Without you del james pdf

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MTV celebrates an important moment in its history this week: 17 years ago, Guns N' Roses November Rain Premiered at Headbangers Ball. Since the video fell in 1992, much has changed: Axl Rose hired and fired dozens of members of the band (finally releasing a long-awaited Chinese democracy last year), and Slash went from solo artist to axe Velvet Revolver. One thing hasn't changed, though: The November rain is still as inexplicable as it was when it first aired on MTV. If you haven't seen it, take the time to enjoy all the 9 minutes of Magnum Axl opus, then check out all the things you may have missed about it. show'null-video18197 November Rain was directed by a gentleman named Andy Morahan, whose resume includes two other clips of Guns (Don't Cry and Estranged), lots of videos for other artists (Michael Jackson Give Me, George Michael Faith, Brian Adams (Everything I Do) I Do It for You and Van Halen Poundcake) and the feature film Highlander III: The Sorcerer. He is currently in production on a project called The Spy of God, whose plot summary goes like this: a Jesuit priest working undercover as a Wall Street trader becomes caught up in a political and financial conspiracy involving the Vatican Bank, the CIA, the Mafia and the Masonic Lodge P2. Several casting notes: Axl's wife plays Stephanie Seymour, a model who has made a name for herself posing for Sports Illustrated, Playboy and Victoria's Secret catalog. Seymour was Rose's actual girlfriend at the time (he claims they were engaged, she denies), but they broke up in 1993 when Axl accused Seymour of cheating on him (they also accused each other of domestic violence). Seymour also appears in the music video for Don't Cry. Meanwhile, one of the most famous shots in the video came the departure of MTV's own Ricky Rachtman, who was the host of Headbangers Ball, friends with Axl and the guy who dived through the wedding cake at the climax of the video. At the time it was released, November Rain was considered the most expensive video ever made (since then it has been eclipsed by a number of videos, most notably by Michael and Janet Jackson Creek). Total cost? $1.5 million. A tenth of the production budget was spent on the construction of a chapel in the desert. Although the concert footage seems to be real, the scenes of Guns N' Roses' performances were entirely staged: the band rented a theater in Los Angeles and brought 1,500 stats to play the audience. Instead of just mim playing their instruments and lip-syncing along with the pre-recorded track, Guns actually played through the song (as well as a number of other tunes in their canon) in order to keep the extra entertained. The video is actually based (albeit loosely) around a story called Without You, written by Del James. History tells blues musician who is trying to to deal with a friend who committed suicide. James was another friend of Axl and wrote several Guns tunes as well as songs for Covenant and TNT. November Rain remains the longest song ever to hit Billboard's top 10, peaking at #2 in August 1992 (it didn't peak on songs such as Sir Mix-a-Lot's Baby Got Back and Boyz II Men's End of the Road). Despite its high profile, the video was nominated for only two Video Music Awards in 1992 (Best Cinematography and Best Art Directing) and knocked out clips from Genesis, Tori Amos, Eric Clapton and En Vogue for the cinematic prize. However, it was selected as the top video of 1992 during MTV's year-end countdown. Although he wanted to share the dance, Maine could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well- toned body swayed childishly, peacefully, slowly moving towards the rhythm. Her innocence was charming, her beauty breathtaking. Maine knew she had FD angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and no foot to care about the consequences. Besides, it was just for his eyes. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, the immense beauty and mystery. A light breeze danced through her lion fs mane. The full-length end-to-end dress covered her slender body, and a light icing of sweat made her shine. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne admitted that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought, when she turned to him. He doesn't foot want to destroy beauty, just to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song began to grow in volume. A sharp panic attack shot through him when he realized which one of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and fear consumed him. His vision spiraled like reality distorted. Breathing became difficult, difficult. Despair attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Far worse than the pain was his fear. An unstoppable alarm swept through him as he began to stereo. Everything has lost its natural texture; walls, floor, air became surreal. The louder the music, the harder it was to move. He had to remove the CD, but his feet felt like big concrete blocks. He couldn't foot to move fast enough. She already had an FS gun barrel against her temple. BLIMM! Maine awoke covered afterwards, a mute cry still lodged in her throat. He spent the last six hours in a coma caused by drugs and alcohol, which he had in his sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and was impossible without some help. It's not ft question whether he slept six hours or six minutes, always managed to crawl in. He's Him. song and was forever cursed by her. With unsteady hands, he wiped the sweat from his eyebrow and rubbed his fingers on the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets are tied together. Riding on his side, he stared at a digital alarm clock on top of a black night table that was built in the fridge as a base. At the top of the watch was a half-empty pack of Marlboro. He looked at green digital numbers, but they didn't make sense. It really didn't foot the question, how much it was anyway, his time was other people FS money. There was something more important next to the watch than cash or time. Slowly he sat down. The tortured eyes scanned the black marble countertop, looking for any remaining precious brown powder. Matches, curved cigarettes, and empty bindles were burned, but not doping. It didn't matter. It could always be more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Maine reached down and opened the door of the fridge night table fs. Inside were several Budweisers, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did it every morning. Instantly, his head pain began to feel better. Although he didn't want to admit it, it's time to get back to the living. He knew he was supposed to be in the studio soon, but no foot to feel up to him. In addition, the recording of his latest album, Alone, was completed more than a month ago. The album was now in the final stages of mixing. If Maine liked what he heard, he had an FD to approve it, and the recording would be released on schedule. If not, it should be remixed until it approves. Then why do they need it? He lingered for as long as he might be able before finally getting up. Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster zone. Discarded clothing, creams, trash, cassettes and towels dominated the presentation. Using radar to find the bowl, he found porcelain, fought back from the urge to puke, and freed himself. He returned to the bedroom without feeling human, more like a robot dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull stomachache that he FD used to. This, like many other flaws in his health, can be attributed to his excessive lifestyle. Aside from the hi jewelry, Maine wore only jockey shorts. He came across his dresser, took off a pair of custom tailored black leather pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging from a walk in the closet, and put it on. There was a gram bottle of cocaine in the drawer. Scooping with a long fingernail on his right pinky, the ragged musician snorted eight bursts of rock-en-roll aspirin. Kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and came to the conclusion that he probably was. He always ran down, as if with eternal fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his going blank can generally whole trash can, which was already crammed with voids. Looking in the mirror at full height, the suft hermit does not ft recognize the reflection. Of course, his long blonde hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so fragile. Maine looked like a man who was ready for hospital pyjamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut and inexpressive. Scraggly beard covers his chin and his emerald eyes are no longer genuine gems, but rather jewelry. He needed a drink. For the last fourteen of his twenty-eight years, he FD has spent most of his time in a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned into vodka and rum in nightclubs, which in turn turned into direct whiskey. Leaving the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron, Jim Beam, asking that there was something in the closet. The illuminating golden glow was surrounded by thick darkened curtains. The night before, a small war broke out in the living room. Everywhere were scattered full ashtrays, various bottles of liquor, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, beer halls. Several cd covers were baked in the remnants of cocaine. Maine tried to remember who was partying there and couldn't foot. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz, delivered something. It didn't take a foot very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie.' Jamie (pronounced Jay-Me) was a typical Hollywood junk who hand delivered coke, current, crack, or straight to distressed celebrities using their vunerablities. Maine was looking for more clues about who else was behind the party, but came up empty. He slid behind the bar, which was next to the kitchen, and opened the closet. There were several unopened bottles of various white liqueurs. A nervous splash shot into his little stomach. What if it wasn't for whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the right one. A sigh of relief ran away from him as he twisted the lid and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The aroma of fs whiskey was its equivalent of freshly brewed coffee. Here are the fs looking at you, love, Main said aloud, holding the bottle to his lips. Like every day, one sip led to another. After a few sips, he began to feel good. He put the bottle on the counter and made it in the fridge. If he's lucky, he'll be drunk before the day starts. He took off another Budweiser and returned to the dirty living room. There was a dull rumble inside the skull. It could not differentiate whether it was cocaine induced or central air conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he FD knew if the maid was to come. She can bring a drink. The musician sat down on the sofa, picked up the phone and dialed the number 411. Operator What city, please? Los Angeles. Yes? Is it day? Maine asked earnestly, lighting the coverage A what? What day is it? Sir, I'm an FM operator. Ma Pham, you fre information and I asked you a question, Maine corrected it. Snide's laughter escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question. It's fs Wednesday, sir. Thank you, he said, and hung up. There won't be a maid tonight. It wasn't the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off his beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine. After a few confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept large green garbage bags and started straightening up the mess. Moving around a large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up everything that was off his feet and threw it away. Bottles and empty food containers stretched the trash bag to the point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening, the apartment began to be taken care of. In addition to this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely visited his Hollywood Hills mansion, or, for that matter, his home in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was at the Hollywood Hills home where he and Elizabeth Aston spent most of their quality time. When his thoughts began to betray him, thinking more of her, Maine instinctively went to the bar and took out a bottle of whiskey. He could think of her as long as he had a break. With all the money, fame and success he achieved, the hardest part was to keep things simple like friendship and love. He never wanted to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that fs who he usually hurt the worst. He never intended to be malicious, but by living under the microscope with the world, scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, would usually blow up in his face and often ended up as nightly news. Personal flaws and windows are not allowed by the elite. He often suffered in silence, trapped by his own glory until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive. All That Maine ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just plunged further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Is it another reinstated Social Security number, automatically inherited at birth or a true reflection of society? Was it a phenomenon or just a facade? Was it the product of his imagination or just another brick? Will he ever understand his destiny? In his mind he analyzed why his relationship with Elizabeth failed more times than had been counted. As a scientist he was a foot, he dissected the situation, pondered things he should have fve said and should have been a foot had been caught doing. When it came to sex, why couldn't a foot Elizabeth understand that just because he sometimes the bedroom doesn't foot means he doesn't foot love her? Sex was like a role-playing game. He never made her be monogamous, but in the depths of his life he knew that if he found out she was fucking someone else, it would hurt. A lot! Even with this knowledge, he could not foot confined to just one woman. He wanted to make his cake and eat it too. He tried to be open with her, but concluded that some things should FVE remains a mystery. Sex was an ego addiction similar to the ones felt on stage. Different audiences, like different partners, were more complex and made him work harder for applause. Like drugs, he was addicted to haste. Even with the empire at his disposal, the money could not foot buy him love, no happiness, no peace of mind. And Elizabeth. Looking around the large living room, the very disappointed artist soaked up the modern decor. None of these possessions, with the exception of a few symbolic items, ever meant anything to Maine. None of this shit was real. He was surrounded by trophies of a game that didn't make sense. And he's tired of playing games. A sharp pain in his left ear sent him back into the dark hallway that led from the stage to the dressing room. Inside his ringing head, the speakers feeding on his back ignited and exploded. He experienced another rock-en-f-roll side effect, ear damage. The dull rumble lasted only a few seconds, but memories of his last show with his former band, Suicide Shift, will never go away. For reasons he couldn't ft remember, Elizabeth was unable to attend the FS tour of the final show. The band has been on the road for the better part of fourteen months, over 285 concerts. Every few weeks Maine flew her to any city he performed in, and she had an FD stay for a few nights. The final concert of any tour is an important night. It was Suicide Shift FS's first headliner of the tour and Mayne wanted to share the experience with her. It was the culmination of many miles traveled, many hours worked, and the celebration that continued afterwards was deserved. He called her several times to offer her plane tickets, trying to convince her, but she couldn't foot to do so. The concert had more than two hours of electrical ferocity. Sure, Maine consumed a lot of drugs and alcohol before and during the show (he did every concert), but it was the Florida FS crowd enthusiastic and knowing that he had FD being able to sleep for a month, which gave him an extra spark. Every time he took a solo, he tried to get better at any previous solo effort. Every time he approached the microphone to sing backups, his voice rose with the power of whiskey. For him, it was rock 'n' roll at his best. The 4,000-plus crowd acknowledged it with deafening applause. After the final encore, it's time to celebrate. Maine got caught with two impatient in his hotel room. In the privacy of his bathroom, he injected some heroin. Not enough to make him nod, but enough to get him good and and Two mating females only make him feel better. After struggling to get his wet brown suede pants, he joined the, and thus the fun began. Doping overshadowed his not-so-good memory, but Mayne remembered a very drunk Peter Terrence walking into the room. The drummer of the fs band took Maine fs room for its own. In the spirit of the holiday, Maine offered him a girl. Terrence refused to say he had FD to find his own and left. The menageo-a-trois continued. Shortly thereafter, a knock was knocked on the door. Thinking that Terrence was accepting the offer, Mayne shouted, telling who was at the door to enter. Standing at the door with a night bag was Elizabeth. At the Spur of the moment she fd flew from L.A. to Miami to be with him. Elizabeth left broken and hysterical. It was the beginning of the end of their relationship. Maine cut off from the past. His left knee popped up loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pressed the button. Elizabeth fs the number is still programmed, and every now and then he pushed him only to hear her phone call. Also on the phone was his label, his manager, three members of his current band, Mayne Mann Group, and several drug dealers. After receiving a response to Elizabeth FS, he pressed another button. His numerous bracelets are tied together, and a few seconds later there was an answer. Yes? Spat an unenthusiastic voice from the car phone. It fs me, said Mayne, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat. My main man, Jamie fs voice stated like a box office jingle. What can I do for you? Up the city and in the city center. Cocaine and heroin. No problem. You remember what I did for you last night, don't you? Yes. He's not a foot. You owe me three accounts of this crap, brother man, the dealer explained in case the memory failed. I FM sure I got some floatin f changes around. If I can foot find some I FLL five I have my Versateller card and you can get what I should. Rate. I FLL be straight up, Jamie said, as if he was doing Maine a favor and hung up. F prick, Maine muttered to himself. He lit a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped out loud and the foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, and then walked up to the darkened curtains and pulled out a lever, allowing bright sunlight to invade his living room. To hell with you, he declared loudly, squinting and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from the balcony was huge, showing the City of Angels below, but more often than not Maine kept the curtains closed, preferring not to be part of the world outside. It was safe in his apartment. Against a distant wall hidden in a corner so that the ivory keys overlooked the living room was the vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and when he was a foot to play, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, comfortably resting on the stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment meant the most to him. The buzzer sounded, waking Maine away from his drifting thoughts. He went up to the intercom and pressed the button that opened the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was in his apartment. The walls were decorated with dozens of platinum and gold plates. Hours through the years of planning, writing, recording and wrestling have reaped these round awards. His songwriting stems from internal pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often address personal difficulties. These were the songs he was most proud of and believed he could stand the test of time. The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often mattered little or wore their values on their sleeves. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Elizabeth. Maine apologized and went to the bedroom. Hidden behind another platinum disc was safe. He removed the disk from the wall, twisted the combination and opened the safe. Inside were jewelry, paperwork, more than four thousand dollars in cash, a free pipe base, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed some C-notes and returned to the living room, leaving the safe closed but unlocked. Jamie sat on a black leather sofa, legs on a marble coffee table, looking casual in suicide shift sweatpants (which he FD got from Maine) and matching hoodies. He FD helped himself to the beer. gWhat fs common? h In that or the collection last night? Six, h Jamie replied, fidget with a bee at the waist. Maine handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer realized that he wanted solitude, and took a hint. Call me if you need anything else, h Jamie suggested, leaving the apartment. The moment the front door closed, Maine fs the mind rushed into overdrive, but his body refused to move. He had drugs in his hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back to the bedroom. Something in the wall of the safe more powerful than his addiction caught his attention. He went to the safe and opened the door. Inside was a photo album containing precious memories of Kodahrom. Placing drugs on top of a dirty night table, he fell on the bed and began flipping through a book tied to his skin. Captured in the photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm as well as suicide. Elizabeth challenged him intellectually, stimulating him sexually. She had his FD mother when he was sick, which was quite common. It is FD to release the inner feelings that it FD often tried to avoid. Her beauty, both internal and physical, was what he wanted, but she was his, he made every conceivable to lose her. He turned to the second page. He had no idea how many times he had masturbated on this photo. In a day, maybe. It was just a snapshot he FD took of her while on vacation in Las Vegas. In the photo, the wind blew her long hair off her face and she smiled. Behind it was the Caesar fs Palace Hotel, where they fd spent the best part of two weeks in the penthouse suite. It was a typical tourist photo but it was her smile that included it. He was so pain-free. Maine would have done anything to make her smile for him as she was in the photo. He fd do everything to her lips, her body again. He unbuttoned his leather pants. Before shaming himself, he pulled up to the fridge with a night table and took off an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. The bottle opened with a loud pop and smoke billowed from above, but the liquid did not spill. Sipping deep from the bottle, he flipped the photo album, which was too short, carefully avoiding the last page. He rarely looked at the last page. As always, it hit back at page 2. With the bottle two-thirds empty, he pulled his pants and underpants on his knees and poured the remaining champagne on his palm. It was part of the ritual. The lovely champagne was something he and Elizabeth loved sharing. He can still share it with her. As he took up his wet erection, his thoughts began to slide. It was during one of their last dinner dates that she said something that inspired him to write a beautiful song in his career. gI can foot live with you and I can foot live without you, h he heard her say as if it were just yesterday. The words flowed from pen to paper faster than he could write. Maine concluded that it was his personal way of explaining everything that had happened between them. The song gWithout You, h was no apology, it was his side of the story. It was a rock 'n' roll sincerity that sold more than three million copies in the US, topped the record sales charts and put the Mayne Mann Group atop the rock world. He offered Elizabeth half the royal family from the song, because without her there would be no song. She politely declined. This was followed by a sold-out mann Group lanes. When the tour arrived in Los Angeles, Maine desperately wanted to see her. No matter how many women he had, no matter how over it he told everyone he was, he fd do anything for her other than let her constantly slip out of her life. He called her a dozen times in two days, leaving a message after a message on her back car. Even though she never answered, he fd left her ten All-Access passes on Will Coll. She never showed up. After the show, Maine vowed that he would foot to make the same mistake twice. He quickly took a shower, turned to dry and left, avoiding all the behind the scenes hoopla. He and his driver headed to Elizabeth's fs apartment. Using a phone in a limousine, he dialed her from the street under her apartment. He was met again by a recorded message. gElizabeth, I know? I hope you fre there. I fm downstairs and even if I have to break down the door to see you, I FM ready. If you fre is going to call the police, well, call eem now... I don't expect anything from you. I don't foot deserve anything... Hell, I don't even know what I'm trying to say, except that I still care about you. Words can foot heal what I FVE did, but, fuck, the past is done... I really need to see your face again, h Maine gently explained after the beep. Words still echo in his mind as he asks if he can fve possibly articulate things in a different way. It was too late, he thought, inside the building. It was one of the rare occasions after the concert that Mayne was sober. When he arrived through the elevator on her floor, he heard a familiar music. The closer he got to her door, the louder the volume grew. Then his world began to rotate uncontrollably as a loud shot echoed through the hallway. He ran to her apartment, lowered his shoulder and recklessly crashed into the wooden door. He FD found Elizabeth on the sofa bleeding profusely, most of her head splashed on the wall behind her. On the blood-stained coffee table in front of her was an answer machine, a ballpoint pen and a few crumpled balls of paper. He stood shattered in front of her corpse. How could this happen? All he ever did was love her. Devastated, he slowly approached the roaring stereo. The CD single gWithout You h was programmed to repeat. He wondered how many times she FD listened to the same song and cut off the power. He then noticed that there was a note next to the answer machine. Number one with a bullet, a red-spotted note read. Shaking and convulsing, tears falling freely, Maine began screaming at the top of her lungs. It sounded like someone had unleashed a wild animal. His screams threatened to smash the windows. A migraine pierced his pulsating whiskey, and his whole head was overloaded with pressure. Did she kill herself because they failed or because he would keep her from being? Was it a song, one of the few things he FD ever did autonomously, that led her to do so? Was it really happening? Then came another thought OT mind. He took the gun off her hand and put it on the temple. He was going to join her. It was empty. Elizabeth knew she only needed one bullet. Maine snatched herself from this nightmare and was shoved into another memory. He recognized the familiar room as a honeymoon room in Las Vegas and almost felt at ease. The bed was in disarray, and Elizabeth smiled mischievously. gWhat Do you want to do? h gWha f? h Mayne replied, embarrassed. They had already drunk several bottles of champagne and borrowed twice. g What do you want to do? h she answered softly, bold Maine to answer. Maine caught the wind of his game and decided to play along. If she gave him an opportunity about what they FD do next, he's definitely going to take advantage of her generosity. g You can either come here and tell me that you love me or come down on me. h Elizabeth FS face of registered joy. Words such as love were the hardest to get out of The Maine FS's mouth. Once more she smiled as she began her descent to his waist. It's not a foot to take very long to bring it back to life. A few minutes later, when she felt that he was as excited as he was going to get, Elizabeth looked at her man and with a sexy expression she would conjure, softly saying, gI love you. h Main came with a slight grunt. The powerful splash gave him something to work with, but there was no pleasure in orgasm. There's never been more. He threw the photo album aside and lay on the bed, feeling dead, looking at the ceiling. For a split second, he thought he had heard the musical strands of gWithout You h, but that was just his imagination. His tired body lay there for what felt like a year before he sat down. At least the drugs on the night table were real. Everything he needed was on the table. Hidden under the clock radio was a syringe and blackened spoons. Next to him was a half-empty glass of water and a lighter. In a spoon, he mixed the proper amount of heroin and water, then, using a lighter, heated the bottom of the spoon until the mixture cleared before placing a tiny piece of cotton in a spoon. With unsteady hands, he added a little cocaine and his speedball was completed. Being a high-profile celebrity, he couldn't afford to have his with wilted hands tracked too badly. He usually shot in the back of his forearm or leg. He also injected into his neck, but as he was feeling right now, he didn't have time to dillydally. As an expert acupuncturist, he is entrenched in the convex vein of his forearm. gCool, h he muttered, carefully examining his hand as he felt that the speedball was coming on. He fell on the bed. Between drugs and his emotions, he was exhausted. It was good that the drugs were numb from most of the pressure. He hurried as the drug hit him in powerful waves. It took a few moments before he realized that his left hand was touching something. He slowly rolled over. The photo album was opened to the last page. The last page contained an obituary of Elizabeth fs and a sympathy card. The tears he had held since that day began to flow down his cheeks. His pale face flushed as he felt his power evaporate. He was drowning in sadness, but not a foot to believe in self-pity, and that made him myself even worse. He sat down with a question echoing in his head. Why did she have to die? He had no answer, and he got up too quickly. Why was it so? He's back in the living room. He needed whiskey. Why? He loved her so much. Why? He FD offered her half the royalties. Half. It was a financial empire, but she refused. Why? He was trying to make amends. He FD tried to be good in accordance with society fs standards. He wanted to understand everything that had happened to them. He wanted her to love him, but no matter how hard he tried, he screwed up. Why? He wanted to be normal again, but it was a foot possible. Why? He wanted to feel closer to Elizabeth, but she was dead. This tormented his fragile soul, but for a split second of insane logic, Maine concluded that his body should not be spared either. gArrrrrrggghh! h he snarled, attacking his living room like a drunken-off brawler. Fists and feet attacked defenseless walls and furniture. He cocked his right fist backwards and a large hole passed through the plaster. He snatched the east lamp from the end of the table and hurled it all over the room. He furiously threw a marble ashtray into the plaque, destroying both. Breathing heavily and soaked in alcoholic sweat, he grabbed a platinum plate and smashed it, spraying shards of glass everywhere. The broken glass on the floor flickered like sunny sand. No matter how many hotel rooms he trashed during his career, Maine never hurt his guitar. It was strictly taboo until today. He walked up to a row of guitars, grabbed the e68 Stratocaster by the string neck and swung, smashing the mahogany body until it was little more than wood. With each self-destructive act, he felt a little better. He approached another platinum disk, prepared and put his right fist through the glass. Blood was spurred from a hand that was heavily insured by Lloyds of London. For the first time that day, he smiled. Maine grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam from the bar and swallowed. The painkiller fluid warmed his heaving chest and eased his bleeding arm, which looked like it needed stitches. He went up to his Fischer stereo, and, using his good hand, turned on the receiver. Digital reading was blocked on a classic rock station. It was the only secure station on the dial, as it had never played any of its songs. Maine Mann was too new, too flowing. The station played only material from the 60s and 70s. He instantly recognized the song while playing; it was a humble pie fs gI don ft. Need No Doctor. h It was raw rock like this that inspired him to become a musician. The Allman brothers followed the pie. Mayne could relate to what it felt like to be tied to a whipping post. During the commercial, he went to the kitchen to grab another beer. Of its stereo speakers, the record store chain declared prices to be the lowest in the Background music The record store's advertising was gWithout You. h His eyes stung but no tears fell as he realized that no matter where he was, he could not hide from himself. As a man in remission, he went up to the stereo, grabbed the receiver, and yanked with both hands. It took a few strong tugs before the digital lights went off. With a receiver in hand, he tripped backwards, tearing wires and pounding on one of Bose's big speakers. Distraught and gasping, he made his way to the giant sliding security glass door that led to the balcony. He accidentally dropped a high-tech receiver and unbuttoned the latch that kept the heavy door locked. The fresh air attacked his senses. The cool breeze felt invigorating as he went out onto the balcony and looked over the edge. His jet-black Bentley sat shiny in the parking lot right underneath. He picked up the receiver, held it over the balcony and directed it to the car. After a few seconds wondering if his goal was accurate, he let go. The glass was arachnid wildly when the receiver hit the windshield of the car fs and broke through. He went for a beer he FD distracted from and tore the fridge door open as hard as he could. It crashed open, spilling several items on the floor. The door was dangling on the hinge. Maine grabbed a beer, chugged half, and as a strong armed baseball pitcher threw it at his guitar collection, barely missing his favorite: vintage e57 Sunburst Les Paul. He grabbed another can from the crippled fridge as his eyes returned to the guitars. The guitars were like foster children, and he loved everyone differently. Some guitars held certain memories, but each guitar had the ability to create magic. It is this potential he respected and admired most about these guitars to this day. Now, no matter how much he liked a certain guitar, or how valuable it may be, all he wanted to do was feel pain. The pain brought him closer to reality. It brought him closer to Elizabeth. He gave world music, very good music, and asked for little in return. A little room to create, some punches thrown, and what about calmness? Instead, he had more material goods than he could ever use, more money than he could count on, and nothing worth fighting for. There was a time not so long ago when he FD fought like hell for it all. Now that he owned a piece of rock he wished he could return it. The view from the top was a foot as scenic as it FD itself. What he did as his artistic expression, the record company sold for capital. He quickly became disillusioned with the system, but what else could he do? Without industry he could have a foot to share his music. No matter how hard someone tried to explain to him, musical notes would never equal dollar marks. He made music because with childhood, he really loved rock 'n' roll. It was his people, he wrote music after he had finished writing for himself. So then, why could he sleep at night? He looked at the answer. He was going to kill his guitars. If it was feet for these guitars, he would foot there is a problem he did. And it's FD to keep the damn e57 Sunburst for the latter. He swallowed a beer, lifting it from his greedy mouth. Budweiser rained down the side of his face. When it could be almost empty, he crushed and spiked it like a football. Furious, he grabbed Les Paul Black Beauty and stabbed him with a quick but wild death against the wall. He lifted a rare telecaster over his head and bludgeoned a coffee table, breaking both. He then picked up another Les Paul and, swinging it like a baseball bat, clobbered a lamp and several other objects before the guitar FS neck snapped. gFuckin F cheap, h he grumbled. He heard something that had a little rhythm to him. Did he have a drummer in his head? It took him a few seconds to realize that one of the neighbors was banging on the wall. gWHAT, LITTLE TOO LOUD FOR YA? h Mayne shouted in the direction from which the noise was coming. He's not a foot unstoppable. gYER PISSING ME OFF, ASSHOLE! h Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock. Motherfucker, I give I a fair fucking warning, he said. knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. Maine entered the bedroom and to the night table. He grabbed cocaine and poured a decent-sized moundon to the back of his arm, which was a foot bleeding and snorted. He then licked the remnants off his fist, numbing his teeth and gums. There was a pack of Marlboro on the table. He grabbed one and lit it. He lingered deeply and listened to his surroundings. The neighbor was still knocking. The ashtray was a crowded mountain of dead butts, so Maine put a cigarette on the edge of the night table. He tried to avoid confrontation, but the shitty head next door would let her lie. He went to his wall safe, grabbed Smith and Wesson '357 Magnum, and charged out of the bedroom. gOKAY, HOMEFUCK, WANNA PLAY GAMES? h Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock. KABARMM, CATHMMMM, CABACHUM. He unloaded three shots to an already holey wall. The pounding stopped instantly. He smiled again. He pointed the gun at one of his platinum discs on another wall and blew up the shiny sphere. He took aim at his TV and blew it into the realm to come. There's only one bullet left. He held a silver gun in awe. He could easily join Elizabeth; All it takes is one quick trigger compression. The idea came to him. Maybe he's FD getting it right in his next life. Slowly, his eyes closed, he raised his gun. The trigger teased at his scarlet index finger. The barrel felt good against its temple. As he prepared, he opened his eyes again. In front of him, mocking him, were two more Les Paul guitars. There once was a moment in his life when these musical were saints. Dedication and years of practice were a labor of love. Guitars were his passion, his expression, and his ticket out of obscurity. But everything changed with one song. Now these guitars were a reminder that Mayne will never be able to regain his innocence. gCan ft I f die with some dignity? h he asks how fury consumed him. He couldn't even commit suicide without music somehow interfering. His trembling hand lowered and took aim at one of the guitars. There was heavy recoil as wooden fragments flew everywhere. He put a massive hole in his guitar and then went over to examine his accuracy. He was definitely dead, but that was enough. He took the remains and threw them through the door of the security glass. He went up to the edge of the balcony fs. Downstairs, a small crowd gathered around his ruined luxury car. gAnybody want an autograph? h he asked, issuing a fragmented guitar. gWait a minute, wait a minute. I got another gift! h he cried, and ran into the bedroom. His heavy steps of a concussion cigarette he FD forgot from the night table. He smouldered on a thick mat. Maine dug a safe inside the wall, grabbed a handful of hundred dollar bills, and ran back to the balcony before his audience could snout away. gDon ft to say that I never gave you anything, h he announced, letting the money fly. A few cautious onlookers stepped back, but as soon as it became apparent that confetti was the currency, they rushed forward. Maine waved to a small crowd and went back inside. There's only one guitar left. He looked at the e57, marveling at the beautiful colors. It was appropriately called Sunburst. Reds, oranges and yellows swirled in a wooden body. This one was a gold trim as well as gold pickups. Sunburst had his preference for all guitars. He had two dozen more in stock, but this guitar was the first thing he bought after Suicide Shift was signed to record. This was how he FD rewarded himself for being gmade by it. h It was also the guitar he FD wrote the music to gWithout you h on. He approached him with care and respect and carefully took it. He sat on the floor in The Indian Style. Deep down, he was glad he destroyed the axe. His arm was badly damaged, but he wanted to play. Blood dripped from his arm and dripped down the guitar's FS body. Delighted, Maine watched his run. No matter how drunk he was, his fingers never indulged in him, and it was this guitar that always answered his call. He started picking something that sounded like Hendrix. He paused abruptly. Something about that last guitar launch shook him and he couldn't foot on. In vaguely, it reminded him of the part in gWithout You. h After a deep breath, Maine partially regained her composure. Multimillionaires like Maine Mann Foot should cry. They're fre outside or at least that fs what society wants to believe. Maine Mann was just Steven Maynard Mandraich, a talented kid who can run his nimble fingers along a piece of string tree. He started strumming one of his favorite riffs, Slim Lizzie fs gDon ft Believe Word. h Even if the guitar was foot amplified, he could hear it as if it were. He allowed the last note to ring as it stopped and reflected. He loved to feel this instrument in his hands. He loved making lines about life. He liked to just hold that guitar. Then his mind viciously reminded him that he FD was as loved as Elizabeth felt. He quickly rose from the floor and threw the guitar to the side. He landed with a loud DWWWAANNNGGGG. He looked blankly at the guitar and thought of it. Both gave him so much pleasure, but he FD was never able to properly express his gratitude. He never told her the truth about how she made him feel, about how much he loved her, and when he did, the song confirmed that he should keep his mouth shut. At least she's still alive. But the song was clean and he wanted to play it for her. Even if her physical body was foot present, he could still sing to her in heaven. He wanted jam, but was afraid to touch the guitar. Then Maine saw an alternative. He scooped up an almost dead bottle of whiskey and finished what little remained. He slipped silently out of his hand. Very drunk, very drugged, he staggered to the piano. A smouldering cigarette on the bedroom mat burned its way to the goose-down comforter. The lid was caught and the flames quickly spread throughout the bedroom. The discarded clothes acted as a dispersal, and soon the bedroom was on fire. Until a few misty hours ago, Mayne fs life, no matter how miserable, was something that most people could only dream of. It was all an illusion and he was one of the rock 'n' roll fs elite, the hero. Now, it's FD has been reduced to its core self, and nothing matters. He felt the thorns wrapped around his heart, and for the first time in too long felt like a man again. He suffocated his spirituality in drug abuse. He FD slowed his health and personal growth with a malformation. He blinded himself because he was afraid to see that his purpose, his gift in life, was to be true to himself. And the only time he could find this inner truth was when he played his music. He gently tapped the keys to the ivory, making melodies about life through his fingers. No matter how hard his hand hurts, he persisted in making music. He was determined to play for Elizabeth and all the other angels. With every run of fluid, every harmony, every musical accent, his inner pain subsided a little. With every passing musical note, he became one with music. Sweating profusely, Maine felt something behind him. He tried to ignore it as soon as possible. Rather. he turned and saw a great flame billowing from his bedroom. At first he thought it was a hallucination, but the fire was scorching real and set off. His favorite guitar was already absorbed and dying. He wanted to save him, but couldn't foot. He refused to let his interference be interrupted. Elizabeth listened. Every time his fingers are pressed Steinway FS keys, crimson is stained with ivory and smeared. He ignored the little red spots, gliding his long fingers through them. The swollen veins bulging out of his forearm sweat ran down his face. All he FD ever wanted to do with his life was play his music and now he was. At this point he felt free of his demons. He plucked up the courage and began to sing gWithout You h with his natural rough voice. The thick carpet quickly became wall-to-wall hell as a giant wave of fire rose and spread around the piano. He could have taken less care of the foot. When the flames swallowed the apartment, Maine never screamed or missed a note. 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