Night Of The Beast by Harry Shannon

become what you always hated.
    Peter fumbled his way to the bathroom without turning on the lights. He stepped under the lukewarm shower. Everything hurt, each muscle and tendon and nerve ending chanted its own litany of complaint.
    He felt his body with shaky fingers. Excess fat was beginning to appear. His slightly arthritic ribs were still sensitive from old football injuries, and one badly damaged knee stiffened up on him every week or so. He'd been warned an ulcer was fast approaching. He was probably an addict. I'm only thirty-two years old, he thought suddenly. Why am I doing this? Because I love music, writing songs? This isn't music, it's suicide .
    Hey, I didn't invent the business, I just work in it. Give a guy a break.
    Rourke jerked the shower handle all the way to the right. He screeched as an assault of icy needles riddled his flesh. Oh, shit, so cold. He hopped from one foot to the other, forcing himself to endure the torment. A few moments later, he looked in the mirror with the lights on. Cruel pockets had begun to sag and darken under his blood-shot eyes.
    Suicide. Can't hack this much longer. Screw the money.
    Peter opened the medicine cabinet with trembling hands, looking for a little chemical assistance. He had to get himself up for one last vocal session. And then there's Dee, he thought as he searched around behind the bottles of aftershave for some drugs. That's got to stop, too.
    No more rainbow?
    His heart kicked. Rourke swallowed and tried to calm himself. There had to be some of the shit hidden somewhere around the apartment. He always kept a small stash for emergencies, and tonight's session definitely qualified. He had two battles to win: First track the final tune with Dee, and then find a nice way to cool things down between them, before it was too late.
    He glanced around his expensive condo, suddenly feeling foolish and artificial. Fake plants, bland furniture, pastel colors. Plastic, Peter thought. I live in the dark and the fucking world's made of plastic.
    The phone rang. Rourke rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to the nightstand. He noticed the little folded packet of waxed paper lying next to the clock radio. Of course. He'd saved half a gram of Rainbow from the day before, just in case. Praise the Lord. He answered the phone with one hand and groped for a shortened straw with the other. Which drawer, damn it?
    "Yeah?"
    "This is your wake-up call," Friedheim said. "Would you like me to send up our continental breakfast?"
    "Huh?"
    "It's two gay Frenchmen who are very well read."
    "Not funny, Bryan."
    "That's not meant to be funny. It's what I was dreaming about just a minute ago."
    "Hope you had fun. What time is it?"
    Bryan waited a beat. "Nine-fifteen in the evening, Mr. Producer. And we're almost finished."
    "From your mouth to God's ears."
    "See you there what, around eleven?"
    "Yeah," Rourke said. "That will give Dee and I some extra time to run over the song."
    Transparent as a sandwich bag. Still, Friedheim was tactful. "Okay, boss. I'll meet you at the front."
    Rourke hung up. He found a short straw and inhaled two scoops, then two more. When the phone rang again, he was giving serious thought to the idea of doing the entire stash.
    "Maker of stars. Whatcha want, Tinkerbell?"
    "Rourke," Gordie Easton said, "shut up and listen." His voice sounded slurred. Peter could hear nightclub noises in the background: shrill feminine laughter, the pounding pulse of a live band. Here it comes, he thought. I'm fired.
    "All right, Gordie. You have my full attention."
    "And I've got your contract," Easton said. "You wanna go cut a garage band out of Omaha?"
    Rourke winced. "You're drunk, Gordie."
    "And you're fucked up on the latest thing. I figure that makes us even."
    "Fair enough. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"
    Gordie lowered his voice. Peter was shocked at the real agony hiding behind the words: "Call it off. I want you to stop seeing Dee."
    "Gordie, I…"
    "You think I