All the Rage ⋆ Stefan Diamante

Black leather. The song I’m singing right now. The pants I’m rocking. Skin on skin. Not only me. But also the two girls sharing my stage right now. One blonde. One brunette. Seated in folding chairs. Facing each other. Skintight. I move from one to the other while singing from verse to chorus and back again. Whipping my hair all round. Careful not to lose my headset mic. It’s a cheap unit though. And my audience is here to indulge in much more than my raspy baritone vocals. My girl props and I drenched in saturated reds and blues coming from infinite directions. Intermittently punctuated by the staccato white ellipses of a strobe light. Complimenting the stars and stripes rocked as a sash on my right hip. A symbol of individual liberty and freedom. And nothing more. Because I owe nothing to anyone. I get that now. And how the fuck did these two hot ladies know to rock black leather pants tonight?

Each member of my audience put their respective stamp on dressing for the occasion in one fashion or another. Not a pair of cargo shorts or flip-flops in sight. Thank fuck. As if my impending presence on stage was the only command I needed to hand down. There’s no “as if” about it. That’s exactly what it was. Driving home yet again the point I sorely needed to learn. That I don’t need to try so hard anymore. There’s no more groundwork left for me to do. Because I’ve already spent decades doing it. It’s now time for me to cash in by flaunting what I’ve got. And what I’ve got to flaunt is a virtual Mount Fucking Everest of greatness. Steeped in the originality and fearlessness that only comes from a lifetime of being defiantly me through good times and bad. I have assumed full control of all that I want. Ascending to the title of new prince in the most Machiavellian fashion possible.

Physically, I know where I am right now. Philosophically, it doesn’t matter anymore. Some makeshift venue converted from some long-defunct business located in some town in some state. Any locale is entirely what I choose to make of it. Limited only by its commercial viability. That’s always been true. But only now do I totally get it. My Machiavellian new prince driven by my Nietzschean master morality and will to power justified by my Sadean knowledge of the evil all around me in any given time and place. Even right here. Right now. Where I stand tall. Head held high above my audience. Like a real-life Randian protagonist. A sexy Howard Roark with more spectacular past failings to match. Camille Paglia was correct when stating that beautiful people play by a different set of rules. But she neglected to mention that beautiful people are barred from playing by the same rules as everyone else. That is equity imposed on us by others. We have no other option than to strut out our own individual paths. Like The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Except none of us are ugly. It’s a private event. I have no idea what the specific liquor laws are here, but I’m sure they’re being violated. And I couldn’t care less.

I exit stage left momentarily to strap on my guitar. Wireless transmitter clipped behind my patriotic sash. Armed like a revolutionary militiaman. Ready to shoot redcoats in the back. Because that’s how I’ll win this war. And winning is all that matters. The only action that anyone truly respects. I up the stakes in this battle. Returning to center stage. Standing between my warm leatherettes. Delivering a rapid-fire succession of two-hand tapping across the diatonic modes relative to G major. Breaking the cacophony before it becomes monotony with a tremolo dive bomb on the open low E string. Pick scraping from bridge to nut. Whipping my hair all around even more furiously now. I straddle my brunette. Face to face. Improvising varying four-note melodies stretching from Phrygian to Ionian. Leaning in. Cheek to cheek. Our long dark hair merging to form a sinister privacy shade. Tongues touching in a mutual unspoken dare.

Moving to my blonde. Sitting on her lap. Leaning my back against her saline peaks. I remove a switchblade from my hip pocket. Utilizing it as a slide. She giggles with delight as I lick her cheek. I jump up and ditch my guitar. Foregoing singing the final chorus in lieu of doting more naughty affection on my sultry glimmer twins. Kicking my legs back. Landing cock to pussy on my brunette’s lap. Face to pussy with my blonde. Literally as I make a slight landing miscalculation. A massive heat wave stings my cheeks. Repeating the move the other way to find my dark-haired beauty’s motor also running in the red. My audience gasping with astonished delight. Over and over. I’ve elicited these reactions from countless party girls and audiences over the years. Only now am I comfortable with taking full credit. Finally understanding and accepting that I’ve earned every ounce of adulation I receive. Making the most of my ascension after years spent traveling the long and desolate highway to reach this moment in time.

All those nights I spent in isolation. Hidden from the world. Repairing the damage. Rebuilding myself leaner and meaner. I was down but never out. Incapable of ever quitting no matter what. Even if I invested months into an approach that left me flat on my face, I picked myself up and started over without hesitation. Moving past the damage done to me. Accepting my responsibility for allowing them to damage me. Summoning the strength to admit that everything I’d been told my whole life was bullshit. Lies designed to help those spreading them to extract value from others. Lies that bled me dry. I’d always been self-sufficient but came to understand the importance of pulling myself up by my bootstraps. It’s the safest and most affordable method by which one may rise to dominate any occasion. Nothing is free, and helping hands cost an outrageous fortune. Nothing less than one’s soul. But if others didn’t make me, then they can never break me.

I danced alone. Night after night. From one season to the next. Never knowing if I’d ever again perform for an audience. But I danced anyway. I couldn’t stop. And I wouldn’t. Despite every nasty thing she’d said and done to me through the years. All of her stalking which she projected onto me, because of course she did. My refusal to lie down and submit continually fueled the flames of her burning rage. I treated the night it all came crashing down like any other despite knowing what was coming. Multicolored lasers circled endlessly across the walls and ceiling of my private discothèque. Filled with red. Then green. Back and forth. Eighties music filled the cool night air. Anticipating her arrival as she texted me photos every step of the way. Walking in the rain down my street. Prowling around my home. Her cockiness reaching insane new heights. She was convinced I wanted to die. Perhaps there was a truth to her logic despite my never say die ethos. I may have never stopped believing in myself. But I’d lost all faith in humanity long ago and couldn’t see any path to regaining even a shred of it.

No, I wanted to live. Choosing life with a manic lust that would’ve made Iggy Pop proud. I channeled his aggression. Letting my rage flow. Dancing with reckless abandon. Whipping my hair all around. Unleashing all my frustrations in one explosive move after another. Clearing a path for total self-confidence to wash over me. I was on fire. Engulfed in a heat that shielded me from the chill in the air. A chill partly caused by the cold rain outside. But also by the ice coursing through her veins as she slunk through my home. I didn’t hear her enter. But I didn’t have to. I felt her rage fill every square foot once she came inside. Felt it moving slowly down the hallway. And as she peaked around the slightly open door to where I was. Her dark and dead eyes burned a hole in my back I saw her grotesque reflection in the glass of the framed Nagel print as she stood behind me. The flash of the blade in her gloved hand while I danced on my platform. The moment had come for me to make that fateful decision. Was I willing to give humanity one more shot? More specifically, was I ready to ascend to new prince status and bring humanity to its knees? I didn’t have time to think about it, but I didn’t have to. The answer was yes.

She never saw it coming. I grabbed the machete hidden before me, spun around, jumped down, and slashed her across the face in one gloriously vicious jeté. The butcher knife fell from her hand as she screamed in a state of shock. Her face sliced nearly in half diagonally. What was left of her expression made a desperate bid to play on my sympathies for mercy. But I had no sympathy to give. Felt no guilt. Consumed only by the moral justification of exercising my inalienable right to self-preservation against a willing combatant. She forced my hand with every strike of the machete to her face as I sliced off her nose. Slashed out her eyes. Cut up her hands and wrists as she made one last pathetic attempt to save herself from the punishment she deserved. The only thing that got to me about this final confrontation was thinking about the mess I’d have to clean. The blood splattered across the walls. The dumpy corpse at my feet. Fuckin’ bitch was going to get in a last word one way or another, I suppose. But fuck it. I was finally done with her. Done with all of it. The world could and would now become mine. I was back and better than ever. Not that I wasn’t great before. But now I was an unequivocal force of nature. There was no more groundwork for me to do. It was time to cash in.

A relentless energy consumed me on the drive to her home. I borrowed her vehicle for the occasion. She wouldn’t need it anymore. Her chunky corpse wrapped in a tarp and stashed in the rear. A vibrant rainbow of colored lights from an endless stream of businesses reflecting off the rain-soaked interstate. Soon replaced by the haunting wilderness bordering either side of a two-lane state highway. Headlights switched off as I crawled up to her single-wide mobile home. Where she’d lived with her worthless loser husband for the past quarter century on land they didn’t even own. I could see through the living room window that his sorry ass had fallen asleep in the recliner in front of the TV. Several empty Busch Light cans competed for space on the end table next to him. His initial uncertainty of how to react to being awoken by someone tossing his wife’s mutilated decapitated head into his head was understandable. My only question at this point was if he knew who I was and what his wife had been up to all these years.

He answered that question by screaming my name with contempt as he exploded from his chair in a mode of fight or flight. Now I truly hated him with a passion and was ready to get creative. Dropping my machete as he lunged towards me. Arms flailing in a blind rage. Ducking his fists and punching him in the gut. He dropped to his knees. Gasping for air. I punched him in the head repeatedly. Then kicked him over and over once he went completely to the floor. His rage replaced by sheer cowardice. Sobbing and begging for mercy. Even having the audacity to offer up his teenage daughter to me in exchange for sparing his life. I kicked him harder. He cried harder. I lost patience and snapped his neck. Not to put him out of his misery. Because I couldn’t stand to hear any more of his blubbering. Dying as he lived. A worthless sack of fucking shit. I thought about the lifetime of work I’d devoted to making myself the better man as I drove away. Constantly glancing in the rearview mirror as the trailer went up in flames. The corpses of two pathetically vile people being removed from this world for the better. If that isn’t philanthropy, then I don’t know what is.

And here I am. The victor indulging in the spoils I’ve earned through hard-fought battles. My live music performance deconstructed into a live sex show. My pants down to my knees as my blonde beauty licks and sucks the generous length of my big hard cock. I’m in the top one percent of men when it comes to endowment, so why hide it? Meanwhile, my lovely brunette has her face buried deep between my ass cheeks. Her magic tongue circling and moving in and out of my asshole. Having one girl suck my cock while another eats my ass is a first for me, believe it or not. Making me glad that I took another chance on humanity. Albeit completely on my terms this time. My audience beside themselves with excitement as I turn around. Allowing my co-stars to switch places. I remove my pants while the girls tear off each other’s clothes. Kissing with reckless abandon. Sucking each other’s big fake luscious titties. My blonde sits down. I fuck my brunette from behind as she eats her friend’s pussy. Our moaning matched the volume of the music and the audience. Losing their minds as the girls change places. Me pounding my blonde girl’s pussy deep and hard while she tongue fucks my brunette girl’s pussy. The girls reach climax and drop to their knees side by side as I’m ready to explode. Covering their faces and tits with wave after wave of white hot cum. The crowd cheering wildly.

The new prince has arrived. And he’s all the rage.

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