"He could lose his hearing in that ear for good if he doesn't," said Coop.
"I really don't think I can play," Darren agreed. "These burns hurt real bad. All the fuckin' time, man."
"Nonsense," said Greg dismissively. "I'll make sure everything goes well. I'll get him an earplug for that ear and keep his injuries covered with moist bandages when he goes on stage."
"But my hair!" Darren cried. "I ain't got no fuckin' hair!"
"We'll get a hat for you," Greg said. "Trust me on this. I know what I'm doing."
"No," Matt said. "This is too much, Greg. The man is burned and has blisters all over his body. We ain't doing any more shows until he's healed."
"Then you will be responsible for all the lost revenue for any dates that are missed," Greg said. "All of it. That includes merchandising sales and all fees of inconvenience associated with refunded ticket sales. You think you're in the red now? Taking two or three weeks off from the tour will push you another half a million or so into the hole. Is that what you want?"
"What fuckin' difference does it make?" Matt yelled. "We're already a quarter mil in the hole. What's another half mil on top of it? Take us home until Darren recuperates. If you don't want to do that, put us up in a hotel here in Austin. You can tack that onto our account as well."
"Why don't we let Darren decide this?" Greg asked. "After all, it is his name you're speaking in." He turned to Darren and put his best smile on his face. "Darren? What do you think? If I can make you comfortable enough, do you think you can carry on?"
"Tell him no, Darren," Jake said. "This is bullshit!"
Darren looked miserable. "I want to," he said, "but I don't think I can. I'm really hurtin', you know?"
"I'll give you pain medicine before you go on," Greg promised.
"Oh that's a fuckin' brilliant idea," Matt said. "Aren't the fucking drugs what got us into this situation in the first place?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Darren demanded.
"It means you were trashed up there on the stage and that's why you tripped over your own cord and landed on top of an explosive charge!" yelled Matt. "If Mr. I Want To Suck Joseph Smith's Dick here hadn't of told you to that you don't have to listen to me anymore none of this shit would've happened!"
"That's a fucking lie!" Darren yelled. "He just told me I could do what I want. Smoking weed had nothing to do with what happened!"
"I agree," said Greg. "I'm more inclined to think the accident was caused by a lack of choreography to your sets. If you would have let us train those dance moves into you before we went out on the road, Darren wouldn't have been trying to improvise moves on his own."
"Christ," Matt said. "Round and fucking round we go with this shit."
"If I do go on," Darren said, "I won't be able to do any of my moves at all. Will that be okay?"
"Do us a favor, Darren," Matt said. "Keep your moves to yourself in the future."
Darren looked hurt and then angry. "What's wrong with my moves? Are you just jealous because you can't do 'em? The audience loves them, man. They fuckin' love 'em!"
"Yeah," Matt said. "Especially those three people you landed on after one of your moves got you blown through the air like a fuckin' circus performer."
"It was a good demonstration of a ballistic arc," said Bill, in all seriousness.
"Look," said Greg, "I understand that you won't be able to do your moves for awhile. The audience will understand that too. It was in all the papers about how you were burned by a mishap with the pyrotechnic charges. All you have to do is stand by your microphone and play your bass. Try to back up when Matt is doing a solo. The important thing is that you go on. You'll be applauded just for doing that. They'll understand why you can't move about with your normal enthusiasm."
"Okay," Darren said. "I'll try it."
It looked doubtful at first. During the sound check Darren had to sit in a chair and hold his new Brogan bass away from his body. The back of his right hand was burned and each stroke of the strings sent pain slamming up and down his arm. And even with the earplugs in place the concert level sound blasting out of the amps was making it feel like someone was sticking an ice pick in his right ear.
"I don't know about this, Greg," he said when the sound check was complete. Even after the pills I took, this is fuckin' agony, man."
"Don't worry," Greg told him. "You'll be more comfortable for showtime."
And he was. His burned lag and arm were wrapped in moistened bandages imbedded with lidocaine jelly. He was dressed in a pair of loose fitting black sweatpants and a looser fitting white sweater. They put a lidocaine soaked bandana over his head, ear, and neck and then covered it with an Intemperance baseball cap from the merchandising stocks.
"How's it feel?" Greg asked him.
"Better," Darren said. "It still hurts when I move, but not as bad."
"Well, let's take care of that right now," Greg replied, opening up his little black bag. He pulled out a syringe and a vial of medicine.
"Dude," Darren said as he watched Greg draw the clear liquid into the syringe. "I don't really dig needles, you know."
"It's just a little needle," Greg said. "It'll be over in a second."
"What exactly are you giving him?" Matt asked.
"It's a standard pharmaceutical painkiller," Greg replied, taking out an alcohol swab. He pulled down the shoulder of Darren's sweater, baring his unburned left arm.
"The name, Greg," Matt insisted. "What's the shit called?"
"Demerol," Greg replied. "As I said, a standard painkiller used in hospitals all over the country."
"Ahh, Demerol," said Matt with a knowing nod. "One of the more potent narcotics commercially available." He looked directly at Darren. "It's like heroin, but lasts longer."
Darren looked from the needle to Matt's face to Greg's. "Like heroin?" he said. "I don't know about this shit, man. I don't wanna do no heroin."
"It's not like heroin," Greg insisted. "Demerol is a painkiller produced in the finest American pharmaceutical plants and used by doctors nationwide for the relief of pain. Heroin is an illegal street drug that you melt in a spoon and inject into your veins. They are quite different. Now hold still."
"But..." Darren started.
"Just relax," Greg soothed. "I know what I'm doing." He stabbed the needle into Darren's upper arm and depressed the plunger. Darren kept his eyes closed the entire time. Finally, he let them creak open.
"I don't feel any different," he said.
"I gave it to you intramuscularly instead of intravenously," Greg said. "It will take fifteen or twenty minutes to start working but it will last longer — probably for the entire show."
Darren looked doubtful but, as the minutes ticked closer and closer to showtime and the drug seeped into his veinules and capillaries, gradually working its way through his bloodstream to receptors in his brain, the look of doubt was replaced with something like exaltion. "Wow," he said, smiling and nodding his head. "This is some cool-ass shit."
"Yeah?" asked Coop. "Better than weed?"
"Not better," Darren replied, "but different."
"Never mind how it feels," Matt said. "Will you be able to play like that?"
Darren stood up. He was a bit unsteady at first but as he got used to it he was able to walk back and forth with ease. He flexed his burned hand a few times. "It still hurts a little," he said, "but it doesn't bother me that bad, you dig?"
"That's exactly what its supposed to do," Greg said with a smile. "I think you're going to do just fine out there."
Just fine was probably not the best description for what Darren did, but he did manage to make it through the show. He walked steadily out to his microphone, picked up his bass, and when the lights came up, when the first explosion of the night ripped across the stage, he didn't even flinch. The audience cheered loudly, louder than normal even. And he played. His hands moved like they were supposed to, hitting the right strings in the right order at the right time. He sang the back-up lyrics he was supposed to sing. He made no mistakes. But through the entire show, he hardly moved at all. He didn't sway his body to the beat he was helping to set. He didn't shuffle his feet, shrug his shoulders, or twist back and forth. He most certainly didn't jump or spin or make faces. When the time came for Matt's solos, he would back up a few steps, clearing the spotlight area. When the time came for the explosions, he backed up a little faster. In effect, he appeared to be nothing more than an animatronic bass player, or perhaps a holographic one, while the rest of the band moved and turned and swayed and played their usual enthusiastic performance. It wasn't pretty, but the show went on and when it was finally over the audience cheered as they usually did.