The Perils of Being a Rock Star

by Chris Hlad…

The only thing stronger than her love for him was her absolute hatred for the man. Whatever love was there was getting drowned by blackness, like a lit light bulb sinking into a tar pit. She loved him just like any normal woman would love their Hollywood Rock Star crush, but her hatred was anything but normal.

All the blame wasn’t on him of course – she was the one who went up to his penthouse – but he crossed the line when she let him do things to her because “If you won’t I’ll find someone who will. All I have to do is snap my fingers.” He was beautiful, rich and famous, but that didn’t give him the right to use her for a night and then forget about her, moving to a new town and a new whore. She knew she wasn’t a whore, at least up until the point where she gave him everything he assumed was his. He’d learn, though. She’d teach him. She had a plan…


“So I’ve got to know what it’s like,” the Disc Jockey said.

“What part?” Mr. Rock Star answered.

“Well, for starters, what’s it like standing on a stage in front of 20,000 people every night?”

“The only thing I can describe it as is ‘electric’.”

“Electric?”

“Yeah. All the people yelling and screaming, singing songs I wrote back to me? It’s like there is a current running through the crowd, and it courses through me. Such energy! Such energy!”

“Does it ever get old? I mean, you’ve been doing this for a long time now. Aren’t there some songs you are just over and you wish you’d never written?”

Mr. Rock Star laughs. “Those songs, the ‘hits’, they’re what made me who I am today. I couldn’t do what I do now without those songs. I wouldn’t say they get old. I just tap into what I was feeling when I wrote them and it takes me away.”

“I imagine it has the same effect on you audience – the older songs, I mean.”

“Yeah, I imagine it would. But you know what the coolest thing is?”

“What?” Mr. Disk Jockey asks.

“We’ve been doing this for so long that now the people who were ‘kids’ when we were just starting out are bringing their kids with them! We’re reaching a whole new generation! How cool is that?”

Mr. Disc Jockey laughs.

“What?” Mr. Rock Star replies.

“Well, and I’m being completely serious here, do you ever see some of those moms with their kids and wonder if they might be yours? I mean, your back stage antics were pretty legendary back in the day.”

“Let’s just say I’ve got a very good legal team, because, believe it or not, there’s always somebody out there who wants my money and I’ve been accused of that more than once.”

“Has it ever turned into anything?”

“Not once.”

“Dodged a bullet there, huh?”

“Hell, I dodged a barrage of machine gun fire.”

Both Mr. Disc Jockey and Mr. Rock Star laugh at this.

“So what’s it like now?” Mr. Disk Jockey asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the groupies, the sex, the drugs…all of it.”

“Well, the drugs are gone.”

“No, don’t tell me that!”

Mr. Rock Star laughs. “We had too many close calls. Let’s just say you can only roll the dice so many times before your luck runs out. Now, we have wine after the shows, and maybe a couple of beers while we’re on stage. I feel like we’ve all grown out of that. You know, ‘been there, done that’?”

“Yeah, I know what your talking about. I’ve slowed way down too,” Mr. Disk Jockey says.

“That’s a good thing, because we still need someone to play our music!”

“Fair enough. What about the other things, though?”

“Come again?”

“The groupies and the sex. Please tell me that’s still going on.”

“Three ex-wives later, I’d say I’ve earned the right to indulge in a few groupies now and then.”

“Listen to you. ‘A few’. So what’s it like? How does it compare to when you were starting out?”

“I’d say the biggest thing is the back stage parties aren’t anywhere near what they used to be. And you’ve got to remember, we were traveling on buses back then. It was a lot easier to bring groupies back to your bunk in the bus than to get them on a plane. Plus, it was getting expensive, man!”

“You mean you pay the groupies?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. But if you’ve got girls with you on your plane, you can’t just leave them at the airport with no way to get home, you know.”

“Huh. I never realized you were such a gentleman. So what’s it like now?”

“Well, on this tour, we’re playing multiple nights in most cities, so afterwards, we can just go back up to the penthouse.”

‘Penthouse’. He just said it. The pig is going to talk about where he took me and where he took God only knows how many others.

The closet she was waiting in was getting claustrophobic, but after all the hoops she had to go through to get into this particular enclosure, this closet just outside the studio doors, she’d wait until just the right moment. Then she’d teach him. She’d teach the both of them.

“Oh man,” Disc Jockey says. “That’s got to be convenient. So tell me, when is the last time you had sex?”

“Last night. And early this morning. It was still dark out. And let me tell you, the groupies, the sex, that part never ever gets old.”

“So what do you do when you want them to leave?”

“I usually lie and say I have to go to sound check.”

“I imagine some of these broads don’t want to leave, though.”

“That’s why I’ve got this,” Mr. Rock Star says, taking out his cell. “I’ve got security on speed dial.”

“You mean you actually have to have them escorted out?”

“Not all the time, but sometimes.”

“When was the last time that happened?”

Mr. Rock Star laughs.

It makes the woman in the closet want to vomit, but she knows she has to keep it together.

“The broad last night. She kept telling me she loved me, over and over and over. She said she had something else to tell me too, but I’d had enough. She was a great lay, though. I will give her that.”

“Best ever?”

“God no!” Mr. Rock Star says, laughing. “Just another lay, my friend.”

Just another lay? That’s what she was? That’s all she was?

She left her confinement and, very calmly, walked into the studio, two buckets in her hands. Everybody was too surprised to do anything but stare. She was still wearing the robe Mr. Rock Star let her have before giving her purse to her and telling her to “Get the F**K out!”

She’d gotten out all right, and with her makeup running and wearing nothing more than a robe, had found her way to the nearest gas station and bought two cans of gas, which she put into the buckets. She wanted to make sure these two pigs got doused, which is what she proceeded to do.

“Just another lay?” she said, glaring.

“I’m sorry – I’m just playing the role of Rock Star!”

“And you can leave me out of this,” the Disc Jockey said, getting up, gasoline dripping off his clothes.

“You two ever been to Hawaii?”

“What? What the F@@K?” Mr. Rock Star asks.

“They roast pigs there in fire pits. I’ve always liked the smell. This isn’t quite a pit, but it will do.”

Out came the lighter and the two were engulfed in flames.

She calmly walked out, went to the women’s room with the rope she’d bought at the gas station, and hung herself.


Forty miles away, Frank and Mitch were listening to their favorite broadcaster and favorite rock star. “What was that about a pig?” Frank asked.

“And the screaming! It sounded so real!” Mitch said.

“Must have been a bit,” Frank said, not believing his own words.

“Yeah, anything for ratings,” Mitch said, his voice quivering ever so slightly.

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