My name?

I don't much care for it.

My stage name?

Now that's a name.

I won't tell you my real name, because I don't like it. I won't tell you my stage name, because I love it.

I'm the one on stage behind the roaring swarming crowd of fanatic people, most of whom are moshing. I'm up front center stage with the mic in my hand and my hazy nonchalant eyes filled with stars. I would have much rather preferred being far back on stage banging on the yellow drum set, but I could never play well enough, so my band members threw me up front to do the only thing I could; sing? I always had the impression my voice was ugly, even when I tweaked it to sound different, it seemed to high pitched and irritating. But people just have odd taste I suppose. And by some odd fluke, the band I slipped into from high school just because I could, became a big hit. I don't know how big, people would tell me we were national stars, I never really believed them. Everything seemed to be told to me, but how could I be sure they were truths? Would I go around from bedroom to bedroom and look for my poster on the walls? All I knew was there was stadium full of my fans every time we came to play. That's all I really cared about, and some day all of it would be just awesome memories.

This story will begin with a single fan letter I opened one day.

I had told my fans to mail in lyrics, I figured at least a dozen of my fans knew how to write something worth while. And my band members and I did find a few talented lyrics which we later made into songs, but this particular letter held lyrics that really struck me. It was entitled FUCK YOU. I expected it to be a flame letter, so I grinned anxiously tore it open and read it quickly. All the words were written in capital letters:

I'M GONG TO FUCK YOU

I WON'T STOP TILL YOU'RE UNDER ME

I WON'T STOP TILL THE WORLD HEARS YOU SCREAM.

IT WON'T MATTER HOW LOUD BECAUSE I'LL NEVER STOP FUCKING YOU

It was concise, I had to give the writer that much.

And a few weeks later, at end of the concert we played and I sang the lyrics our fans had written for us, I took the time to sing the crude lyrics of that letter that was burned into the back of my mind. Not even my band mates knew I was going to sing it. I hadn't even mentioned the letter to them. But the crowd roared and cheered, even with the lack of instruments in my brief vile song solo. It brought a bright smirk to my face, and I felt better about the letter.

A few months past...

I hadn't really thought about the letter, and my band and I had gone our separate ways on a "vacation". And if we enjoyed our vacation, we would stay apart on "vacation" for the rest of our lives. I was glad, but also a little bummed. If we split up the band we wouldn't be able to see each other very often, maybe hardly at all. I guess I grew too accustom to them, I hardly knew them when I jumped in the band, now they were the closest thing I had to a family. But relaxing and not having to worry about anything but myself was refreshing.

I was lounging in my old bedroom; it was exactly as I had left it. In one easy word I could describe it, Crapy. Capital C. But it was mine, and it was familiar. I gave my mother money, but she never moved out of our shitty lil apartment. And she left all my shit just the way it was. I used to like moving, but being on tour made me crave the old smells and old places I grew up in.

I was lying on my bed, my hands back behind my head, and my eyes softly closed. It was the easiest position to fall asleep in for me, and tragically I was still small enough to fit in my childhood bed. Then my mother barged in. "These people keep calling for you!" she hollered with slight irritation.

"What people?..." I asked blandly, slowly lifting up one eyelid.

"I don't know... MTV?" she answered impatience now dripping in her voice.

I let my mouth hang open and exhaled long and hard. This was worse then when my mother would wake me up for school in the morning...but not as worse as when I would wake her up to take me to school in the morning.

A bunch of magazines, and radio stations, and other media monkeys kept bugging me, demanding interviews and other stuff I took no interest in. They were really trying harder this time. Their relentless calls kinda pissed me off, and now I was completely infuriated. How the hell did they get my home phone number?! I didn't even know my own home number! When I had left home, we didn't care enough to have a home phone. If the media psychos wanted an explanation of our bands sudden parting, they could have easily talked to any other member of the band, they would jump at the chance to be in the spot light. Unlike me, I was never good with words, and so always held myself in a reserved manor. Ironically I became a singer, never, not even as a child had I imagined such a fate. It was a lot of pressure, I felt the burden of our band sounding good was ridding solely on my back. Even though I know now, a singer doesn't carry the entire burden, every member must contribute. But either way, a lead singer should be confident, and fearless. Two things I was definitely not.

I decided right there lying on my back in my old bed that I had to confront the media freaks. Once they get what they want, I'll be old news and they can forget about me. They probably interviewed all the other members, and I was the only missing piece left.

The interview was going to be held in an enormously tall building, it looked almost like a skyscraper, but was too fat, and hardly any windows, and it loomed over me coldly. This was my first interview alone, now I was beginning to wish I had called another band member to come with me, but I didn't want to bother them, most of their families had moved out of state. And I had no idea I would be so nervous about it, I wasn't ever very good about talking with people, and I was even worse when I was being questioned. But I planned to zip through all the questions they might throw at me, by any means possible, lies, exaggerating, not exaggerating, falling asleep, or all of the above.

I rode the elevator up till it seemed to reach up to space, leaving me alone with my worries and tension. But by the time the number above the door lit up and dinged, I had completely calmed myself from my nonchalant eyes and nearly down to the pit of my stomach. I had to learn to deal with my fears and anxieties in order to sing.

There were hardly any people in the wide long halls and the entire building was filled with an uncomfortable stillness. The padding of my feet seemed to fill the vacant enormous hallways, and pressure began welling up around my firm beating heart. I finally found the dark oak door behind which I was supposed to meet...I didn't even know. Someone from a TV station? Magazine? I stood in front of the door insecurely for a moment, then I shrugged and my head cooled off again. It didn't matter who, it just mattered that I got home quick after.

I opened the door, slightly forgetting but mostly not caring to knock. The room was gargantuan, with deep white snow like carpet. And one entire wall of the room from the floor up was a transparent skyscraper like window. It must have had a great view, but all I could see through it was light blue skies and some puffy slowly floating white clouds. I finally turned away from the sky and noticed the broad man sitting in an even broader leather chair in the middle of the room. It was odd his chair was sitting in the middle of the room when his desk was on the other side. He turned his chair to the side to face a second chair, but his face didn't turn from me as he lifted his lips up and smiled at me. "Come sit down." he ordered gently almost making it a suggestion, but it was an order. And I didn't like orders, especially from guys in suits, I looked like a snot nosed punk compared to his attire...or maybe I would have appeared that way even if he was in shorts and T-shirt. I glanced at the tan leather chair in front of him, it was as broad as his but much taller even as it sat in a comfit able backwards incline. I didn't like the chair's laid back position, so I casually sat myself on it's narrow arm rest instead, my back straight and I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I folded them in between my legs.

He stared back at me with thoughts behind his eyes that I couldn't configure. But I stared back politely, and impatiently waited for him to get to what ever it was he was going to say. Maybe he picked up on that vibe from me, so he curtly began.

"I'm Zero. You've probably heard of me over the radio and all over TV." his words were loud, filled with strength, and power to back it all up. It kinda annoyed me, because my voice was exactly the opposite and I couldn't' imagine his voice being naturally that way. I figured his voice was a front, just like most "tough guys".

"Yes." I decided to use one word answers that would speed this along. I had heard of him, far before I had gotten into my band, which made me think he must have been old. Even though he didn't look the part, his body was firm and almost bulging with muscles. Just like in all his posters were he was always lacking a shirt. He was known for his toughness, and his ability to wield a gun, and his street smarts. That's all I ever knew about him, and all that information I had received by accident, because I never took an interest in his music. And I believed absolutely nothing that came spewing from the idiot box. He didn't seem the type to be doing interviews, and I smelled another motive the instant I laid eyes on him, even though I hadn't really recognized him right off the bat. But I was pretty convinced he was a lame ass.

"This isn't any interview." he went on, then paused as if waiting for me to be surprised. But I only blinked and waited for more information. The only thing that surprised me was how his voice could be so much bigger then his enormous muscular body.

He smiled a broad toothy smile. "I'll get to the point. I was the one who wrote the letter to you filled with the lyrics you sang." again he paused his smile evaporating into a smug smirk, and this time even I couldn't help my eyes from revealing a little shock.

"Which lyrics would that be?" I questioned calmly, blinking emotion out of my eyes. After all we had played about five songs with lyrics mailed to us. Who was I to jump to the conclusion that it was the dirty letter he was referring to.

"The last song you sang, the really fucking dirty one." his booming voice seemed to lower, but it only made it sound worse to my ears.

I was shocked again, even though my assumption was correct. And now I didn't know how to answer.

He swung a big leg over the other and folded his fingers together on his lap. Even in his black suit he couldn't hide his muscles, if anything it might have made him looks bigger. "Did you enjoy my lyrics?" he questioned, his smug grin now bearing his pearly white teeth.

His words were long and seemed to take over the gargantuan room, but it gave me time to compose myself, and I answered simply. "The audience seemed to."

His head fell back and he broke out in a booming roar of laughter. I watched him closely, his laugh was all natural not restrained in anyway, and yet it made me uneasy. Maybe because I thought he was drawing too much pleasure from such a trivial filthy thing.

His powerful laughter ceased almost alarmingly quick, his face was stern again, then he bent himself over and looked deeper into my eyes, causing me to avert my gaze off to one side as he continued speaking with his iron voice low and almost confidential. "And what did you think of my letter?"

I took in a silent deep breath through my nose and replied bluntly. "I thought it was disgusting and vile." My cold eyes shifted back on him awaiting a negative reaction.

But the only thing different about him was now an enormous wolfish smile was spread across his face, then he flung himself out of his chair. I couldn't see his face because it was towering high above me, but my first impression was that I had pissed him off, "You know." he began with his voice taking on authority. Then he began circling around my chair, as I stood silent and motionless on the tan leather arm rest that was starting to make my rump sore. "I've been in the music business longer then you. Hell I'm still big, and your lil band is about to break just before you can even begin to get big." I didn't let him continue, he was making me look small so I got up too. "Is there a point to all this?" I demanded as calmly as my voice and glaring eyes would allow. He stopped circling and stood towering in front of me. He was only about two heads higher then I was, and the anger made it easy for me to maintain my upward glare.

"You want a point?" he barked back, and with one hand pushed me back into the chair's actual seat.

Before I could get up again he kneeled upon the empty spaces on either side of my legs, and with the same hand pushed me against the back of the seat and to my alarm it leaned even further back till it was as flat as the floor.

His smile grew painfully wide, "Is this to the point enough, punk?" his voice growled in satisfaction.

I leaned to one side as much as I could with his heavy hand pressing against my chest, then I let my arm fly up with my fist colliding against the side of his face. His eyes bolted wide and surprised, and blood coughed out of his slightly ajar mouth. Then with both hands I threw him off balance enough for my body to slip out from under him, after I was on my feet again I paced to the door almost taking my time, then slammed it close behind me. It wasn't very intentional, but adrenalin was still running high in my veins.

I was in a bit of disbelief that such a thing had happened to me, I decided to shake my head and rid my memories of it. Then few weeks later I decided to share my experience with the only sick bastards that would get a good laugh out of it; my band mates. So we all managed to get together and tell what we've been up to. When I retold my story, their mouths were motionless and gaping like their eyes, but a quick joke quickly broke the awkward silence, fallowed by some more cracks about my lack of masculinity. That day we decided to get the band going again, perhaps it was what Zero had said about our band breaking up before we got big that gave them a little spark of spite to go off on. What ever it was, we were glad to be back as a team.

A few years passed, and our band was still going strong. And just like the letter he sent me, I had put the revolting experience between Zero and I out of mind. I once overheard the media talking about how Zero's songs had been focusing a lot more about fucking, and regrets regarding fucking. I figured he was using his own creative outlet to get over what ever it was that was going on in his demented mind, and I thought that would be the last I saw of him.

But this wouldn't be an interesting story if that happened now would it?...

(((NAHAHA! Finally edited this piece of...I'll leave the insults to my readers...sniff if they didn't exist only in my mind...I know ppl will think that the main (nameless) char is supposed to be a reflection of me...but in reality, I'm a lot more like Zero. After all I thought up this filthy story. Nehe, now I will fill your minds with the sickness.))