Deja-vu…an unavoidable, tangent sense of "already-seen" cut through Sheena with the tenacity of a serrated blade. It hit her deep, in a place she hadn’t touched since she was shipped away from this paradise and into reality…or reality as she had known it for the past four years.

Through the window of the airplane she watched as the clouds parted to reveal a blanket of smog. The pilot (stoned, it seemed, from the ‘uhhh…’s and ‘umm’s) announced the final descent. At first, small communities appeared under the gray blanket, lush with planted foliage. The developments were uniform, tyrant bands, small little tan boxes amidst the blistering desert. As the plane slowly crept and dived, the tyrants conformed to a sprawling city. Skyscrapers—the needles of the earth—made Sheena cringe. And soon, there was L.A. The six-lane highways and byways that guided billions of swarming ants twisted over each other and broadened from a thin dark line to their true, incredible thickness.

And then there were the palm trees…another shock. Those palm trees had once been so familiar to her; the ones so lined up neatly, all in a row, among the bustling highways. Part of her had dreaded coming back; the other had just as eagerly looked forward to it. As the wind of the soaring plane plugged her ears she unplugged her laptop. She had tried to work on her latest novel. But it was a futile and worthless effort now that a tapeworm worked at her insides.

To put it frankly, she was a nervous wreck.

She remembered the strange reason that she had come back in the first place as she exited the plane and walked through the long corridor to retrieve her baggage. After four years of living in a small Connecticut town, this beautiful place had faded into a fleeting memory she avoided. But she had gotten a call one night, a call from the wife of a man who hadn’t crossed her mind in years.

"Who is this?" she’d asked, only to be answered by, "Sheena? Am I talking to a Sheena Upton?"

"Yes?" A careful, cautious answer. If this was some kind of survey taker, she was going to hang up faster than she could blink. She had been thinking up a storm, and had just figured out the climax of her new literary work. A very grueling process which involved staring at a blank wall with a black pen in hand. This better be good. Being interrupted made her one hell of a bitch. "What do ya want?"

"Well, uh…" The woman had stopped, now unsure of what she’d done. "You don’t know me, but I had to find you to talk to you about something."

"Like what?" Sheena said, a little harshly. People who called her and just asked questions didn’t get a nice tone of voice.

"I want to talk to you about my husband. You knew him in high school. I don’t know what your relationship was with him, but it is very important that I talk to you about it as soon as possible…"

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Jonathan…Jonathan Davis." Tears welled in Sheena’s eyes. She remembered many years ago when she’d fantasized of this happening. Her memories of California had been so vivid then; she could still feel the warm, dry heat even in the miserable weather of Connecticut. The dismal days did none to dreary her desire for home. Alone in her new bed, she had felt for it one night, listening for it, wondering if it

The memory flew back, blossomed like a poisonous rose. Fuck everything. She was going to burst out in sobs. She knew it. "Jon? Jon D? Are you—"

A sigh of relief over the other line. The woman had called the right place. "Yes. I need to talk to you about him…"

"Do you want me to take your bags out to the parking lot for you, ma’am?" Sheena shook her head as she realized she’d been reminiscing a little too intently. She told the pubescent luggage boy that sure he could, and as he tugged her baggage along she followed slowly behind. Her thin frame ached from carrying her heavy bags as far as she had. She thanked him gratefully as he forced the door open. With rosy cheeks he placed the bags in the parking lot. Suddenly, she was back home. Back home, to the fucking chaos that was L.A.

He waited for her tip impatiently, his hand held out. Wished her farewell as she handed him a plump sum. Left.

Sheena knew what Renee was supposed to look like; tanned skin, dark hair. She pulled up about five minutes later in an expensive Eclipse, top down, hair everywhere. Renee immediately apologized as she climbed out to help her put her bags inside the car. Sheena didn’t worry about it though; she’d been enjoying the warm Californian air against her skin.

Sheena immediately envied Renee’s full figure, her full breasts. Sheena had had a figure like that. Once.

Before...

Sheena immediately saw why Jonathan was attracted to her; she told her that as they climbed in next to each other in the car. Renee only laughed, with a twitch of hollowness Sheena failed to notice. "So, do you wanna go out to eat somewhere? We could also have something a little better at home," Renee offered. One hand lightly fingering the wheel, she haphazardly swerved past cars and entered the roaring six-lane highway at 95 mph. Sheena had been concentrating much more intently on those palm trees as the world flew past her, and so she didn’t hear Renee. The warm wind blew in her face. Something stirred within her again; she was home. Really home, although she gripped the sides of her seat nervously and cringed every time Renee swerved from lane to lane randomly. Renee visibly enjoyed driving L.A. style; she played the highways like a game of hopscotch for an hour and a half.

Ahhhhh. Hollywood. Even Sheena knew that Hollywood was a fucking dump. Renee locked her doors as they sped through the streets. Hollywood is as crowded as L.A. and a lot dumpier. Around every corner there was a man walking a little too close to the car for comfort. The streets were run-down; everyone, it seemed, was waiting for something to happen. In even the most romanticized trash city in the entire fucking world people waited for things to happen.

And yet they smiled their toothless smiles—some more innocent than others—as the two made their way to the hills.

Yes, this was California, Sheena thought, thinking about how cold New Englanders were. New England is my home.

"We can go to your house. We don’t need to go to a restaurant," Sheena said finally when Renee asked again. Sheena avoided going to restaurants; hadn’t eaten at one in years. Renee’s dark eyebrows furrowed. Sheena was quite odd; her long brown hair was unkempt, even more now because of the car ride. Her olive makeup distorted her skin tone, giving her complexion a ghastly tint. Renee knew she was a writer. She figured that Sheena would be strange—all authors had a somewhat awkward, somewhat odd air about them—but she hadn’t thought it would be this apparent. Sheena carried herself with no confidence, no light. Her face sagged as if with many years. And lacked the glow of confidence a best-selling author should have.

She was only 24.

Jon was the exact same way, even though he was successful as well. Renee assumed Sheena hated coming back to California—back to the past. Their phone conversations had revealed she was one of Jon’s only high school companions. There was more to him than Sheena would reveal; Renee saw it in her eyes. It was as clear as the clear blue Connecticut skies Renee would never marvel.

Renee had a distinct purpose in bringing Sheena to visit. Renee’d snooped through Jon’s things—something she wasn’t necessarily proud of—a few weeks after Jon had left to go on tour. She’d watched a special on VH1, and Motley Crue had freely admitted succumbing to temptation while on the road. Her immediate thoughts had been: Not my Jon. But the more she thought about it, the more the prospect of his unfaithfulness made sense.

Somehow looking at his wide collection of porno totally convinced her.

She wanted to know how Jon was, and she thought that the best way to do so was to find people from his past. After snooping through his things, she found a phone number. And called it.

Sheena had answered the phone, and had talked to her about Jon. She’d said that he’d been very depressed, but that he was a good guy. At first she’d refused on saying more, but after that she’d slowly opened up—to a certain extent.

In her voice there had been shading. Renee was an excellent judge of personality; Sheena was hiding something very important. The shadows Renee noticed under her guest’s eyes gave away more than they hid. Seeing her, she could even more clearly see links were missing, things she needed to know but could not discover.

Besides, Renee had befriended the oddly soothing voice over the long-distance phone. They’d been pen pals for about six months now; Sheena’s funny scrawl always brought a smile to Renee’s face. Sometimes they’d talk on the phone all night, mostly about Jon. She found out things he would never tell her, would never admit to anyone.

(Kill it? Killit?)

When Jon had graduated high school he’d met Renee and never looked back. She had told him many stories of her childhood; he’d told her none. Refused to. After all these years Renee was suddenly possessed by an eager desire to know his dark past.

Sheena made Renee realize she had married a man she knew nothing about. Nothing at all.

In Sheena’s misty eyes—as she sat next to Renee in her car, her arms scrunched together, just like Jon’s—was the key to her husband’s past. And as dark as that may be,.she thought herself prepared for the shadows.

Key word: THOUGHT she was prepared for the shadows…

"Hey, you want floor tickets tonight?" Head asked, pulling one particularly fine young girl aside from the screaming crowd one day in New York City. For a second, Dayla was shocked that Head, one of her idols, had suddenly noticed her over the other women in the crowd. At first she blushed, but then quickly swallowed her pride and shifted from foot to foot. Yes.

"Yeah," she said. There was nothing more she wanted than floor tickets, and Head, with his Fubu gear, ginger hands, and braided hair, knew exactly how she would get them.

It was hot that day in July, as Head and Dayla huddled with about five-hundred other screaming people into a large Sam Goody building, each fan desperately searching for autographs from the fab five otherwise known as KoRn. From the small hellish town of Bakersfield, California, KoRn had come to know stardom in its fittest form, even if it was in the bureau of sometimes troubled, sometimes freaky, but always hardcore teenagers growing up to face the millenium. Armageddon? Maybe. Butchery? Probably. The end of the human race? Most likely. But the only definite the fans thought as they crowd-surfed the occasional female fan over still heads was Ohgodohgod we're gonna meet KORN!!!!!

"Alright, then," Head said as he signed Dayla’s paper tablet, spelling his name in careful capital letters. "Stay right by that 'N-Suck display right there. When we're done, we'll tell you what you have to do."

Obediently, she left after she had gotten the others' autographs, and stood in the corner, waiting. And waiting…and waiting…Many of the other fans regarded her, the young men silently daydreaming about her even as they shook hands with the band they had come to know and love, the only band whose music had touched their hearts. Dayla was hot.

"Come on," Head said, his braids swinging back and forth on his head like a series of tiny pendulums. He was tall, thin, and one of the best guitarists in the world. Through his Ray Ban sunglasses his eyes shone with a glimmer of mischief. His best friend was gonna have a good time this afternoon with this piece of ass, for sure. Wow. He had been on the road, and, even though a married man, Head knew very well that he could get any woman at any show that he wanted, even if she was eight years old and wearing a Backstreet Boys spaghetti-strap tank-top. Anyone. But he loved his wife, and thought about her briefly as he took this young stranger’s hand. Out of all of KoRn, Munky was the only single member.

Lucky son-of-a-bitch dumb-fuck.

When they entered the bus, Dayla sat carefully next to Jon on the leather couch in the TV room, waiting to discover her duty. Prone to fraternity-esque jokes, KoRn often took one or two people out of the crowd: sometimes guys, sometimes girls. For the guys, the occasional walloping of an entire jar of mayonnaise would do, but for girls…Well, that was Munky's specialty.

As if on cue, he came from the bathroom, absent-mindedly fingering a black dreadlock with a long, tanned finger. Tall and thin like Head, Munky was the other guitarist of KoRn. Though world-renowned for his spooky guitar riffs and the outgoing riots he instilled during every concert, he was a quiet man, with cinnamon skin. A somewhat pointy nose poked pleasantly from his face. Looking at him, one would think of the consequences of his trade; his fingers were slightly yellow from smoking, though still wonderfully delicate. The long, tapering fingertips flowed from his palms like running spring water, without a blister, nor a bruise. In a word, he was magnificent. But as perfect as this man may seem to any young teeny-bopper just introduced to him, he had a weakness: women. Lots and lots of women. All different kinds. And the one he saw sitting gracefully next to a passed-out Jon was more inviting than a bar of chocolate. He checked his pockets. A ring of latex met his fingertips. One. That was enough.

"You want front-row tickets, huh?" Head continued, pacing in front of her as if she was a murder suspect.

"Yeah."

"Fieldy! David! Come on, fuckers! You gotta come see this!" Head cried out the window as inspiration struck him. He waited patiently as the other two flew in like cardinals. Fieldy, mildly heavy but surprisingly light-footed, was first. Like Head, he wore Fubu gear, his beer-belly (he was the pronounced alcoholic of the group) bulging through it. David, however, was different. Unlike the others, he didn’t smoke, hardly drank. His fine muscle tone was indebted to it. A model and a musician, he was proud of his body, cared for it devotedly. Artificial blonde hues sprang from his short hair, and a stiff goatee fell sharply from his chin, refusing to curve underneath his neck. Fieldy's braces shone against a chubby face as he grinned. Yes. This was gonna be good. Another girl, another bet, another ticket, another laugh. All went together so perfectly…

"What do I have to do?" Dayla asked. It was getting late. She'd get her ass kicked if she was late for work.

Head grinned at her. Even after all the money, all the fame, all the bets, it still came down to a good old laugh.

Har-de-har-har.

"Hmmm, let me see. Would you lick hot fudge off of Munky's toes for a ticket?"

A moment of silence. No one knew how to react. And then, suddenly, Fieldy burst out laughing. Surely this girl was young, but licking Munky's toes?...that's it? As Head looked around for approval, Munky’s mouth creased into a thin smile. He was already leaning down to untie one Sketcher.

"I say she gets butt-naked while she does it," Fieldy added. Head’s idea was just a little too innocent for him. "Yeah! That's it! Are you willing to get butt-naked, get down on your knees, and lick Munky's toes?"

Har-de-har-har-har.

She looked off to the side, met Munky's gaze, and pulled her shirt off almost immediately. A black bra comfortably held in two fairly large breasts. She got up and went to Fieldy (also a married man), and undid her pants, throwing her untied bra over her shoulder. Head laughed in surprise. Some girls would do anything for money. Or tickets, for that matter. Head knew this girl was crafty.

Once completely naked, she walked to Munky. Grabbing the side of his flannel jacket, she pushed him onto the couch, and knelt down to lick his toes, chocolate or no. Within minutes—as the others laughed--Munky was in heaven. Sometime during the toe-job (excuse the pun), he lost all consciousness and swirled into oblivion. His trademark toes that had dubbed him the name Munky because of his ability to spread them out worked under Dayla's warm tongue.

Rings of laughter surrounded the room. Jon watched Munky as his face contorted in pleasure. Jon enjoyed this exotic behavior more than any of them, and yet it didn't matter, not anymore. He would be laughing--if he could laugh. The past two weeks had been hell. He'd wake up, sign a few autographs, perform, and then cry himself to sleep. This life had become a habit, just as betting women to fuck Munky for front-row tickets had become a habit. Sometimes Jon reminded himself of a circus clown up there on stage. Sometimes he thought no one cared, that no one listened. That all those nights he'd spent sleeping in the garage struggling with the band had been for nothing.

He shifted his narrow ass in his seat when he found the strength. But when that one kid with the pierced tongue or the pink hair told him that he'd saved their life; that they'd been suicidal before listening to their songs…well, that made it all seem worth it. A chuckle found its way up his dry throat as Dayla apparently had grown tired of his toes, and now straddled Munky.

"We better leave him alone," Head said, already making his way through the door. He knew what Dayla and Munky were gonna do next; it would only make him jealous if he stayed. Why couldn't they bring their wives on tour? He should ask Jon about that sometime. Two months without any ass was a long time for Head; even longer time for him not to see his daughter, Jennea. Through all his perversions, Head loved her the most. She was the most precious gift he’d ever been given.

He’d have to ask Jon about bringing it up to their manager sometime. But looking at him, Head knew Jon shouldn't be bothered. God, what a mess he was. Jon hadn't bothered to change since last nights' concert. He still wore a skirt and knee-length socks; he’d worn the same matching black Puma shirt since their gig in Louisiana almost a week ago. His corn rowed hair flew in crazy directions. His blunt nose was a fiery red, and he smelled absolutely rancid. And the most awful thing was that he was sick and there was nothing any of them could do to make him feel better. Without a word, Head lifted Jon off the couch and brought his feather-light body into the cubbies, where he’d sleep until the concert. Moans began from the living room. By this time Head knew that David and Fieldy were back in Sam Goody's, finishing off the few who wanted their signatures.

"You gonna be okay, man?" Head asked as he pulled the thin linen sheet over Jon's shoulders. Glassed, dilated eyes met his, and he had to fight tears. This was his best friend, and he was helpless. Obviously Jon was depressed--on drugs again, maybe. The thought fit. He could imagine Jon limping into the drug cabinet at home, grabbing Renee's nail polish remover or sleeping pills…

"Jon, are you on drugs again?" he asked out of pure curiosity. "Because if you are, you have to stop that shit."

"No," he whispered vaguely, and for a second it seemed to Head that the wind was talking to him. Looking into his eyes, Head knew Jon was telling the truth. This was far worse than any kind of withdrawal. Touring had become harder and harder on Jon as the years passed; he hardly found the strength to do it anymore, having to reach deeper and deeper into his own dark world every night. Being on the road was tough. Mostly they just sat in a shitty locker room, eating some shitty food, (why do you think they drink?), struggling to keep the heart beating . . .

Quite glamorous.

Without another word, Head closed the cubby ("It's like a fucking coffin!" Head had complained when he had first seen the narrow cubicle where they'd have to sleep), and tried to ignore the pained sobs that escaped Jon's throat as they distorted the pleasured moans from the TV room. He got the hell out of there, contemplating what he could do. Maybe sign more autographs. Maybe even take a nap before the show. He knew Jon would be alive, animated enough to bring their music to life with his animal-like growls. But then, as always, they'd drag him back into the tour bus, check his slowed pulse, and put him to bed, where he'd cry like a toddler.

Only two more weeks, Head thought as he walked into Sam Goody. Only two more weeks until I'm tanning on my own little private beach with the wind blowing in my face and Jennea jumping around in the surf as little waves come crashing in. Only two more weeks until I get to lay in bed with my wife under my soft bedspread and tell her I miss her . . . only to find that we've grown farther apart. Two more weeks until I go to find that Jennea has become that much bigger without me watching her grow; to find that my trees have died from neglect and that my soft bedspread has become hard with much washing . . .

*****************************************************************************

Dayla settled on top of Munky. They lay there, silent, on that black leather couch, their clothes littered likes autumn leaves all around them. A warmth Munky was familiar with settled over him, a post-orgasmic high that left him handicapped for several minutes from the waist-down. Thank God he was within reaching distance of his pack of Marlboros and his black lighter. After grasping around for his pants for a few minutes from underneath her he found his pocket. After he lit a cigarette, she got off of him. He struggled with numb legs to put his white boxers back on. He watched her as she quickly put her clothes on. Not once did she glance his way.

But he didn’t notice that. Nor did he really care.

A puff, then another. The nicotine did its job, calming Munky down. The sweat of his body cooled against him. Those yellowed fingers brought the cigarette to his mouth again, and he sucked on it, feeling his lungs fill with tar and jet fuel and . . . relief. The smoke thereafter escaped from his nose in a dragon-like stream. If you asked Munky when he'd started smoking, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He couldn't remember if he’d started the first day of junior high, or if he’d just found his mother's pack lying around one day when he was in Osh Kosh playing Big Wheels in the playroom. He didn't smoke that much, anyway . . . just a couple after the show, a couple in the locker room with Head, and one or two after sex or a TV appearance . . .

But right now, he felt like only having one. The racking coughs he'd experienced lately reminded him of a severe asthma attack. He knew he'd have to quit soon; he couldn’t imagine himself playing his guitar from a wheelchair and breathing apparatus. The thing is, he had no real motive to quit. He had no one in his life . . .besides his mom and this band. (Millions of fans, but that's it). No wife, no kids…not like the others, who were already happily married and had had a couple of buns baking in the oven. In short, why should he stop? Who cared about him? The fans?

No, they’d forget. They’d find someone else to spend their money on someday. Munky had been that age once. He’d changed his favorite band countless times. He knew all the about the fickle teenage mind. After all, he’d never really let that go.

"Can I have your number?" The words came out before he even knew they had. He had had no intention of saying it, and to say he 'said' it would have been wrong. The words had 'happened'. It was that simple. Munky, befuddled, looked for her reaction as she twirled around. Inside him, he realized he did want her number. He wanted it badly. She was young, any guy's dream. After tying her black hair into a long ponytail, she rolled her eyes, walked over to him, and held out her hand crossly.

"Where's my fucking ticket? I have to go through all this shit with a fucking perve like you and with everyone watching. You’re not even my favorite band member…if you want to know the God-honest truth, I think you’re nasty," she said coldly.

Silence.

Munky sighed. Well, you seemed to be enjoying my company a second ago, ma’am, he thought bitterly. Yet this was no surprise. She saw the Jimmy on TV, the guitar god wearing the janitor’s outfit onstage. They never got to know the real him; he was a woman’s conquest. They just wanted to fuck him to run to their friends and The National Enquirer to say they did. To say they actually turned him down was even better.

However, sometimes there was a girl that really dug him. But it always turned into 'Can I have this?' and 'Can I have that?' or, like Dayla, 'Where's my ticket?'

(And, the even more famous one: ‘Um, you’re really, REALLY hot, but…I think your hair is just ‘eeww’.’)

He sighed, and reached into his pair of black Jncos, where

(Where's my ticket?)

there just happened to be a floor seat. It wasn’t a VIP pass, but if she left now she'd be early enough to get a good spot. That slut standing before him didn't know the difference. Let her complain to the fucking managers if she didn’t get what she wanted. Life was tough. Deal with it. He wanted her number, and if she was gonna be like that, then fuck her and the horse she rode in on. He suddenly wanted her the hell away from him.

And Dayla obviously wanted to leave, too, because she was gone as soon as she'd gotten her beloved ticket. He watched her tiny ass as she left, her coltish legs working beneath her as she descended the stairs. Fuck you, he cursed silently as the screen door slammed. It was a punch in the face to him. He tried to convince himself that she would've just used him for his money anyway, that it wasn't worth it for her to be around him. But with that thought came the fact (or at least it was a fact at the time) that no woman could ever love him. A cliche that held true: no musician ever finds love after fame. The others had known their chicks since they were sleeping in garages, since before the band blew up; sometimes Munky—deep inside, where no one else could see—wished it had been the same for him. He’d been slightly jealous of them then; he was still jealous of them now. Oh sure, they told him frequently how lucky he was . . .but he could bet they'd never had to whack off five times a day. They could have sex with their wives every night if they wanted to, and wake up with her knowing how beautiful she was and how loved they were. And it could even be unsafe sex, where the full experience had been viewed to them like an uncensored TV special…

He got up. Finishing his cigarette, he walked into the tiny cubicle that served as a bathroom and removed the condom from underneath the slit in his boxers. He showered numbly. Jon finally slept; the silence was proof. No more sobbing; no one as far beyond tears as Jon could mourn for that long without exhausting himself and falling asleep.

And yet Munky heard a whimper when he walked past the coffin that was his bed.