CHAPTER 6

The show had gone over better than expected, and excitement filled the air as people streamed through the arena's exits. From everyone's ecstatic reactions it was clear that KISS had not only won over the crowd that night, but had probably played the best they had ever done. As though a new power had been added to the already amazing band.

The band members felt the energy as well, and raced through the corridors of the backstage area with abandon, only stopping once they had reached the dressing room and slammed the door behind them. Once inside the room, the four collapsed into chairs, elated and exhausted.

"Hey, Gene," Peter shouted between large gulps of water from a glass on his dressing table. "That fire-breathing tonight was unreal! I thought you were toast for sure!"

Ace was curious, as he rose from his chair to busy himself with the change out of costume. "What happened? Did you set your hair on fire again?"

"No," Peter jumped in before Gene could reply. "I saw him shoot about the biggest fireball out of his mouth that I had ever seen. Must have been sixty feet in the air or something. Man, it lit up the whole place! Then I thought for sure your costume was on fire for a second, man." He pointed to Gene.

"It was." Gene said happily. "Look at this."

He held up the sleeve of his costume to show what remained of the sleeve. Both Ace and Peter moved in for a closer inspection.

Ace turned back to his table. "That what happens when you use all that Lysol on that leather."

Both Gene and Peter laughed at Ace's comment. Paul, however, was not in a good mood as he saw the costume.

"Gene, man," Paul shook his head, "don't you know we don't have enough money as it is? How are we going to get that repaired in time for the next show? Man, you've got to be more careful."

Silence fell over the room after Paul's lecture. The others began working on getting out of their costumes as Paul started removing his makeup, using the mirror at his table for guidance.

Gene cleared his throat. "Actually, Peter brings up a good point. I, er, I think I had help."

"What," Paul said, with the emphasis on the word what, "do you mean?"

"I mean," Gene said, leaping up and pacing as if he were a sleuth about to reveal the butler's guilt, "I'm positive I breathed at least thirty feet into the air tonight, maybe even forty. I don't know. Now, we all know that's pretty much impossible. . . . But what really got me was what happened after that. I did catch my costume on fire. In fact, my whole hand was on fire for a second. But now? Nothing. Nothing is wrong with my hand or arm, even though my costume went up like the Human Torch. See? Pretty weird, right?"

He was presenting his arm to the others as they listened.

"Um. . . yeah," Peter said, not sure if Gene was joking or just crazy.

Ace was trying to understand Gene's story. "And because this is something you don't do very often, you think it might be connected with the only other weird thing that's happened today. Right?"

Relief flooded through Gene as he saw that the story was coming across -- to Ace, no less. "Yes."

"So, you think the old man's Talisman somehow intensified your Demon stage persona into a real character?" Paul asked, knowing exactly what was going through Gene's head.

"Yeah."

"What a load of crap." Paul continued to work on taking off his makeup. By this time, only the star remained on his face.

Gene's smile faded fast. "What do you mean by that?"

Paul smirked. "You expect me to believe that his fruitcake gave us some kind of 'super' powers?"

"Sure. Why not?" Ace inquired, standing with Gene.

"Have you guys lost your minds? Just because we dress this way doesn't mean we ARE this way. You just lucked out, Gene. Right, Peter?"

Peter stood up and moved over to Ace and Gene. "Well. . .to tell you the truth, I'm beginning to think there is something to all this Talisman stuff."

Paul threw the towel he had in his hands hard onto the table. He stalked over to the side of the room, his back to the others, and began pulling off his costume. He had not finished taking the remainder of his makeup off, but he wanted to distance himself none the less.

"That's fine, then. If you want to play Super-Jerk, go ahead."

"Man," Gene said in frustration. "You just can't believe that there might be something going on here. That there might be something more to the world than what you see, do you?"

"Oh, yeah." Paul was pulling on his pants and tightening the belt as he shook his head. "Like God came down and gave the poor rock n' rollers a miracle. Glad Jesus is not a Black Oak Arkansas fan."

"But, Paul --" Ace started.

"Enough is enough!" Paul snapped, turning to face the three. "You're acting like we're in a comic book, and we're not!"

Paul spun back around and continued dressing.

Peter looked at Gene. "Do you think you could do it again?"

Gene kept staring at Paul's back, little registering Peter's question. "Oh, I don't know."

"Wait a minute!" Ace rushed over to a pile of clothes and fished around in the pockets of a pair of jeans. He ran back to Gene with a BIC lighter. "Okay, let's see what happens."

"Come on, guys. Cool it." Paul lowered his head and stared at the floor.

"No. Let's see if he can do it!" Ace flicked the lighter in front of Gene's nose. It did not light.

"Cool it. . . . It won't work." No one noticed the glow encircling Paul's eye as he spoke.

"Yes it will," Gene retorted. The metallic ring in his voice made Peter nervous. Ace continued to flick the dead lighter in Gene's face.

"I SAID, COOL IT!"

Paul twisted around, his right eye glowing golden. A bright bolt of light shot out from his eye and hit Gene squarely on the chest, sending him flying back to smash into the brick wall behind him. Bricks from the wall went flying in all directions.

"Mmmeeooww!" Peter yelped as he leaped twenty feet in the air. He landed, on all fours, on top of a row of lockers.

"Yipes!" Ace screwed his hand into a hitch-hiker's gesture and disappeared just as several dozen bricks crashed into the wall he had been standing in front of.

Peter, Paul and Gene remained motionless, shocked by the realization of what they had done.

"Gene. . . ." Paul stared at the hole in the wall. "I didn't know, man."

Throwing the door to the dressing room open, John entered the room. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at the mess around him. "Alright! What's going on?"

Nobody answered. Peter hopped down from his perch and scampered over to John.

"Sorry, we were just having a little fun and it sort of got out of control. Right, guys?"

"Yeah," Gene snorted as he pushed himself out of the rubble. "They don't make dressing rooms like they used to."

Paul smiled slightly at Gene's joke, then spoke to John. "Nothing's broken . . . er . . . besides the wall. They'll never notice."

The security guard stared at Gene and Paul like a mother whose two kids had just broken her favorite vase. He shook his head and glanced at Peter, who stood sweetly smiling, all innocence.

"Geez. Okay, okay. But try to control yourselves." He left, mumbling to himself. "Here I thought I was head of security for a rock and roll band, when actually I'm a kindergarten teacher."

As the sound of the closing door, Peter let out a sigh of relief. "Wow! Did you see that? It was great! I must have jumped fifty feet! Well, okay, about thirty feet, but still! Wow! And you shot some laser-beam out of your eye, and you hit the wall really hard . . . and . . . wow!"

Ignoring the hyperactive Peter, Gene walked over to Paul, who had placed himself back at the dressing table and was hurriedly taking the final portion of make-up off.

"You see," Gene said quietly, "there is something happening to us. The old man gave us powers. We've been playing roles, and now they're real. He gave us something that could be important to the whole world. Can you see it now? We're not just four guys in make-up anymore. We've become . . . super-heroes."

"Ah, look," Paul wiped the last piece of make-up from his eye and reached for his shirt. "This is getting real strange. I mean, one minute I'm just an ordinary guy and the next, I'm shooting lasers from my eyes." He pulled on the shirt and began buttoning it. "I'm not sure what you, or they, or whoever, want me to do with this 'great' gift, but why give it to me? I don't want to shoot rays from my eyes. There's no fun in that."

Paul pulled on his boots and headed for the door. Peter reached out and touched Paul gently on the arm as he walked past.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need some time alone. Okay?"

Peter withdrew his hand and watched Paul leave. As the door slammed shut, Gene motioned as if to go after him, but Peter held his hand up.

"Let him go. He needs to think about this. We all do."

"Yeah. You're right." Gene sank into the chair vacated by Paul a few moments earlier and stared into the mirror. "Let's find Ace and talk this over."

"Okay by me," Peter shrugged. "Where did he go, anyway?"

Gene's cool faltered slightly. This thing had just started and everything was falling apart, he felt. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Where was he the last time you saw him?"

"I'm not sure. It was right before Paul hit you, though. After that, I was too busy trying to save my own skin to notice."

They both turned to the pile of bricks that now stood where Ace once was.

"Do you think -- ?"

"Naw. It's too small for a body to be in there. But where could he --"

POP!

"Hi, guys!"

Gene and Peter swung around. There stood Ace, still in full make-up and costume, his hands on his hips and a gigantic grin on his face.

"I just flew in from Limbo and, boy, are my arms tired!" He laughed maniacally at his own joke, raised his right hand, thumb extended, and disappeared.

POP! "Hey!" POP! "Curlies!" POP! "This is -- " POP! "-- great!" POP!

Peter tried to follow Ace's erratic pattern around the room, but Gene had given up on the third POP. He rolled his eyes heavenward, then lowered his head onto the table in hopelessness.

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

Gene sighed heavily.

"Peter?" he asked weakly.

"Yes!" Peter answered, still concentrating on his friend's antics.

"Try to latch onto Ace next time he pops in. Then maybe we can talk about this sensibly."

"Yeah. Sure."

"I'll be here, staring at the table."

POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!

Paul moved quickly through the corridors of the arena, heading for one of the rear exits. John was there, leaning against the doorjamb. As Paul passed him without even a glance in his direction, John followed him into the starry night.

"Where are you going?" John asked, running a few steps to catch up to Paul.

"Walking," Paul replied without breaking stride.

John stopped, however. "Walking? In Detroit? At night?"

Paul kept going. John hurried after him.

"Right," he said, falling in step with Paul. "I'm coming with you."

"What?" Now it was Paul's turn to stop. "John, you don't have to play åmommy.' I can take care of myself."

"Nobody goes for a walk at this time of night, unless they're looking for trouble. Now, if you want to walk in the daytime, fine. But now? No way. Not while I'm in charge of your safety. That's what I'm getting paid for." John stared at Paul sternly, then a small smile appeared on his dangerous-looking features. "Now look what you've done. I'm starting to sound like a typical 'bodyguard.'"

Paul laughed. "Okay, okay." He resumed his walking with John by his side.

The two men were silent as they passed through the deserted streets. They turned down a dark side street that led directly to the hotel's parking area. John tensed, his eyes darting from left to right.

"What's wrong?" Paul inquired, wondering about John's strange behavior.

"Just looking around. You never can be too sure."

"Oh, don't worry. It'd be corny for someone to jump out and attack us this close to the hotel. I've seen it in too many movies. Anyway, I'm a star. Nobody touches a star, unless you're asking for it. Right, John?"

Paul heard a soft thud form behind him. He turned to see three men in leather jackets standing over John's motionless body. One was holding John off the ground by his collar, clutching a lead pipe in one hand. On his right stood a tall, muscular man with a beard and dirty jeans. He carried a switchblade. The last of the group was a young, over-weight man in sunglasses, with a length of chain grasped firmly in both hands. Paul's eyes widened.

"You should've listened to Mr. Muscle. . .'star,'" the man holding John announced with a sneer.

"John!" Paul rushed towards his fallen friend, but skidded to a halt when the fat man whipped the chain out at Paul's head. He noticed a small stream of blood trickling down John's forehead and knelt next to him. The three thugs smiled. As if giving a silent command, the apparent leader nodded and raised his pipe. The fat man laughed wickedly and pulled the chain taut in his grip as he leered down at their next victim.

Paul's muscles tensed. He felt a strange sensation cross his face, as if a piece of cloth was moving swiftly under his skin and over to his right eye. As the sensation stopped, the pupil in his right eye began to glow as it had earlier that night. Already, he could recognize the change coursing through his body. He felt the Talisman silently pulsing in his pocket.

The feeling made him glad and sickened him at the same time.

He shot his head up, just as the fat man pounced on him. Grabbing the man's shoulders, Paul kicked out and rolled back, throwing his adversary over his head. The man landed flat on his back, his skull cracking against the ground. He did not move again.

Paul sprang to his feet, posing proudly near the body of his former opponent. The thug's cohorts stared at him, dumbfounded.

The man holding the switchblade soon turned his surprise into anger, and he pointed a dirty finger at Paul.

"Hey, candy-ass," he shouted. "Nobody touches a Blue Hawk, 'less they wanna die!" he ran forward, his knife glinting in the distant street lamp's light.

Paul expertly somersaulted away through the air, stopping next to a nearby abandoned building.

"Geez, did you guys just escape from a production of åWest Side Story?'" Paul mumbled.

The man jerked to a stop over his friend's motionless body. He strained his neck around, trying to locate his strange enemy. Finally, he focused on a pair of glowing eyes in the shadows. He held his knife aloft as he ran blindly toward Paul.

Paul waited until the man was just a couple of feet away from him, then stepped out of the way as the bearded man crashed headfirst into the brick wall. The man's body slumped against the obstacle and slid down into the garbage which littered the alleyway. Paul turned to face the last thug.

The gang's leader was now just ten feet away from Paul. His face was calm as he met the musician's eyes. They looked at each other for several seconds, the distant roar of traffic being the only sound.

"So, you think you've got some fancy moves, 'star,'" the man said finally. "Well, I've got some moves of my own to show you." The man reach behind his back and pulled out a small gun. He held it out and up such that it sparkled in the reflection of the street lamp.

Paul's body slumped in disbelief, as his anger rose. "Hey, man, you saw what I can do! Isn't that enough? Isn't my power good enough for you? Why pick on me? I don't want to be some sort of 'super hero.' I don't want these bloody powers! Why don't you leave me alone!"

Paul was shouting at the man now, but he knew as the words left his lips that he was really talking to himself. Suddenly, he knew why his new powers bothered him so much. He hated himself for it.

He fought back tears as he continued. "Now, are you gonna stop being a waste of space, or not?"

"I don't know what your problem is, freak, but you hurt two of the Blue Hawks. You've got a heavy lesson coming." The man held the gun out, pointing it at Paul.

Paul grimaced, his fists clenched at his sides. He felt his mind exploding as his body tensed. His right eye suddenly burst forth a golden light which surrounded the man with its brightness.

The gun clattered noisily to the ground as the man tried to shield his eyes from the glare. He attempted to speak, but no sound came from his lips.

"Yeah," Paul heard himself say. "We all know how you feel about me, but how do you feel about yourself?"

The man stood in the light, his face filled instantaneously with sorrow.

"How does it feel to live in this city? This nothingness that surrounds you? How does it feel to know that your life isn't worth anything to anybody?"

The man shuddered in the glow and tears filled his eyes.

"You had something once, didn't you? You had a chance, but it's gone. Now you know that you can never have it again. Right?"

The man feel to his knees, his arms limp. Only his head remained upright, as if the glow that encircled him trapped his awareness and focused it directly on to the image of Paul in the distance.

"Yes." The man tried to whisper his agreement, and although the word was not said, it rang clearly in Paul's mind.

With the word, Paul's grew conscious of his powers once again. "God," he said to himself, "what am I doing?"

Paul stayed silent as the light steadily shone from his eye. Repressing a shudder, he spoke to the man again.

". . .but everything will be alright. Only if you rest. The world is making you very tired. If you sleep, you'll feel better. The world won't pull you down. . . ."

The man curled up into a fetal position and closed his eyes. Paul stared at him, with sympathy, as he kept talking.

"Yes. Very tired. Sleep."

The light faded as the thug on the pavement began to snore. He smiled as he slept. Paul smiled as well. He felt his body relax, and the pulse of the Talisman began to fade.

Hearing a low moan behind him, Paul turned to see John, clumsily trying to stand. He rushed over and helped the injured man to his feet.

"What?" John asked weakly, trying to focus. "What happened?"

"You slipped and fell as we were walking along. Hit your head. Knocked yourself out for a few minutes." Paul pulled John, who was quickly regaining his strength, toward the hotel.

"Wait a minute. I seem to recall getting hit with something."

"Yeah. The ground. C'mon."

John finally noticed the three men lying on the ground. He stared at Paul, who was smiling.

"Who are those guys?"

"Just some bums, I think. C'mon. Let's get to the hotel and have somebody look at your head. That's some cut you've got."

Without another word between the two, they walked toward the hotel lights.

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