CHAPTER 2

It was cold. It was dark. It was raining.

It was Hell.

And it had been that way for a very long time.

He stood in the rain, waiting for the cab to arrive. He was not feeling very good at all. He was tired, his face looked awful, and the clothes he had on were beginning to stink of the rain. He wore a pair of frayed bell-bottoms and an old T-shirt that said "Exc-u-u-use Me!" On his head was a beat-up driver's cap, and he wore an overcoat that had once seen better days. A pair of ratty, old sneakers completed the ensemble.

His salt-and-pepper hair had reached the point of being far more salt than pepper, and what hair he's lost from his head had been replaced in his beard. In fact, the full, dark beard was, it seemed to him, the only benefit of the series of events which had occurred. But a good beard was not worth the pain and frustration he had endured.

His mind began to reflect on what had taken place in the last few years until finally a cab pulled up a few feet away from him. A man emerged from the car's back seat, moved to the driver's window, and handed the figure inside some money. There was some muttering between the driver and the passenger, then the cab drove away, leaving the man standing in the middle of the street. The two men looked at each other for several seconds. Neither spoke.

After the long silence, the man in the street finally spoke. "Well, I'm here. What's up Peter?"

"Hi, Gene," Peter said, pulling one hand from his coat pocket and waving slightly. "Uh, look, I'm sorry to drag you out into the rain for no apparent reason . . . but I really need to talk to you. And what I want to say, I can't say over the phone. Do you understand?"

"No," Gene replied. He did not understand at all.

* * *

It seemed that every since KISS had started the US tour for their newest album, Peter had been popping up in the strangest places. At almost every stop, he had called one of the band members, asking them to meet him at some out-of-the-way place to talk over "old times." The idea of meeting Peter somewhere did not bother them, but the ludicrous hours at which he called, and the desperation in his voice, certainly did.

This time he had called Gene's suite at three in the morning. Peter told him to take the cab that would be waiting outside the hotel and meet him on the corner of Brown and Wayne. Before Gene could ask him why he was calling at bloody three o'clock, Peter had hung up. Gene slammed the receiver down and rolled over in the bed.

He was not going to do it, he told himself. He was just dozing off when Peter called, and the band had to move out early the next day. All he wanted to do now was sleep. Who did Peter think he was? No wonder no one had gone to his "meetings" before.

Minutes went by as Gene tried to get to sleep. Still, his thoughts kept returning to Peter and the strange way he had been acting in the past few months. He might not have left the band of the best of terms, but that was no excuse for the things he had been doing. Maybe something was wrong, he wondered.

No. He turned over again. He was not going to get out of his warm bed, got out at bloody three o'clock in the bloody morning and in the pouring rain, to some weird place (God knows where) and have some "good old days" chat with a guy who was probably going out of his head. No way. Not him.

* * *

Gene sighed and stepped out of the hotel, finding the cab right outside the hotel.

"At least he wasn't lying to me," Gene breathed quietly to himself. He walked over to the cab, and the driver motioned him into the back with a jerk of his thumb. Climbing in, he settled himself in the hard seat as the cab pulled away from the hotel.

"Hey," Gene said to the cabbie. "Did the guy who sent you say anything in particular about getting me?"

The driver, who seemed rather short to be driving, stopped chewing on his cigar and looked at Gene's reflection in the rearview mirror.

"No," he said, exhaling a small cloud of grey smoke. "He just told me to pick up some long-haired guy and take him to the corner of Brown and Wayne."

"That's it?"

"And he said you'd pay the fare."

"Swell." Gene moved back into the seat. He leaned forward again to talk to the cabbie. "Did he look like he was . . . crazy or anything?"

"Look, mac," said the cabbie, glancing up at the mirror, "I just drive 'em around. I don't ask 'em if they've seen their shrink lately." The cabbie puffed on his cigar for a second, then spoke again in reflection. "He seemed okay -- looked like he hadn't slept in days. But, besides that, fine. Anyway, I don't bother asking personal questions. My own life is too screwed up for me to worry about anybody else's problems --"

"Okay. Okay" Gene interrupted. "I get the idea." He slid down further into the seat. He was still tired, and the cabbie's complaints were not helping. It was dumb to ask him about Peter anyway, he thought. All the cabbie wanted was his fare.

Gene rested his head against the top of the seat and closed his eyes. He was starting to drift off when the cab stopped.

"Hey, mac," the cabbie said, irritated. He tapped on the window. "We're here!"

"Hmmm . . . ? Oh," Gene pushed himself up in the seat and searched his coat pockets for some money. "Wait a minute. . . . Um, how much do I owe you?"

"Eight-twenty-seven."

Gene got out of the car and reached in his pants' pocket. He found a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and tapped the driver's window to get his attention.

Rain poured into the cab as he rolled down the window. A shadow obscured most of the cabbie's face and hid him from view. All Gene could make out was the outline of a figure, sitting on what appeared to be two telephone books, and his cigar, sticking too far out of his face to be right. The driver's cap perched atop his head made him even more difficult to identify.

"Well?" The cabbie said impatiently.

"Oh! Here."

Gene handed the twenty to the driver. A white glove, connected to a yellow arm, covered in feathers, appeared from the shadow and grabbed the bill.

"Uh, yeah," Gene said, taken aback. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, buddy." The cabbie poked his head out of the darkness briefly to look up at Gene.

"Why! Why, you're . . . you're a --!"

"Yeah. I know," said the driver, rolling up the window. "Don't spread it around."

The cab pulled out and drove away, leaving Gene standing in the rain. He watched it disappear, then turned to see Peter standing under a streetlamp. The cabbie was right, Gene thought, he looked like he had not slept in days. Maybe there was some reason for the way he had been acting lately.

There had better be.

* * *

"No," Gene said.

They were silent for a few moments. Peter finally pointed to a sign a short distance away. "Well, um, look, instead of standing here in the rain, why don't we go to that Frisch's over there. We could talk . . . and get something to eat while we're at it."

Gene just stood there. He almost expected Peter to leap at him, or something equally as crazy, but all he wanted to do was go to a restaurant and talk. This was not what he had expected at all. He walked over to Peter and studied him more closely.

Peter looked back at him. Something told both of them that the other was behaving as normally as possible under the slightly-odd circumstances of their meeting.

"Okay."

During the short walk to Frisch's, neither of them spoke. They went inside and found an empty booth. Immediately after they sat, a waitress brought water and menus and set them in front of the two men. As the waitress left, Peter looked up at Gene.

"Um, how have you been?"

Gene laughed. The irony of Peter's question was almost too much. "Oh, fine! Fine. How have you been?"

"Oh, all right. I guess." He was lying and he knew Gene could tell. Peter hid behind the menu and pretended to read. He felt foolish. He had blown it by trying to be too casual. Gene probably thought he was nuts and anything he did now would only further that impression. It was stupid, but so has been everything else. The running, the hiding, the fighting, the attempts to convince the band that he was not insane.

Everything had fallen apart for him, and them, but they could not see it happening.

Gene stared at the menu in front of Peter's face, not knowing what to say. The last time he had actually sat down and talked with Peter was before the photo-session for LICK IT UP, and the only thing he remembered about the conversation was that it had not gone well. A few days after that, Peter had been reported missing.

At first no one had thought much of it. With the kind of money he had, he could go on an unannounced vacation anytime he wanted. There were reports of him popping up every now and then, but it was assumed that he was just taking it easy until he was ready to do something musically again.

Then Peter reappeared in late October, showing every sign of having gone out of his mind.

Or so Peter's wife had said, Gene thought to himself. According to her, they had just returned from a vacation and had only been home for a few minutes when Peter started searching the house from top to bottom. Frantically searching for something, she had thought he had said something about the house being "bugged." Just as he had destroyed just about everything in the house, he stopped as abruptly as he had started. Peter stayed silent for the rest of the evening, and Debra decided to let him cool off a bit and ask him what was wrong in the morning. She had gone on to bed without him as he sat on the couch and brooded.

The next day, he was gone. He had packed in a hurry, taking only three suitcases and a few thousand in cash from their account. After a few hours, Debra had called the police. When they could not turn up anything, she had gotten in touch with the guys in the band, hoping that they might have seen him. Management soon found out about the whole thing and had it under wraps before it could leak out to the press, so there were no problems with publicity; but that was the only progress made on finding him.

Everyone had hopes that he would turn up soon. "Maybe with a tan or talking about just getting his head together," Paul had said at the time. Gene had agreed. After all, "we all go a little crazy at times." Gene was sure that Peter would return, safe and sound.

But it did not turn out that way. Instead he had finally started popping up during the newest KISS tour, following the band around the country. The only time he would venture talking to anyone was at the weirdest times with his requests for "chats." Such as the request that had led to their meeting at that moment.

"I --" Gene began, just as the waitress returned.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Yes," Gene answered, not even bothering to look at the menu. "I'll have a Big Boy platter, no cheese, and a large root beer. How 'bout you, Peter?"

"Um. . . ah. . . a chocolate milkshake."

"Anything else?" The waitress asked.

"Um. . . no. That'll do it." Peter handed his menu back to the waitress, and Gene followed Peter's action with his own menu.

Gene watched for a long moment as the waitress walked away. He grinned as he turned back to Peter and began pulling off the heavy black coat he was wearing.

"I see your taste in food has really improved since the last time I saw you."

"And I see your taste in clothing has really deteriorated since the last time I saw you, " Peter said, staring at the string-sleeved, black top Gene was wearing. It was one that he had worn on stage during the tour and had pulled it on when he was getting ready at the hotel. "It looks as thought the shirt's trying to flog you for wearing it."

They looked at each other, deadpan. Gene smiled, then they both started to chuckle. It was what was needed to break the tension. There was another burst of laughter as Peter removed his overcoat, exposing the t-shirt underneath.

"Ah, always in style for the modern, get-up-and-go man. New from the Salvation Army collection."

"Aye, matey, the best clothes fifty cents can buy."

They continued their conversation in the same fashion until the rhythm became perfect. Things were warming up between the two as the waitress came back with their order and they fell back into silence as they began to eat.

Finally Gene spoke. "Wasn't there supposed to be something you wanted to talk to me about?"

Peter looked down at his shake, poking at the dull bits of ice cream in the mixture. "It can wait." He looked up at Gene. "So, hey, tell me how the tour's been going. I've heard everything's been great."

"Yes. It has been tremendous. There's a whole new life to the band. It's been really exciting, like starting all over again."

Peter almost laughed. More than you realize, he thought.

"Hey," Gene exclaimed. "Have you even heard the new album yet?"

Peter eyed Gene suspiciously. "You don't remember?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"The meeting we had right before the record came out. You gave me an advance copy. Remember?"

Gene stared blankly for a moment, then a small snatch of memory came to him. "Oh, yeah. . . . I remember now. Well, I remember seeing you, but I couldn't remember why. So. What did you think of it?"

"Wait a minute," Peter snorted, feeling somewhat confused. "You mean that's all you remember about that meeting?"

"Well, yeah. . . ." Now it was Gene that was eyeing Peter suspiciously.

"Nothing else?"

Gene felt uneasy at the questioning. "Well, no. . . . I don't know. My memory must be going, I guess. Seems like I've been forgetting a lot of things lately. I really can't remember anything else about that day."

"You hardly remember anything about the last few years."

"Wait. I haven't exactly gone senile yet, if that's what you mean. Things are just sort of caught up in a daze. Hey! Pretty catchy song title, don't you think?" Gene's attempts to bring the conversation back to a more normal level did not work as Peter's voice once again rose frantically as he spoke.

"You mean you don't remember all the weird things that have happened to everyone associated with the band for the past seven-eight years?"

Gene was now nervous. He did not like the way things were going down at all. Maybe, he decided, Peter was going nuts.

"Don't you remember what happened to the old man? Don't you even remember what happened to Ace?"

People had stopped eating and were staring at the now very loud Peter.

"Peter," Gene said, "calm down. What are you talking about?"

Peter sighed and lowered his voice as he darted looks around the restaurant. "Man, they must really have done a job on you guys."

"Look, Peter," Gene said, annoyed with the whole conversation. "I wish you would tell me what you're going on about. People have been telling me that you haven't been feeling well lately. If you want me top do something for you, just tell me."

"Dammit!" Peter pounded a fist on the table. "I don't' care what you've heard, I'm not going crazy! In fact, I'm probably the only one who knows what's going on!"

Peter took a breath, slowing down his speech a bit to show he had patience with Gene. "Look, don't you even remember the Talismans?"

"What?"

"You know, the Talismans. The four mystic objects the old guy gave us. The ones that made us more than ordinary humans."

Gene stared at him in disbelief.

"I know what you're talking about, Pete. But that was only part of the act -- it was only for the comic book and the movie. It wasn't real."

"No! . . .no. . . . They were. . .are. . . real! I should know. I was there when we got them. Can't you remember? Can't you see that something has happened to you, me and the rest of the band? Something more than just a costume change?"

"Peter," Gene said with a bit of concern in his voice, trying his best to understand what his friend was going through. "I know things have been rough for you lately, but retreating into a fantasy world isn't the way to solve your problems. Understand?"

Peter was silent for a moment.

"Yeah, I understand," he finally mumbled.

He understood all right. He understood that Gene, Paul, Vinnie and Eric had all been brainwashed. They didn't remember the Talismans or the way things had been. He also understood that those responsible were after him as well. After all, he still knew the truth about the Talismans and the Management. He knew too much. That's why he had to split. If they thought he was nuts, maybe they would leave his family alone.

It had worked, but at the price of making everyone else think he was crazy too. Yeah, he understood perfectly.

Gene stood up, leaving his half-finished meal on the table. He looked at Peter.

"It's almost four in the morning, the band'll be pulling out early today, and I'd like to get some sleep first. Frankly, if you're looking for some advice, I suggest you go home. I mean, playing superhero is great, but it's not real. There's more to life than that. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah." Peter looked across the room, avoiding eye contact with Gene.

"I'm leaving. Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, you're right." Peter sighed once again. "Maybe it's time I headed on home."

"Good. Look, I'll pay the check, then I'm going back to the hotel, okay?"

"Sure. Okay."

Gene stood for a moment, then began walking away from the table. Peter called after him as Gene walked.

"Gene?"

Gene turned back to the booth.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming down to hear me babble."

Gene smiled, but his eyes were filled with concern. "Hey, what else are friends for?"

Peter half-heartedly returned the smile and glanced down at this milkshake, which was now more milk than shake. His eyes focused on the window next to the table as Gene got into a cab and rode away. Once the cab was out of sight, Peter crawled out of the booth and put on his coat. He walked to the entrance door that led to the outside world.

Maybe Gene's right, Peter contemplated. Maybe I should just go home. It might be better to forget the whole mess and worry about life in the real world.

"Hey, buddy."

"What?" Startled, Peter turned to see a man with a bag of food, waiting to get out.

"Mind if I use the door?"

"Oh. Sorry." Peter grinned sheepishly and moved out of the man's way.

When he stepped out into the night, the rain had stopped, but it was still very cold. He buttoned up his coat and jammed his hands into the pockets.

"Naw," he said to himself. "I think I'll wait it out just a little longer. Who knows? Maybe Ace will show up eventually. There has to be some way to win. Even if the war is over."

He lifted his head up in the cold air and smiled as he thought about what Gene had said about reality.

"Gene," Peter said to the night, "you just don't know what it was like."

He looked into the darkness for a moment.

". . .we used to be heroes. . . ."

And the night laughed with the shudder of a breeze.

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