Long Strange R.I.P.

A horror short story from WHERE THE SHADOWS ARE SHOWN by Josh Schlossberg (available as paperback, ebook, or audiobook on Amazon).

“Long time no see, Mr. Garcia.” Satan slouched on his throne of charred ribcages and femurs at the heart of a vast dim obsidian hall. “Whatever can I do for you?”

The heavy-set white-haired and bearded man—basically Santa Claus in glasses and black T-shirt—stood with his feet planted wide on the ashy stone, sulfurous gases twining around his legs like friendly cats. “You know damn well why I’m here,” Jerry said.

“Written any new jingles?” Satan’s black lidless eyes oozed like tar as he scratched the mushroom head of the ghoul squatting to his side. “I still get a kick out of that one song. How does it go? ‘Set out running but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine.’”

“It’s gotta stop.”

“Is my singing that bad?” Satan flashed hundreds of tiny immaculate teeth, and the thing beside him tittered. “I forgot to congratulate you on the Hall of Fame induction. Quite the honor.”

“Leave Vince alone.” Jerry stuck out a trembling pointer finger, the finger beside it missing.

“Ah, yes, how is Mr. Welnick? Still tickling the ivories to your satisfaction?”

Jerry shook his head, spraying droplets of sweat that evaporated in mid-air. “You can’t keep killing them.”

“I quite enjoy their playing.” Satan put a hand to his ear. “In fact, that’s them now.” From somewhere not far away, a faint tinkling of piano mingled with a droning organ and synthesizer chimes.

“One time.” Jerry’s shoulders slumped. “One time I forgot my insulin. I was just a kid. The band was taking off. Had my whole life ahead of me.”

“So did Mr. McKernan. Or shall I say, PigPen.”

“The way he drank and with that autoimmune thing, I figured he’d be gone in a few years anyway.”

“A deal is a deal.” Satan tented his long fingers, each of which sported an extra knuckle. “Whether he was sober enough to know what he was signing is beyond my purview.”

“It was only supposed to be one.”

“Was it now?” A scroll materialized in Satan’s hands. After clearing his throat, he read aloud, “In exchange for another fifty years of life, I, Jerome John Garcia, offer the soul of the Grateful Dead’s keyboard player in lieu of my own until the day of my death.” With the flick of a wrist, the scroll disappeared.

“Keith and Brent never signed.”

Satan sniffed. “It’s called power of attorney.”

“I had a feeling you’d be up to something,” Jerry sneered. “So, when Keith started doping, I kicked him out of the band. But you still got him. On his fucking birthday,” Jerry growled.

Tsking, Satan shook his horned head. “Over fifty-one thousand motor vehicle fatalities that year in the U.S. alone.”

“And then, ten years later almost to the day, you took Brent.” Jerry clenched his fists. “He had a little girl, man.”

“Cocaine is a powerful pharmaceutical, as is morphine. Dabbling in either comes with great risk. Combine the two, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

“You got three for the price of one. It’s not fair.”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?!” Satan stomped a hoof, and, startled, the ghoul skittered off to hide behind his throne.

“I’m not gonna let you take Vince.” Jerry folded his arms across his sweat-stained shirt. “This ends now.”

Satan lifted a hairless eyebrow.

***

Lying in bed at the rehab center, Jerry Garcia woke to a crushing pain in his chest, as if someone had dropped an amplifier on him.

The LSD coursing through his system helped him resist the urge to fight, to call out for help, and instead simply accept his fate. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the ceiling fan overhead as it chugged out its locomotive rhythm, the spinning blades blurring into a mandala.

The glowing bulb at its center pulsed, buzzed, and blew out.

***

Lungs creaking like an attic door, Vince Welnick crested the grassy hill and stopped to catch his breath. A breeze blew up from the grey Pacific churning below.

Given the choice between emphysema’s constant waterboarding or cancer eating him alive, he’d pick the latter every time. While chemo and radiation had knocked out his tumor almost a decade before, the wheezing was only worsening—thanks, in no small part, to his refusal to quit smoking. Of course, having kicked pills and booze, cigarettes were his only comfort. He patted his pocket, knowing full well he’d left his butts at home.

It was true he’d only known Jerry for five short years, but losing him still felt like the death of an older brother, the man’s absence leaving a smoking crater in the music scene and his life. Despite all Vince’s efforts to convince the guys to keep touring, The Dead was done. Yet the biggest kick in the balls came seven years later when the band finally did get back together—without him. Calling themselves Dead and Company, Vince preferred the spiteful moniker, Dead, Inc.

After a half decade playing to packed stadiums, gigging in dinky clubs with random jam bands was humiliating for Vince. Every time he got up on stage and stared out into a crowd of hundreds—instead of tens of thousands—he died a little inside. Gradually, he stopped performing. Hell, it’d been almost a year since he’d last sat down in front of the keys.

All hard pills to swallow, but he was finally at peace. He’d played his part in the most successful touring act in history and played it well. Naturally, it could only be downhill from there.

Speaking of hills, Vince couldn’t remember the last time he’d hiked along the coast. With eye-popping greenery swooping down to the rocky shoreline and foaming breakers, it was really a stunning view, the perfect place for the task at hand.

Gripping the kitchen knife with sweaty palm, he lifted the blade to his throat. “Tune up, Jerry. I’m coming home.”