2016, January 7th – Wicked 1 DVD Tapings.
Backstage at the Wicked DVD taping, Stevie Harris storms backstage. He reeks of bourbon, the cheap and nasty stuff that’ll give you a hangover and a half hour in the bathroom once you wake up even if you didn’t eat anything the night before. He was teaching a valuable lesson to the younger generation and someone decided to come along and prove just why he needs to be here. Random stage hands and Amusement Park attendants litter the hall, watching Harris grumble as he attempts to soak up some of the potential stains on his tailored vest with a worthless Johnny Raike merch shirt he swiped from a box on the way through.
The company had been proactive in its approach, with merch from the get go. Everyone from headliner Unreal to opening act The Lost Boys were given an opportunity to move some merch to get the cash from going. Money after all kept the business running, payslips coming in and the ability to bring in the variety of talent that had shown up on its door step looking for a payday. A perfect ecosystem, intricate and delicate yet time tested to flourish and last long if the conditions are right. The problem then lies in the question, are the conditions right? You have no way to tell, only theories.
A hand grabs Harris’s shoulder from behind. “Hey, wait up!” It’s Jack Sarrow, sporting a fresh red mark around his neck. “You said you’d help me, you said we’d…” “Jack, stop talking” “No, you shut up. You’re full of shit. I’m done.” He storms off, back in the direction he came from. Harris looks on dejected. A sad sight this man makes, shoulders slumped, damp Raike shirt in hand.
***
1983 – The Harris Household, outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri.
Many moons ago, a young Stevie Harris still in his early teens makes his way through the large family property. It’s very bare, in between the main house and the utility shed which was just short of a football field length away, the terrain is littered with grass and weeds. The ground on which he walks shifts beneath the feet, the dirt very similar to sand. Stevie’s always had a fond fascination with the shed mostly in part to its forbidden status that his father had laid upon it. He approached it with caution, the wooden panelling had quite a few holes that his shadow could easily give him away with. He could hear his father’s voice from inside. He was always afraid of his father but wanted nothing more than his attention and approval - as most kids do. His name was Shane and when he spoke, people listened. It felt, kind of like you were the only thing that mattered to him. He remembered small details about people he met and would greet anyone he met, regardless of gender, with a welcoming embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
“Now, it’s not going to be as dangerous as it sounds boys. I’ve cleared it with our man inside, securities been bought, James will be setting the explosives across town. While everyone’s all looking one way, we’ll be in and out with the goods before they know it.” Another voice chimes in “They’ll know it was us though Shane.” “No they won’t and even if they get a whiff it’ll be over and the goods hidden down below before those idiots wake up and smell the coffee Dale.” “Of course they’ll know it’s us, who else is stupid enough to raid the Army’s supply warehouse?” There’s an eerie silence now. The other men in the room remain silent observers. The concerns were legitimate but to go against Shane was a different matter altogether. “Need I remind you that we have enemies in the outside world. People who would gladly tear our world apart given an opportunity just because they are ignorant to our ways. You see the looks they give us when we head into town. You see the look of disgust on the Sheriffs face when he drives that cruiser up here every Tuesday morning. That man brings missing people reports to my door step, accusing us of unspeakable evils.”
“Our community wants to be here. You want to be here, right Dale?” “You know I do but… firearms are one thing… but rocket launchers?” “When they come, it won’t be on horseback Dale. We need to do what it takes to protect our family.” More silence comes from the large utility shed. The words cut through Dale like a warm knife going through butter, he knew it was true. What had started off as a peaceful gathering many years ago was quickly escalating to a potential life or death scenario that he had to accept.
***
2016, January 9th – The Sarrow Residence, New Orleans, Louisiana.
It’s been a day removed since the Wicked debut show. Usually Saturday nights were reserved for going out but Stevie never found comfort in that. Never having had the typical Monday to Friday work week, Saturday night was no different to a Tuesday night. Saturdays if anything meant busting a sweat in a wrestling ring back in the day, while the plebs of a nation took in the pain and torture for entertainment. Stevie poured himself half a short tumbler of whiskey. He turns from the home bar set up to survey the room while swilling the liquid around in the glass. The large and empty antique furniture looked sad and lost in the dimly lit house. It didn’t bother Harris at all, he preferred it like that. It was Jack who was always turning the lights on, trying to accommodate his mentor by anticipating his needs and quite often getting in the way. He hadn’t been seen since the night before but his family had money so it’s quite possible he’s settled in at one of the many hotels in New Orleans. Harris takes a slow sip of the drink before grabbing a set of keys from his pocket
Up the staircase he heads, one creaky step at a time, continuing to sip away at the drink in hand. Harris heads down the hall, stopping at a door and flicking through the keys until he found one that stood out to him. The door creeks open after he unlocks it. “I hope you’re decent” Stevie announces as he enters. “You were very good today Bliss, you didn’t make a single sound while McKay was prying in my business.” He heads to the corner of the large bedroom where seated in a chair, restrained by rope around her legs, wrists and mouth, sits the young co-ed he met one fateful night in California. Her eyes look on with fear as he approaches, her face flinching when he reaches a hand out. “Why do you still persist in these games? Your boyfriend offered to let me use you while he took my dope. He never loved you. He didn’t care.”
Stevie’s hand is still out stretched and he uses it to pull down the fabric covering her mouth. “He did too love me” she yells back, tears starting to stream down her face. Harris takes another sip of the whiskey. “Why do you keep calling me Bliss” she sobs. “My name is Monica!” “Now now, Bliss. Monica is dead in a ditch somewhere along with her boyfriend Sean. That story is told, you can refuse to accept it and crawl to that ditch, take the needle from his arm and join him in the great beyond or you can embrace the new opportunity you have. You have here a chance to be a part of something special. A chance to be someone special. You have a chance to be… someone.” The sobs settle down slowly yet she remains quiet.
Harris takes another sip. “You like whiskey?” She nods so Stevie approaches again, this time holding the glass out towards her face. She puts her dry, cracked lips against it as he tips it backwards into her mouth. “Bliss, I uh…” There’s a moment’s hesitation from Stevie. Only a brief moment, it’s interrupted by the young woman spitting the whiskey in his face defiantly. “Prick!”
He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to dab the liquid off, refusing to look at her while he does. “Big mistake Bliss. Big mistake.” He’s shaking his head furiously as he turns and storms out of the room. As he begins to lock the doors behind him he can hear her muffled screams through the door. “My name is Monica you psycho. Monica!
"
***
1983 – The Harris Household, outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri.
A young Stevie Harris is tucked away in bed. The lights are out bar the light coming from the doorway, in which his mother’s silhouette appears as she’s closing the door on him. The large house is mostly silent at night, sounds of people moving up and down the hallways. The young boy slowly falls asleep, succumbing to the heavy eyes of a long day. Hours pass but through the magic of sleep it feels like moments. The quiet noises of the house at night have been replaced by loud screaming, banging and car doors can be heard being slammed from the outside. Harris climbs out of bed and heads to the window, looking through the curtains to see three pickups out the front. Some men are unloading items quickly, taking them to the cellar which is accessible from the hatch outside. Stevie wasn’t allowed down there, not yet – he’d been told that only men were allowed down there and his father said that he wasn’t ready to become a man yet.
He turns towards the door, opening it just as one of the women who lives here was running down stairs. Following, Stevie stands by the staircase, watching through the banisters as he sees two of the women who lived there holding blood stained towels to the leg of one of the men. It’s only upon closer inspection that he realises the moans from the man are those of his father. His pants get pulled off by the women, revealing a blood soaked left leg from a fresh bullet wound. Another woman appears with a makeshift medical kit and a bottle of amber liquid. Shane takes a swig and then nods at the woman, pouring a generous amount over his wound. Stevie turns his head, tucking it between his arm and the bannisters to avoid the sight of blood. It’s making his queasy and causing him to shake. “Son” he hears, as his father spots him. “Don’t be afraid son. A life without pain is no life at all.” Stevie lifts his head up and makes eye contact with his father. “Come down and help your father. It’s time to grow up and be a man.”
***
2016, January 9th – The Sarrow Residence, New Orleans, Louisiana.
During the contract signing stages, management thought it would be best to arm Stevie with a Youtube channel and a camera. Not the most original of ideas but a man like Stevie Harris, outside of the scheduled appearances, would not often get a chance to deliver his messages to the masses. Entertainment fans, Amusement fans, it didn’t matter, they now have the opportunity to catch his weekly thoughts or just straight up ignore them. It didn’t matter, however, having an outlet to vent did. This particular Saturday night, the apparent loss of Jack Sarrow and having just had whiskey spat in his face, he was in a peculiar mood.
“What a joke. Defamed by the trash that walks the streets of the fourth quarter by night. Now whilst I do enjoy a drink myself it appears that you, darling, enjoy spilling your drink over others as much as you enjoy spilling it down your own shirt front. Although I understand that’s a form of flirting around this neck of the wood, talking men into running their bourbon stained tongue up the inside of that chest of yours at the bar. By the way, that’s not what they mean by body shots. I can’t begin to even imagine why you would interrupt a training session being run by Stevie Harris but you did. You messed up and now fate’s knocking at your door, ready to bring the sins of your past to light. This isn’t going to be a quick deal, no my dear, we’re going to be engaging in a slow dance. A long, drawn out painful expression of artistic freedom that in some years down the line you’ll be able to look back on while you cuddle the beagle management had to buy you as a companion dog to stop the threat of a law suit. Mort Goodman looks like a good attorney, maybe give him a call to discuss potential legal proceedings in case you can’t work after. Heck, that Ledgett guy could probably work out a deal for the mobile home you’ll retire into after we’re done. Get the boss to build you an amusing little ramp to enter it. And some guys don’t care where they stick it, so you could get yourself a nice little side job to help out with the disability cheques.
"When you look at it. And I mean, really look at it, I’m actually the one doing you a favour here. No more trying to win Mommy and Daddies love and approval. And you might even become an interesting person out of this, after you realise the pretty girl who drinks and swears thing only works when you’re physically capable of maintaining a healthy body. Last week was supposed to be about giving young Jack Sarrow a life lesson but you ruined it. This week’s going to be about giving you a life lesson, so be a good girl and try not to ruin that too.”
Stevie shakes his head and looks down at the keyboard before looking back to the camera with a grin. “I hope you bring more than a sassy attitude. I could use a good fight.”
