They were just five notes. They weren’t hard to play.

No, not hard to play.

Head’s fingers slid over the fret board, playing five simple notes. The red curtain in front of him shuddered as he counted off the beat in his head. Already the screaming cries of 20,000 fans wailed in his ears.

He saw their faces, all of the thousands of them, when that curtain dropped. He bent over as if visibly forced to do so, braids whipping, the music exuding from the others and himself pulsating throughout the arena. The next hour and a half was a blur, a myriad of noise and sweat. Infrequent glances cast him a view of the entire place, of all the people huddled before him like ants, all standing at attention. The mosh pits were wicked in Baltimore, as they were in all places; but tonight the people in the pit were desperately charged. He wished he could reach out and touch their hands. He wanted to kiss the babies and shake the father’s hands… He answered a young girl’s dreams in the front row with a single glance and a grin. Her face contorted in orgasmic joy as she was pressed against the wall, her body nearly crushed by the maniac crowd of people.

About halfway through the show he was thinking with relief how he would enjoy a couple of 40’s in the shower after this. He was a loner. He smoked alone, drank alone. Doing drugs had never been a social thing for Head.

Anyways…

Through the blinding light he caught Munky playing perfectly in sync with him. His dreadlocks swung to and fro as he jumped high in the air, his green janitor’s outfit a stark contrast to the white version he had worn forever before this tour.

He loved Munky, man. The two had met when they were high school freshmen, and had immediately hit it off. Munky had played acoustic guitar back then, before Head gave him the awakening; the metal awakening. Back in the day when they started playing, the heavy hits were such oldies as tracks from Motley Crue’s "Too Fast For Love" and Scorpion’s "Rock You Like A Hurricane." Not anything compared to the hard-hitting, heart wrenching hybrid metal they effortlessly shredded now. Jon’s voice ripped through them, along with the ear-popping scratches of Fieldy’s bass and David’s perfect drumming.

Head’s hair—squeezed, squinged, and scrunched into tight braids—had frizzed as if electrified with the volts of the speakers surrounding him.

This was Korn. This will always be Korn.

Jon ripped into the chorus, singing frantically:

I can see I can see I’m going blind…

…………………

"I just can’t fucking take this! Why the fuck did you do this to me!? Who was she? Who was she? Tell me you goddamned bastard!"

"Kaitlin, I…" Jimmy muttered through tears as his girlfriend ranted at him from a million miles away. Head and Fieldy squeezed onto the small tour bus couch, watching a porno. He wished they would turn that shit off. Head glanced sideways at him, lighting a Winston privately. They would talk later; right now he had to get bitched out.

Why did he have to be such a retard?

What had he done now?

"What are you watching?" she screamed crazily.

"It’s just Head and Fieldy. They’re—"

"Oh, shit. I can’t stand them either! Let me guess: they’re as perverted as you. You know what Jimmy? You’re just fucked."

Insulting his brothers now, is she? The shit had officially hit the fan.

Bros before hoes, Bros before hoes…

But, oh God, he loved her. He hadn’t cheated on her before; this was the first time, with some fucked-up tricky groupie, when he got drunk. He didn’t even remember it. She had come on to him. Didn’t that count for anything?

Obviously not, because she was screaming. The guilt from it had eaten away at him, until he got up enough balls to call her and be a man. He thought of defense. He wasn’t a person of many words—not like her—and so his answer easily left them in a mourning silence:

"What if I hadn’t told you? It won’t ever happen again. I don’t even—God, Kaitlin." The others turned their heads as a sob ripped from him. He buried his head into the table. He hadn’t cried in five years. He didn’t want to cry now, but a memory had come to him. He remembered their senior prom; he remembered the first time he had seen her body. It had been caramel and soft, beautiful, breathtaking. She had showed him love in its finest form; let him screw up, and slowly showed him how love should be made. The subtle kisses to his lips…

And when their eyes met as they came together for the first time, their eyes melting into each other’s as they ventured into bliss—

He had cried then. And he cried now.

"Kaitlin, please no. I fucking need you, baby. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I just miss you…but I know it doesn’t make a difference. I made a mistake."

"Jimmy. I’ve given up everything for you. And now you do this?" A sob—a distant sob from a million miles away, in a home he had abandoned two months ago. Her anger dissolved into a more agonizing calm. "What are we going to do? What’s going to happen to us?"

"I don’t want you to go," he said quickly.

Sigh.

A hand fell on his shoulder. His tear-stricken face remained on the table. Head rubbed his shoulder slowly, supporting him, as he wished Kaitlin goodnight. Jimmy knew she would mourn, alone in their bed, his cold pillow the only thing that reminded her of their spited love. And somehow that made him feel even guiltier.

"Aww, damn," Munky said after she had clicked off the phone.

"What happened?" Head asked. He knew nothing about it; Munky had kept it to himself for the past month. Head would be insulted if he knew that Munky hadn’t told him; he would be even angrier if he didn’t tell him now.

But he wasn’t in the mood for it right now. Not at all. He wanted to sleep.

"I—tomorrow morning, okay?’

"Alright." Head’s eyes flickered between locks of braids. He was hurt, but he would find out. He was satisfied. He knew everything about Munky.

Or so he thought.

"I promise—tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. Whatever."