Chapter 6A

Tallahassee, Florida

February 29, 1988

The crowd of 12,186 cheered loudly, all of them on their feet, stomping the ground or the bleachers, many holding lighters in the air, turning the floor of the auditorium into a sea of glowing orange stars. The shouted one word, repeatedly and in unison: more, more, more.

The band was just off stage, in the stage left area, listening to the cheers and stomping while they downed quart bottles of Gatorade to replenish the sweat that had poured out of them during the show. The main part of their set had just ended. They had played eighteen of their songs, seven from It's In The Book and eleven from their first three albums. There had also been an extended drum solo by Coop, a brief bass solo by Charlie (it was the band's way of introducing him to the crowd), a piano solo by Nerdly, and, of course, a ripping, multi-tempo guitar solo from Matt that had lasted nearly ten minutes. Total time for the main set had been ninety-six minutes — within two minutes of their tour average so far. Now it was time for the encore, a three-song set in which they would play Descent Into Nothing, their first hit; Point Of Futility, their biggest hit; and then, to close it all out, The Thrill Of Doing Business, the hard rocking title cut from their second album, which was a nationwide favorite on hard rock stations.

"We ready?" Matt asked the rest of them. He had to yell to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

Everyone nodded, indicating they were ready.

"Let's fuckin' do it then!" Matt yelled.

They dropped their Gatorade bottles in a trashcan and walked back out onto the stage. The stage lights had not been turned down and the crowd erupted into deafening cheers when they saw them.

Jake walked over and picked up his Les Paul — a brand new one that was done up in yellow and black instead of the classic sunburst pattern he'd used on the last tour. The guitar had been given to him by the Gibson company as part of his endorsement contract. The day the tour was officially scheduled and booked they had also wired $1.5 million to him.

Jake slung the guitar over his neck and pulled a pick out of the inlay. He stepped up to his microphone and looked out over the audience even though he could only see the first few rows of the mosh pit due to the lighting. "All right," he told them, feigning exasperation. "You talked us into it. We'll do a few more."

The cheers erupted anew and then faded back down as Charlie began to pick out a rhythm on his Fender bass guitar.

True to her word, Pauline had made sure that Charlie was covered under the master Intemperance contract just like the rest of the band. As such, he was allowed to sign endorsement contracts with anyone he pleased. On the advice of the other four band members Charlie had allowed Pauline to handle the negotiations and bargaining for such a contract. Cashing in on their fans' fascination for Darren Appleman's replacement she'd been able to get a bidding war going between Fender and Brogan. Fender had come out the winner when they'd agreed to a nine hundred thousand dollar endorsement fee plus twenty dollars for each Charlie Meyer signature model bass that was sold. Even with the taxes and Pauline's twenty percent taken out Charlie had been able to pay off all of his debt to National Records (it had been reduced by half the moment he signed the Intemperance contract), buy a new car, and put down a healthy down payment on a modest three bedroom house in Silver Lake, very near where Pauline lived.

He played his signature Fender bass now with love and pride, his skilled fingers fingerpicking the thick strings with his right hand, pushing the fretboard with his left. He brought the tempo up, faster and faster, building it to what seemed a tension inducing crescendo. Though the rest of the band had found Charlie to be more than a little odd as they'd gotten to know him these past months ("he's as crazy as a shithouse rat," Matt had proclaimed on more than one occasion) no one disputed his skill with his instrument. He was one hell of a bass player — in the same league as Geddy Lee of Rush, whom Jake and Matt both considered the best of all time.

Nerdly began to throw some piano into Charlie's rhythm, playing just over the top of it. Coop sounded in next, starting with single strikes on his floor toms at the top of the melody and then gradually adding more until he was fully supporting the rhythm. Matt and Jake came in next with Matt grinding out a harsh, almost brutal riff and Jake supporting it with a less distortion and less complexity. It was, overall, a classic Intemperance musical arrangement that had never been recorded before, that had been composed solely as the instrumental intro to the first encore song on this tour.

They played it for another twenty seconds, becoming louder, faster, and more complex with each repetition of the rhythm. Suddenly, everything stopped. The instruments went mute except for a deliberately prolonged reverterbration of the final note on Matt's guitar, drawing out, slowly fading away. Just before it faded completely Matt launched into the opening riff for Descent Into Nothing. Hearing this the crowd once again began to cheer wildly. As Jake stepped up to the microphone to begin singing the verses he saw two young women in the front row raise their shirts to show him their breasts. A bra and two pairs of slinky panties came flying in from another direction. He gave a little grin. Sometimes it was just great to be a rock star.

It was as he was singing the second chorus, just before the bridge and the guitar solo, when other objects came flying onto the stage, a group of ten or more, coming from several rows back, moving with considerable velocity.

Damn it, Jake had time to think before one of the objects, a black book a little larger than a pack of cigarettes, hit him directly in the chest hard enough to hurt. I thought we were going to get through a concert for once without this shit. The small book bounced off him and landed at his feet, its cover facing upward. Jake didn't need to look to know what was printed on it. The New Testament — The Gospels Of Jesus Christ. It was a small bible, the sort religious fanatics carried around to hand out to people they wanted to save.

The tour had opened November 15 in Bangor, Maine. From there they'd worked their way down the eastern seaboard to their current gig in Tallahassee, Florida. At every city they'd played in groups of religious protestors — the Family Values Coalition chief among them — tried to petition the various city councils and county boards of supervisors to get Intemperance's concert permit revoked. When that failed — and so far it had failed miserably at every destination — they picketed the venues for days in advance of the show, their signs reading things like BLASPHEMY IS NOT FREE SPEECH or MOTHERS, DON'T LET YOUR CHILDREN BE CORRUPTED! The picketing always reached a frenzied peak on the night of the show with hundreds of protestors waving signs and trying to hand bibles and/or anti-rock music tracts to the people waiting in line to get in. In almost every city so far there had been fights between concertgoers and protestors. In Boston there had been a full-scale riot outside the auditorium in which dozens had been arrested, dozens injured (including one pious young man who had been pantsed and then had the top of his sign shoved into his anus) and the cops had been forced to fire teargas in order to restore order.

No matter what the protestations, however, the shows went on in each and every venue, although thanks to the media coverage of the unruliness the cops had learned to deploy in force whenever Intemperance came to town, both outside the arenas and in.

It was during the show in Hartford, Connecticut that the bibles first started to fly in from the audience. Apparently there were members of the various religious groups who were purchasing tickets to the shows for the specific purpose of throwing bibles onto the stage. It had started as a spontaneous act but after realizing how great of an idea it was it had become more organized and persistent. The word had spread through whatever channels of communication these groups utilized that the way to show everyone what sinners Intemperance were was to infiltrate ten or fifteen people into each concert and hurl copies of the New Testament at them.

These flying bibles at one time or another had struck all five members of the band, with the three front men taking the brunt of the attacks. Jake had been hit in the head twice, in the hands three times, and in the body more than he could count. The press had reported on the bible-throwing incidents with the same lighthearted humor they'd displayed about the cross in Jake's yard or the muriatic acid in his hot tub — like it was all just good clean fun at a satanic rock band's expense. Or at least that had been the case until the show in Buffalo, New York when Jake had kicked one of the bibles off the stage to keep from slipping on it.

Jake Kingsley stomps on New Testament on stage, the headlines read the next day.

Or there had been the incident in Charleston, South Carolina, when a group of Intemperance fans in the mosh pit had taken offense to the bible throwers and had roughed them up a bit.

Intemperance fans savagely beat religious protestors, went out on the AP wire within hours.

Now, Jake left the bible where it had fallen, noting its position so he wouldn't accidentally slip on it later. The rest of the band did the same, with the exception of Coop, who was forced to brush one off the top of his left bass drum. They played on with the song and then launched into Point Of Futility. No more bibles came flying up but no less than ten pairs of panties did. Futility was a particular favorite among the female Intemperance fans.

During the guitar solo a drunken, sweaty, extremely attractive, and shirtless young woman jumped up onto the stage, rushed across it with lightening speed, and grabbed hold of Jake. She rubbed her bare breasts all over his arm, kissed him wetly on the cheek, and yelled something he couldn't understand into his ear before two members of the security team ran onstage, pried her loose, and dragged her off. Such incidents were common, usually occurring once or twice a week. About half of the girls rushed after Jake, the other half after Matt.

Jake ignored the incident the best he could. He never paused in his playing, didn't acknowledge her presence in anyway, didn't make any remarks as she was taken off the stage. He didn't react but such incidents always left him nervous and adrenalized. Though he had no objection to bare breasts being rubbed against his person, he had no idea who these women were or what they were going to do when they reached him. So far they had been nothing but drunken high school or college age girls with crushes, usually acting on a dare by their equally drunken friends. Occasionally the stage rush was a premeditated act, a chance for a girl to get her ten seconds in the spotlight, to be able to say she had touched Jake Kingsley or Matt Tisdale. There was always the possibility, however, that one of these girls might be one of the bible-throwers who had decided to take things to the next level and stick a knife in Jake's or Matt's chest or maybe pump a few rounds into one of them from a Saturday night special. After all, security at most of these venues was pretty much a joke. The audience was subjected to only cursory pat downs before being admitted.

We need to get the security guys to move a little faster, Jake thought as Matt's solo wound down and the final verse began. Half the time I don't even see these chicks coming until they're on top of me.

Point Of Futility ended. Jake bantered with the crowd for a few seconds and then they launched into The Thrill Of Doing Business. The crowd stomped and cheered, singing along with Jake through the entire tune. No more bibles came up and no more women rushed the stage. They ended the song with a final, drawn out flourish and then basked in the cheers as they took their bows. They then walked off the stage. The stage lights were turned off and the house lights were turned up. The crowd continued to call for more for a few minutes before gradually quieting as they realized the show was really over. In accordance with the first law of performing, Intemperance had left them wanting more. The Tallahassee show was at an end.

The band was led back through several backstage doorways to their dressing room. Here, a virtual feast had been laid out for them by a catering service hired by the venue. There were barbequed ribs, beef brisket with barbeque sauce, chicken breasts, baked beans, potato salad, corn on the cob, and asparagus spears. And, for the benefit of Charlie, who proclaimed himself a vegetarian, there was a thick pasta salad garnished with oregano. In addition to the food there were tubs full of beer, a small but well-stocked hard liquor bar, a tray with high-grade marijuana and a bong, and a silver case stocked with two grams of high-grade cocaine that Greg Gahn, their hypocritical Mormon tour manger, was not allowed to come within five feet of.

"Good show, guys, good show," Greg said as they grabbed beers or mixed drinks. "One of your best."

"You say that every fuckin' night, Greg," Matt said as he poured six ounces of Jack Daniels into a water glass and then put three ounces of Pepsi on top of it.

"And you don't even watch the shows, do you?" asked Jake. "You just sit back here and drool over the cocaine."

"I watch the show every night," Greg said. "At the very least I listen to it. And I have no interest in your cocaine. Heavenly Father has shown me the error of my ways. I haven't touched that devil's powder in almost two years now."

"God showed you the way, huh?" Matt asked. "The fact that our new contract stipulated that we wouldn't pay for your blow anymore didn't have anything to do with it?"

"Of course not," Greg said righteously. "I resent that you would even make that allegation."

Jake cracked open a beer and sat down in one of the chairs. He took a few drinks, enjoying the sensation of fresh alcohol slamming into his empty stomach. He drained the Corona in less than three minutes and then immediately opened another one. After half of this beer was in his stomach he finally got up and began putting food onto a plate.

"How's that pasta salad?" Jake asked Charlie a few minutes later as he gnawed on one of the ribs.

"Just the way I like it," Charlie replied. "Cold and sterile."

"Fuckin' sterile," Matt said, rolling his eyes and giving a little shake of the head.

One of Charlie's many oddities was his obsessive phobia regarding germs, microbes, amoebas, and parasitic insects. He carried disinfectant wipes with him everywhere and wiped down every surface that any part of his body would have to come into contact with. He wiped each beer bottle before he opened it, every piece of silverware he used, every toilet seat, toilet handle, and bathroom sink. He wiped his bass guitar down before doing the sound check each day and instructed his assistant to do the same before each actual performance. He washed his hands no less than thirty times each day, using a special anti-bacterial soap he carried in the same container as his wipes. Even his vegetarianism was related to this phobia.

"So are you like a vegetarian because you don't like that people kill animals or because you think meat is unhealthy?" Matt had asked him back in the beginning, when they'd started introducing him to the songs they would be playing on the tour.

"Neither," Charlie had replied.

"Neither? Then why don't you eat meat?"

"Tapeworms," Charlie said, as if that explained everything.

"Tapeworms?" Matt asked. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Do you know what tapeworms are?" Charlie asked, shuddering at the very thought of them. "They're these worms that get into your intestinal tract and grow there, eating everything you eat, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. Sometimes they can get eighteen feet long."

"That is pretty fuckin' gross," Matt had to agree. "But what the hell does that have to do with being a vegetarian?"

Charlie looked at him as if he were an idiot. "The number one cause of tapeworm infestation is the consumption of meat products," he said. "All it takes is one little tapeworm cyst — something that's almost microscopic in size — and the next thing you know you've got a sixteen footer sucking up all your nutrients. Uh uh. That shit ain't gonna happen to me. If I don't eat meat, it never will."

"You realize, of course," said Matt, "that you live in fucking America, right? This ain't goddamn Zimbabwe or The fucking Gambia. I ain't never heard of an American getting a tapeworm from eating a burger or a steak."

"And I find that particularly ominous," Charlie whispered. "Someone has to be the first, don't they?"

They really couldn't argue with this logic. In truth, they didn't even want to try.

After eating their fill from the food the band members began cycling in and out of the shower in the next room, washing Doreen's hairspray out of their hair and changing into fresh jeans and t-shirts. Once they were all clean they smoked a few bonghits and drank a few more drinks. Coop, Nerdly, and Matt all snorted some cocaine. Jake abstained from the blow because he was making a conscious effort to imbibe in it as little as possible on this tour. He didn't want to have to rely on it to keep him awake during the evening party hours or during the day when they were trying to do their autograph and interview sessions on little sleep. The coke was something that was just a little too pleasurable and he feared having to go into rehab because of overuse. Charlie simply didn't use cocaine at all, claiming it wasn't sterile enough to be placed into his body.

"All right, Jack," Matt said to Jack Ferguson, the head of tour security. "You got some sluts staging out there for us?"

"Naturally," Jack said. It was he and his team who were responsible for finding a selection of attractive and slutty young women in each city to help entertain the band members after the show. Their requirements were simple. The women had to be hot, willing to perform any sexual act asked of them, be it publicly or privately, and they had to be willing to give a blowjob to a security team member in order to prove they were proper Intemperance groupie material. During the first two tours Jack had always brought the girls back immediately after the show. During the previous tour and during this one, at the band's request, he kept them just outside so the band could eat and shower in peace.

"How many you got out there?" Matt asked him.

"I have twelve young ladies who are anxious to make your acquaintance."

"Twelve?" Matt said, pondering. He looked at Nerdly. "Is that gonna be enough?"

"I don't know," Nerdly said. "I'm going for a four by two tonight."

"A four by two?" Matt asked. "That's fuckin' impossible. No fuckin' way it can be done!"

"Would you care to place a wager on that hypothesis?" Nerdly asked.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I'll put my fuckin money where my mouth is. A thousand bucks!"

"I accept your proposal," Nerdly said.

"And I'm going for it too," Matt said. "Jack, I think you might need to scrape up a few more bitches for us."

Jack sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

What Matt and Nerdly were talking about was a contest that had developed between them over the past week. It had started when Nerdly had boasted during the bus ride between Raleigh and Charleston that he had "copulated with" three women in his hotel room the night before.

"So fuckin' what?" Matt had asked. "I had eight of them lined up one night and I plugged every one of 'em."

"No, you fail to understand my accomplishment," Nerdly replied. "I copulated to completion with all three women last night. And I left each of them satisfied."

"You mean you fuckin' came in all three of them?" Matt asked. "And made each of them come too?"

"That is exactly what I am saying," Nerdly said, a smug expression on his face.

"Fuckin' bullshit!" Matt said. "Three comes in one night ain't possible."

"Maybe not for you," Nerdly said. "I, however, am blessed with superior sexual regeneration genes."

And so it had started. Matt challenged Nerdly to prove his claim by doing it again the next night. Jake didn't ask for details but apparently Nerdly was able to convince Matt that what he boasted of was reality. Matt then attempted to duplicate the feat the next evening and, after nearly three hours and six lines of cocaine, he was able to. That had led to further challenges in which each of the groupies participating in the contest were to be made to have two orgasms instead of just one. Thus the terminology of three by two and now, four by two.

"I need some carbohydrates if I'm going to do this," Nerdly said. He got up and heaped a mound of Charlie's pasta salad on a plate.

"And don't even try to fake no fuckin' orgasm, Nerdly," Matt warned. "If I'm gonna pay up for this shit I wanna see all four of them fuckin' rubbers before you toss 'em."

"Jesus, Matt," Jake said. "That's pretty fuckin' gross."

"And kind of gay too," Coop added.

"Hey," said Matt, "we're talkin' about a thousand bones here. It ain't like I'm gonna touch the fuckin' rubber."

"How about you, Jake?" Nerdly asked. "You up to try a four by two?"

"No, I don't think so," Jake said. "Sex should be an exclusive, giving act reserved for two people who care deeply about each other. It shouldn't be a contest."

All four band members stared at him for a moment and then started cracking up. After a moment, Jake joined them.

"No, seriously," Matt said. "Why don't you start out slow and try a three by one first?"

"I've done the three women thing before," Jake said. "I like one or two a lot better. With three you kind of get into sensory overload. I have, however, done more than my share of two by fours and one by eights."

"Try a two by six then," Matt suggested. "I'll give you a thousand bucks if you can pull that off without the bitches eating each other."

"Maybe after I get back from LA," he said. "I'm gonna skip the party tonight and catch some sleep. Remember, they're dragging my ass out of here at six o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Oh yeah," Matt said. "Almost forgot about that."

There was a hint of resentment in his voice, partly directed at Jake but mostly directed at National Records. The Grammy Awards were taking place in two days and Intemperance — despite all of the controversy of the past year — had been nominated again, although this time for only a single award: Best Rock Song By A Duet Or Group. The song that had been nominated was I Am Time, which had turned into a surprise hit since the album's release and was threatening to surpass Point Of Futility as the band's all time best selling single. Since Jake had written the song and since National knew that it didn't stand a chance in hell of actually winning the award, they were only paying to fly Jake back to Los Angeles long enough to attend the actual ceremony (the pre-Grammy party had been held the previous week and none of the Intemperance members had been in attendance). The rest of the band would head on to Fort Lauderdale and enjoy two days off before their scheduled concert there on March 3.

"Can you believe how much people love that song?" Coop asked, shaking his head in bewilderment. "What are you gonna do if it actually wins, Jake? You got a speech all set up?"

"You'd better fuckin' mention the rest of us if it wins," Matt said.

"We ain't gonna win anything over Bruce Springsteen," Jake said. "Captain America will always triumph over the bible stomping girlfriend beater."

"I guess you're right," Coop said. "That's the way the fuckin' world works, man."

In truth, Jake was just as astonished by the runaway success of I Am Time as anyone. It had been intended as nothing more than a deep cut on the album, something not meant for radio airplay. National had never even considered releasing it as a single, not even as the B-side. The band had not intended to play the tune during the tour since it would require Matt to sound check and play a harmonica during each performance. But within a month of It's In The Book's release to the public some DJ in Trenton, New Jersey had played the song on the radio during a request hour show. All who heard it had been so impressed they started phoning the station and asking for more plays of it. Soon, other stations began to play it and by the time the band was just finishing up tour rehearsal and getting ready to hit the road it was the most-requested tune nationwide, passing up even It's In The Book — the song — which National absolutely refused to release as a single so people would be forced to buy the album in order to get a copy of it.

National had no such compunction about releasing Time as a single once the potential of it became apparent. They quickly produced a million copies of the song on 45-rpm vinyl and released them for sale. The song shot up to number one in less than two weeks, cutting across every demographic there was. Sixteen-year-old girls, college age men, and middle-aged women were purchasing copies of the song as fast as they could get their hands on it. Reviewers loved it as well, even those who had slammed everything Intemperance had done in the past. They touted it as a unique and endearing mixture of hard rock and classic blues with timeless lyrical development. National had strongly suggested the band work the song into the tour — which they did. They had also insisted on a video to accompany the tune. And so, with less than a week before the start of the tour, Jake and Erica Wilde, who had produced every Intemperance video since I Found Myself Again, quickly composed and shot a video that featured clips of home movies from the band members as children, shots of people dying in convalescent hospitals, and shots of the band lip-syncing the song in their rehearsal warehouse. At Jake and Matt's direction Charlie's face was never shown in the video, only his hands, legs, and body on the bass. This left the viewers with the impression that it was actually Darren Appleman who was playing bass on the tune. The video was expected to be nominated at the next MTV awards.

As Jake had pointed out, however, Time was not expected to win a Grammy. But since it had been nominated so at least one member of the band was expected to be at the ceremony tomorrow. Since Jake was the most visible member of the band, the voice of the band and the member who ended up in the spotlight the most, he had drawn the duty. He was flying out of the Tallahassee Airport on a commercial flight early the next morning in order to attend, be seen by the cameras, be interviewed once or twice, and then returned on another commercial flight to Fort Lauderdale the next day.

The twelve groupies came into the dressing room and soon the pre-party was in progress. Jake tried to stay off in the corner where he could drink beer in peace but this was not really a realistic goal. The groupies kept circulating over in his direction to talk to him, to tell him how bitchin' they thought he was, and to offer him various sex acts. Eventually he let one of them give him a blowjob just to keep the others occupied.

Soon they boarded up on the band bus with the groupies accompanying them (Jack had gone out to the parking lot and dug up six more, which irritated him since none of these six were required to pay the admission price). They drove to the Sheraton Hotel downtown and spilled out, taking three trips on the elevator to get everyone up to the top floor where each band member had their own suite.

The party tonight was in Nerdly's suite, which just happened to be directly next to Jake's suite. Jake went and laid down in his bed but the constant thumping of music, shouts from Matt and Nerdly, and excited screams of young groupies prevented him from drifting off right away.

"I oughtta call the fuckin' cops on them," Jake said sourly just after one o'clock in the morning. Finally he buried his head under two pillows and was able to drown the decibels down enough to drift off.

It seemed like only moments later that his five-thirty wake up call was jerking him from that slumber.

National Records did not think it necessary to pay for a private flight to return Jake to Los Angeles, nor did Jake wish to waste twelve thousand dollars chartering one himself. He was booked first class on a 727 that left Tallahassee Airport at seven o'clock in the morning. The problem was, there were no direct flights from Tallahassee to Los Angeles so he was flown to Dallas/Fort Worth first and had to wait for an hour for his connecting flight.

He was in the bar and smoking a cigarette in the first class lounge at DFW. He had slept most of the first leg of his flight and was now feeling jet-lagged and disoriented. It was only eight-thirty local time but it felt like eleven o'clock to Jake. He treated this malady as he did most things that plagued him these days. He had a few drinks. The bartender was an Intemperance fan and was setting him up with some fairly potent rum and cokes despite the early hour.