So this is it, he thought. This is fame.
Kurt sat in the limo with his nose to the window, approaching his next and last show in New Jersey. As they passed the entrance of the venue, Kurt could see thousands of people swarming around the ticket purchase booth paying what ever they had in their pockets just to see him and his fellow band mates. Am I cheating them?
The lights, the crazed and hysterical fans, the heroine coursing through his blood, feeling it in his veins; some would kill to be in his position. Yet he wasn’t fazed by it, he wanted to be, but it all felt old. As he picked up his Fender Mustang guitar he felt like he was punching in his timecard like chum who hated his job. Was this worth it? He didn’t deserve to be here, he cheated his way here.
This thought never left him the entire show. It angered him. It put a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t move. It made him blind. He played ‘Polly’ on autopilot, not thinking about the words that left his mouth, not thinking about the chords he strummed, nothing else. As the song ended, and he was forced to come to, he felt his rage rise into his throat, he let it out. He smashed his guitar on a near by amplifier. Sight gone white, the crowd erupted as if