. He thought a lot and he imagined much more than he thought. Don't get me wrong, he loved this life with the lads. The music they created made love to his muscles when they performed live and the women that threw themselves at them were amazing. But he had memories –memories of what he gave up when they became famous. A loving girlfriend and the plans they made that never came to fruition. Because the fame, the drugs, and the wild women and wilder parties consumed them all until nothing of their former selves remained. But the parties still excited him, and one of them was about to begin.
*
Matt's hair hadn't changed at all in forty years. The other lads, except for Andy and his shaven head, still sported their excessive Flock of Seagulls style haircuts, which resembled the wings of a bird in flight on either side of their head, with a downward-facing swoop in the middle, that covered one eye – a cross between a punk Mohican and a teddy boy quiff, except for Matt. His hair was and always had been a fucking mess that completely covered his face. That guitarist who was famous for a little while back in the late '80s copied him but couldn't quite pull it off. ‘Slash’, I think he was called. Anyway, Matt pulled off looking like a scruffy cunt brilliantly. He never showed his face once, not once, which created a strange mystique around him, especially as nobody had ever heard him speak either – not even the lads, and they’d known him since they were kids. Nobody ever spoke about it until that fateful day in 1992 when the lads were being interviewed by ‘Terry Wogan’ on his last show. He asked Matt a question, something no other interviewer had ever dared do. The studio went silent, and Terry realised what he’d done. A shiver ran down his spine and he swiftly attempted to change the subject and talk to Duckegg, but the damage was done, Terry had spoken to Matt and attempted to get him to speak. After that, the Wogan show was cancelled, and Terry scraped a living together hosting the Eurovision Song Contest. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Matt could, however, make his lead guitar sing like the angels, and musicians around the world tried and failed to use his style and creativity as the bar to rise to. Everywhere he went, even the toilet and the shower, he would have his guitar with him. Guitars used and signed by him fetched millions. But he would never sell the one he used today as the strings came from a guitar that once belonged to the 1930s legendary blues singer and guitarist ‘Robert Johnson’ who, according to legend, had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a guitar that was tuned by the dark one himself. The guitar disappeared after Johnson's death, but the strings made their way to Matt as part of their deal with the Devil. A deal that they had all forgotten about
As did all the other members of this band, Matt regarded the after-show party to be the highlight of the show. There had been thousands over the years as new albums had been released followed by sell-out tours and they lived for these parties.
*
Gary’s keyboard setup was akin to something from a spaceship. Every single keyboard manufacturer competed to develop something futuristic for him and none of them could create what he needed, so he asked them all to pool their ideas, and together they gave life to something from out of this world. Holographic keys that reacted to the slightest movement of Gary’s fingers shot streams of lasers around the stadium adding to the music is what they came up with. Nothing like it had been seen in the music world before. His exceptional talent and this cutting-edge technology gave a heavenly charisma to the band’s music.
Gary had changed in the last forty years. He enjoyed his life, his music, and his time with the lads. Wealth couldn’t give him what he wanted or needed because he didn’t know himself. All he could remember was what he’d done to Lucy all those years ago when he’d beaten her up and caused a miscarriage to his unborn child. That night was the last time he’d seen her, yet deep inside him, locked away from reality was the love he felt for her. He pretended it wasn’t there, that the guilt and self-pity were just make-believe so he dove headfirst into the rock and roll lifestyle to keep his guilt locked away.
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*
The last notes had been played, the last word had been sung, and the stadium’s technical team released the fireworks and laser show that always preceded their triumphant march through the screaming crowd. Then they went on to their private nightclub where only the beautiful and important were invited. A two-thousand-strong security team of ex-British Royal Marines flexed their steroid-pumped muscles and silently moved into a routine that Mozza insisted should be practised at least three times a day.
Since Steel-Town stadium opened its doors, the security had been run by Mozza, a huge burly power-lifter and ex-Royal Marine who ran the security for hundreds of sell-out shows that could have turned nasty (as he described it) if he wasn't there to sort the punters out. A veteran of Afghanistan and Iraq, his only conversation topic away from the gym was his time in the Marines and his combat experience, and the boys not only loved him but trusted him with their lives. His company, 'Ex-Royal Marine Security' has one sole customer, the band, and they always pay him on time.
Mozza stood flexing his muscles in his proudly tight green t-shirt that every member of the security team wore. If you didn't have rippling muscles, if you hadn’t served in the Royal Marines, if you couldn’t tell blood-curdling stories of the Taliban and how the government ought to be replaced with ex-Royal Marines, then you weren't allowed in this select club. A thick purple, steroid-pumped vein in his forehead began to pulse like a porn star’s cock as his time to shine had arrived.
Mozza and his army moved into place pushing the punters away to create a clear path through the crowd and down to the dressing room. The screaming from the crowd had begun. At first, it was just the normal screaming, but as the boys began their triumphant march to the dressing room the screaming became so hysterical that Mozza, who was standing at the end of the path, gave the order over the radio to his menacing army to use their Tasers. (Now listen up, this is how fucked up this reality is. As a fan of Skeleton Key, you are an absolute nobody unless you have been tasered and half-killed by Mozza’s security team at a live gig. Can you fathom that? So, the fans became hysterical berserkers, a tradition at a Skeleton Key gig for many years. It’s a mad world.)
Sparks flew everywhere as huge ex-Royal Marines with psychotic looks in their eyes used this time as a therapy to clear their demons and clear them they did. Unconscious bodies began to pile up by the hundreds and still, they held their own, keeping the pathway clear for the boys to make their way to their all-star party without a care in the world. They waved at the spectacled fans and swigged from champaign bottles as 40,000 volts pumped through their brains, and everyone from the punters to Mozza and his team to the boys in the band, loved every savage minute of it.
At the end of the pathway of carnage, the usual sign of an enjoyable gig, stood Mozza, like a triumphant General welcoming his King after a successful battle victory. He then moved out of the way and the boys entered their lair.
The usual after-show party that they were expecting, comprised of a manic drug-fuelled orgy, great tunes from top DJs, glamour models, and female movie stars pole dancing naked and beckoning the lads to join them. Thousands of bouquets adorned the nightclub-sized dressing room, and hundreds of lines of cocaine were already lined up ready to go.
That is what the lads expected, but what they got was… fuck all…nothing... The room sat in darkness except for a single red disco light flashing away by itself. No top DJs. No naked, writhing glamour models pole dancing. No flowers, and no cocaine. The only music that was playing was ‘George Formby's When I’m cleaning windows.
The lads stood there, unable to move, whether out of anger or disappointment, they stood speechless. The noise outside the doors to the dressing room became louder as Mozza and his crew battered ten bales out of the last fanatic few of the hardcore fans that prided themselves on being the last ones breathing.
Mozzaaaaa! Screamed Andy with all the force in his lungs. The doors flew open and Mozza stood there, struggling to believe that the lads would call him away at such an important time. “Fucks sake lads, you know this is my favourite part, just five more minutes and I’ll have the last one of them unconscious.”
“What’s going down Mozza? This shit don’t make sense mate.”
Mozza stood with his back to the door, looking confused. He wiped the punters' blood away from his chin and then noticed that somebody’s eyeball had stuck to his shoulder during the melee. He plucked it off and flicked it onto the floor. It was his job to ensure everything ran perfectly, and this was far from ideal.
Mozza pointed excitedly like an excited child at Christmas. “There boss, on the pole.”
He had seen movement on one of the lap dancing poles at the back of the dressing room. It certainly wasn’t a naked model or a Hollywood actress. No. It was something different, something sinister, and it had a briefcase.
A chilling silence that the lads just weren’t used to sent a shiver down their spines. Four spotlights switched on by themselves and shone onto the stripper pole highlighting a figure of someone attempting to perform a pole dance. It certainly wasn’t their usual type of dancer. It wasn’t even female.
A red spotlight highlighted the pole and a four-foot midget wearing wire-rimmed specs, dressed in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat fell flat on his arse as he lost his grip on the pole. He landed with a loud thump and his bowler hat came away from his head and began rolling on the floor towards the lads, only stopping when it reached Andy’s foot.
The midget picked himself up, dusted himself down, and picked up his well-used, brown leather briefcase. He looked at the lads with an evil squint in his eyes and an evil smile that screamed, You cannot trust me.
Andy wasn’t in the mood for this. He needed his party and so did everyone else. Mozza needed his violence and Duckegg badly needed a line of coke. He picked the bowler hat up and threw it towards the midget. The Bowler hat magically landed on his head as Andy said, “Would you mind enlightening us to just who the hell you are?”
“The names Trevor, Trevor Deville, and I’m here about your souls.”
“Kill him Mozza, he’s a fucking Mormon,” screamed Duckegg.
Mozza ran towards the midget with a fierce rage. No fucker, absolutely no one, was going to preach religion in this dressing room. But as soon as he started to move, the midget flicked his left wrist and Mozza froze solid as if he’d been set to stone. “Leave us,” said the midget in a quiet but authoritarian tone.
Mozza unfroze but developed a blank zombie-like expression and walked out of the dressing room without saying another word.
The lads could do nothing but stand there, gobsmacked and frightened. Without Mozza to protect them they felt vulnerable and because of this, Duckegg lost control of his bladder and pissed himself.
The midget walked over to one of five gilded dressing tables and sat himself down in front of the expensive mirror as if he owned the place. Just like the ancient legends of the vampires, there was no reflection of the midget in the mirror and the five lads quickly noticed this and realised they were in the presence of something very evil.
The midget climbed up onto the red velvet stool and heaved his briefcase on the dressing table and whilst standing on the wobbling stool he opened it up. Immediately, screams of torment and pain from reaped souls emanated from its depths, and he angrily pushed his head inside it and screamed with all his might, “Shut the fuck up you cunts, you’re embarrassing me”. He reached his left arm up to his shoulder inside the briefcase and rummaged around for a minute until he found what he was searching for. “Arr,” whispered the midget to himself, “got it”. He moved the briefcase out of the way and rolled out a parchment onto the dressing table.
“Gather round lads, you need to see this”.