CHAPTER 4

June 1975. 10:30 a.m.

Detroit.

Some people have nightmares about being in Detroit at 10:30 in the morning. Some people have nightmares about being in Detroit at any time of the morning or (especially) at night.

It was an overcast day and incredibly hot. There was not much traffic on the roads. Most of the people who lived there were at work or off doing their morning chores. Others slept; some found a way to not let reality interrupt their lives. Everything was normal for a city the size of Detroit. Bland and complacent.

It was not as though the city itself was bad, or the people evil. It just seemed, like any big city, it held its occupants in a grip almost impossible to break free. The people flocked to the city to find work, old friends, relatives, memories, even fun; only to find themselves stripped of the will to leave and left stranded. Those who were born there only know of that one way to exist. Every man and woman, trapped into a lifestyle they did not choose. The only thing left was survival.

There was hope, but it was the last thing on people's minds.

Then again, one could at least say this about Detroit: at least it was not Cleveland.

A few large buses and trucks dotted the rear parking lot of Cobo Hall Arena. Men in grungy jeans and sweatshirts ran back and forth, checking supplies, carrying equipment into the arena, and making sure everything was in order for the show later that evening.

As they continued with their business, a shiny, but somewhat battle-scarred, old bus rattled onto the lot and pulled into an empty slot. It sat silently for several minutes, the engine ticking, as if the bus was a bomb set to go off. None of the men working took notice of it.

Slowly, the door of the bus opened. A person leaned his head out and his brown eyes peered around. After a quick search, the person stuck his head back into the bus and all was quiet again.

The silence was broken when a man wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a K-mart football jersey hopped out of the bus, and landed on one knee. His brown, slightly greying hair was parted down the middle and feathered back, hanging just past the edge of his collar. He sported several days' growth of beard, which would be shaved before the show that night. He stayed there on one knee, smiling, then burst into song:

"Detroit, Detroit.
It's a wonderful town.
The traffic is awful,
The smog gets around.
Detroit, Detroit . . .
It's a wonderful town! Yeah!"

He punctuated his performance by throwing his arms out and his head back, waiting for the crowd's mad applause. Another figure climbed out of the bus with ease as the song was completed.

"Yeah, Peter. Don't call us, we'll call you."

Peter put his arms down and looked back at the emerging figure. Peter jumped to his feet.

"Ha! You say that now, Gene, but wait åtil it's number one on åYour Hit Parade!'"

"Right." Gene folded his arms and leaned against the bus next to the door frame. He was wearing black leather pants, a blood-red satin shirt, and shiny black platform shoes. His shaggy, brown hair cascaded over his shoulders and framed his sharp features.

Another man stumbled out of the bus, rubbing his eyes behind the black sunglasses on his face. His long, curly mane of black hair moved gently in the breeze as he pushed past Gene. He wore tight, new, flared blue jeans and a low-cut T-shirt, accented by a pair of high-heeled, brown and red Frye boots. As he walked away from the bus, he removed the shades and stared at the arena for a moment.

"Where are we?" He called back to Gene and Peter without turning.

"Detroit, Paulie. Detroit." Peter grinned, knowing exactly how Paul would react.

"D-detroit?" Paul asked, hoping he heard Peter incorrectly.

"Yeah! Detroit. You know, land of the free --"

"Home of the brave." Gene quickly picked up on Peter's lead.

"I thought they were in Atlanta now," Peter moved up to Gene in order to continue their inane conversation. Both ignored the moans coming from Paul.

"Detroit?" he asked weakly. "No, God, please. . .not Detroit. . . ."

Gene finally noticed his friend's obvious distress. "Don't worry, Detroit is a great place to play. This town really goes out of its way for a band. They've done it for us in the past."

"Yeah?" Paul joined the other two at the bus. "It better be like that here and everywhere else from now on. We haven't been going anywhere since the last album came out. I mean, it's great to be touring America, but how much longer can we last on Bill's American Express card?"

"I know," Gene raised a hand in absent-minded defense. The three men were quiet for a moment, then Peter brightened and looked at the others.

"Hey! We're here to rehearse. Let's cut the gloom and get on with it."

"Right," Gene said with more enthusiasm than he actually felt at that point.

With an affirmative shake of Paul's head, the three began walking towards the arena's entrance. They were half-way to the entrance, when Paul suddenly stopped.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Where's Ace?"

Oblivious to the fact that he was the only one left on the bus, Ace sat immersed in a book, his lanky frame stretched out across two of the naugahyde seats. He wore black slacks and mismatched tennis shoes, with a blue shirt, which he had the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His long mop of brown hair fell over his eyes, so he kept having to punch it back behind his ears.

He didn't notice the man who entered the bus and worked his way up the aisle. When the stranger reached Ace, he stood for several minutes, waiting for the guitarist to acknowledge his presence.

Time passed. Finally the man cleared his throat. Still no response.

"Excuse me. Mr. Frehley?"

"Hmm? Er, what?" Ace, startled, looked up to see an old man with white hair and a beard. The man wore sunglasses and a trench coat that was open, showing the man's Bermuda shorts and a "Keep On Truckin'" t-shirt. To Ace, the man looked like a man working his way up to being a flasher.

The man held out a small package in his right hand.

"Mr. Ace Frehley," he said, "within this package is a power that is destined for you. A power that is from the earth itself and from beyond the farthest star. A power that will make you more than just an ordinary man. You will have the destiny of Mankind in your hands."

"Oh, really?" Ace smiled. He did not know who this person was, but the flasher's words were fascinating.

"Ace Frehley, here is a power that can save or destroy the human race. Will you take this gift in the name of Humanity?"

Ace's smile widened. "Yeah. Great!!"

The strange man handed the package to Ace, who took it and began to remove the wrapping. As he removed some of the wrapping, the object inside the package began to glow faintly. He looked up questioningly at the old man.

"Do not worry, it is supposed to do that."

Ace finished uncovering the gift, and the glow slowly faded.

"Keep it with you at all times, for now this Talisman's powers are a part of your being."

Ace pulled at the chain that held the object in the package and inspected it in the lights of the bus.

"Wow. A lighting bolt! This will look great with the costume. Thanks -- "

Ace looked up to see that the strange man was gone. After a quick look around the bus, he sat back down, looking at the Talisman again.

"Hey, Ace!"

Ace saw Paul standing impatiently at the front of the bus.

"Come on, man. We've got a sound check to do."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

Ace got out of his seat as Paul went back outside the bus. When he reached the door, he stopped, giving the Talisman one last glance. Smiling he shoved the little lightning bolt into his pocket, then went to join the others.

The sound check was finished in good time for the four band members to actually spend sometime on their own before the show that night. Ace decided to struggle through some more of the book he had with him, so his option was strictly the hotel. As to the others, it was decided that they could hit the town for a few hours as long as they all got back to Cobo Hall in time to get ready for the concert. With a wave from Ace over his shoulder as he headed toward the hotel's bar, the others went on their way.

About an hour later, Paul had managed to locate a small record shop and was busying himself by checking out albums in the bargain racks. The shop was a part of a small chain of record stores in the Detroit area and looked just like a million other stores to Paul. Full of promotional posters; a sign at the front door warning shoplifters of prosecution; a dusty showcase off to one side, crammed with smoking paraphernalia, jewelry and other head shop items; A beat-up life-size standee of Olivia Newton-John in one corner with a roach-clip taped to her hand and Groucho glasses drawn on her face; a beat-up old cash register on the showcase; and, finally, a beat-up old hippie behind the cash register, reading a book on Karl Marx and looking rather bored with the world.

The sameness of the place to a dozen others like it Paul had been to was comforting in a way that Paul could not describe. After being on the road and in odd places all of the time, at least the record stores had not changed yet. It was still a slice of home for him and he welcomed the chance to go to the stores whenever he had the opportunity.

Giving up on the bargain bins, Paul had started shuffling through some of the newer soul albums when he suddenly got the feeling he was being watched. He considered turning around as he hesitated flicking through the albums, then thought better of it.

As the seconds went by, the feeling persisted. With each pass of an album in his hands, the tension grew in his mind that someone was studying him. Finally, he spun around, expecting to see no one.

Instead he saw an old man with white hair and a beard, wearing sunglasses and a trench coat. Paul backed up in surprised and bumped into the record bin. The man lifted up his right hand and produced a small package for Paul to contemplate.

"Paul Stanley ," the man said in a rather loud voice.

Paul bristled. His thoughts raced to the idea that someone in public had recognized him without his makeup, his trademark. He braced himself for the geezer in front of him to produce a camera and he now wished that he had taken John Harte's suggestion on having a security person go with him on his walk.

"Look, mister," Paul said evenly. "I don't know who you are, but all I'm trying to do is look at some records. If you --"

"Paul Stanley," the old man interrupted without acknowledging that Paul had even spoken to him. "Within this package is a power that is destined for you. A power that comes from the depths of all souls. A power that will make you more than just an ordinary man."

Paul rolled his eyes. Great, he thought to himself, a real loony knows who I am.

The man continued. "Paul Stanley, here is a power that can save or destroy the human race. Will you take this gift in the name of Humanity?"

The old man held the package out to Paul, who just stood there. It was obvious to Paul that the guy was insane and he might be dangerous if set off. Still, he was not thrilled with the idea of playing along by taking the package. For all he knew, it could have been a setup for a drug bust, like ones he had heard about happening to other bands over the years.

"What is it?" Paul asked, looking warily at the package.

"As I have stated, a power that can --"

"Yeah, okay." Paul cut the man off so he would not have to listen to the ridiculous spiel a second time. Figuring the man now to be simply a harmless nut, Paul held out his hand. "All right, I'll take it."

The old man handed the gift to Paul. Paul grabbed hold of the package easily is his left hand and dropped his hand to his side as soon as he had it. He took no notice of the soft glow emanating from the package.

A moment passed as the two looked at each other. Paul shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. Sighing, he put his right hand into a fist and placed it on his hip.

"Okay, I've got it. Now can I go back to what I was doing?" A weary tone appeared in Paul's voice.

A look of shock quickly appeared and vanished across the old man's face. Indignation appeared next as the man spoke. "Yes. But remember to keep it with you at all times. The Talisman's powers are now a part of you."

Paul again rolled his eyes and returned to the records, hoping that the man would go away. He glanced down at the package, which felt warmer than when he had first taken it.

The strangeness of both the package and of the man's behavior piqued Paul's curiosity, and he soon found himself opening the wrapping on the package. Looking inside, he found a small piece of jewelry -- a silver star with an eye imprinted in its center.

"Well," Paul mumbled to himself, "what do you know? It is a talisman." He glanced up to see if the old man was still in the store to thank him, but he had disappeared.

Paul wandered up to the counter where the clerk sat.

"Excuse me," he asked.

The clerk looked disinterestedly at Paul.

"Yeah?"

"Did you just see an old man wearing Bermuda shorts and a smoking jacket go out of here?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Paul went back to the records, shoving the Talisman into his pocket.

Peter pushed open the door of the McDonald's and walked out into the sunlight. He pulled a pair of sunglasses from his shirt and slipped them on, blocking out the brightness which came with a brief break in the clouds above.

As he strolled whistling along the sidewalk, his eyes were caught by a drum-kit displayed in a music store window. He stopped to admire the kit.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, as though warning him of something behind him. He twisted around quickly to see why his instincts had been aroused.

There, behind him, was an old man with white hair and a beard. The man held a package in his hands, which were cupped in front of him.

"Hey!" Peter said cheerfully. "Man, you nearly scared me out of my skin there."

"Peter Criss?"

"Yep, that's me. Say, how can you be wearing the heavy jacket on a day like today? Much be pretty hot."

"Yes. It is, as a matter of fact," the old man smiled for the first time that day. "Would you excuse me as I take it off?"

"Uh, sure. . . go ahead. As long as you're wearing something under it, ya know." Peter grinned sheepishly as he wondered why he was having such a polite conversation with the strange man in front of him.

The old man set the package on the ledge of the store window and began pulling off his coat. Peter looked down at the small bundle and was strangely compelled to pick it up. He turned the package over in his hands, gazing at it familiarly.

It began to glow.

Startled, Peter quickly put it back on the ledge, hoping the man had not seen him. Looking up at his reflection in the window, he saw that the old man had already folded his coat in his arms and was staring at Peter.

"Oh," Peter stuttered, feeling embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I don't know what came over me. It's, well, you know. . . I guess, curiosity killing the. . . ."

Peter coughed.

The old man smiled again. "Don't worry about it, my friend. As a matter of fact, it is a gift for you."

"Oh, really?" Peter asked. He looked at the package and then the old man again. "What is it?"

The old man sighed heavily. "Do you really want to hear the whole speech about it?"

"Well, if you had something planned. . . ."

The man took a deep breath, reached over and picked up the package for Peter to look at while he spoke.

"Peter Criss, within this is a power that is destined for you. A power that is almost animalistic in its origin. A power that will make you more than just an ordinary man."

"Uh-huh," Peter said slowly, trying to comprehend the whole thing.

"Peter Criss, here is a power that can save or destroy the human race. Will you take this gift in the name of Humanity?"

Peter hesitated. After all, no one just comes out and give you presents, he thought to himself. Then again, they had been starting to get things from fans recently, and; as Peter continued thinking it over; you never knew who would turn up to be a fan.

"Aw, it's a small gift. Sure!"

The package was handed to Peter.

"Be sure to keep it with you at all times, for now this Talisman's powers are a part of your being."

The old man turned and walked away, leaving Peter alone on the sidewalk.

"Thanks," Peter called after him. "Hope you enjoy the show!"

Peter opened the package and looked at the small, silver, stylized lion's head inside.

"Ugh. Ugly looking thing. . . oh, well."

Peter checked to see if the man was still in sight, but he was gone. Talisman in hand, Peter resumed his journey back to the hotel.

Gene had been trying to hail a cab for fifteen minutes with absolutely no results. Rush hour had just begun and every taxi in Detroit was either occupied or on its way to get someone. Since he was already running late, he considered calling the hotel and having one of the band's crew members pick him up, but he did not see a phone anywhere nearby. As he was about to give up and begin another search for a phone, a big, yellow, beat-up taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped.

Gene yanked open the door and leaped into the backseat. "Cobo Hall Arena, back entrance," he snapped, then leaned back in the seat, letting out a long breath.

"Gene Simmons," the driver said.

"What? How did you know my name?" Gene asked in surprise.

For the first time, Gene noticed the cabbie. He was an old man with white hair and a beard, his frame covered by a trench coat.

"That does not matter for the moment," answered the driver. "Do you see the package next to you on the seat?"

Gene saw it. "Yes."

"Within it is a power that is destined for you. A power which feeds upon the blackness and horrors in the hidden core of all men's souls. Once a man has seen the blackness, they can control it."

"Oh, yeah?" Gene asked, staring bemusedly at the back of the old man's head. He did not know why the man was pulling such a stunt, but he liked his style. "Tell me, what would I be able to do with those powers?"

"That is something you must learn for yourself, if you accept the Talisman within the package."

"I don't know," Gene said, picking up the package for the first time. It started to glow in his hands.

"Hey, nice special effects. I'd swear there was really something powerful in here."

"There is. It is something that can save or destroy the human race. Will you accept this gift in the name of Humanity?"

"Of course," Gene said, playing along.

He opened the package and pulled out a small red box. Lifting the lid he found four holding compartments built into the gleaming metal of the box. Of the four compartments, three were empty, but one held within it a small metal amulet. Gene pulled it out to study it.

"Wow," Gene exclaimed. "It's really detailed, and it's a gargoyle too. Just my style. You must've put a lot of work into this."

"Keep it with you at all times, for now the Talisman's powers are a part of your being."

"When will I be able to use these powers?"

"We shall see. Here is your destination."

"What do --" Gene started to ask the old man another question, but noticed that the cab had stopped and was right outside the arena's backstage door. There were several people milling around the entrance, all getting ready for the show. Gene stared at them for a moment, then turned his attention back to the driver.

"Um, how much do I owe you?"

"Forget it. It's on the house. Just remember to never lose sight of the Talisman, nor the box you hold. Each are important in the coming scheme of things."

"Oh. Thanks! For the Talisman and for that story. It's been great."

Gene slid across the backseat and stepped out into the hot, muggy night air. He gave the man a small wave, turned and made his way through the crowd.

Morpheus watched Gene disappear into the arena. A small smile crept across his face, then disappeared as he drove away from the building.

"Good luck, my sons. There is a great darkness approaching that only you will be able to stop."

Morpheus frowned as he and the cab vanished from the road.

Gene entered the dressing room, where Peter was already pulling off his t-shirt and wrapping a towel around his shoulders to protect himself from make-up smears. In front of one of the lighted mirrors was Paul, his hair tied back, the outline of a star roughly sketched on his face.

Gene walked to a disorganized corner of the room, where he dug out his leotards and make-up. He placed them on a table and began undressing. As he pulled off his trousers, the little gargoyle's head fell out of his pocket and clattered to the floor. he picked it up and looked at it.

"Hey, you guys. The weirdest thing just happened to me. . . ."

KISS ASYLUM -- KISS Museum News Archive Features Tour Dates Photos