Have you ever heard the story of Princess Death? Maybe someone would start telling scary stories when you were a kid at summer camp or getting stoned in an abandoned house. Bloody Mary. The guy with the hook for a hand. Then someone would ask if you heard of Princess Death, the rockstar that killed her fans, to make a deal with the devil. You know the story. If you light a candle and play Princess Death’s record, she’ll grant any wish but take someone close to you in return. The trick, of course, is finding one of her records, but I have a copy.
You see, back in the day, I used to be a roadie for Princess Death. She was pretty impressive, but unfortunately, everyone has forgotten her music, and all that remains is what’s believed to be an urban legend, but I was there, I saw it, I know it’s true, and I’m afraid of what’s next.
Princess had gotten this new manager who set her up for this headlining gig and filled her head with nonsense about having to have the most unforgettable stage show ever. He told her to think Altamont. Think Station Nightclub. Think Woodstock ‘99.
I told her it was a bad idea, but the manager had already convinced her it was her ticket to immortality. I would have backed away if I knew I was damning myself in the process.
Do you know how hard it is to get four pounds of Fentanyl?
There were four opening acts, and we had eight minutes to set the stage. I was ready with an oil barrel filled with Fentanyl, soap, and water on a dolly prepared to roll. I wore a tyvek suit for safety.
When the third band finished, I rolled the barrel out and froze at the size of the audience. So many people with no idea what I was about to do to them.
After the barrel was out and I set the blower on top, I scrambled for the band’s gear. Princess looked nervous, but her new manager assured her people would talk about her for lifetimes.
I told her manager I had everything set. He wondered if there was anything special I wanted. I asked if I could get a case of High Life. He chuckled and told me good luck with the show. That’s how fast you could damn your immortal soul.
The show started, and Princess tore through song after song. The crowd loved every minute. I watched from the side of the stage with the remote and waited for my cue.
As she hit her big high note, she smiled at me.
I pressed the button, and out of the barrel blew out thousands of bubbles. Big ones, small ones all floating like snowflakes out into the crowd. It was magic. Her fans were in awe. The lighting board dude killed it with the way he lit them. You could tell Princess knew she was making history.
Then the screaming started.
You ever see War of the Worlds, where the aliens fire the ray gun, and people vanish? Imagine that, but with bubbles. As soon as a bubble burst on someone, they collapsed and stopped breathing. Some people had multiple bubbles popped on them and sent them into violent seizures. People foamed at the mouth, turned blue, and passed out. By the time people realized what was happening, it was too late. It’s tough for that many people to coordinate an exit.
I stood there with the remote in my hand and my mouth wide open, unable to wrap my mind around what was happening. The manager had such a big smile on his face. It was terrifying. That horrible smile burned into my mind.
Princess stopped playing and just watched the crowd fall like dominoes. You know that scene from Avengers where Thanos snaps his fingers, and everyone pops? It was a lot like that, only worse, and with bubbles.
Then the air conditioning turned on.
That killer swarm of bubbles blew back at the stage. No one was safe. Everyone on stage fell, one pop at a time. Princess stood there like an angel. It was like the bubbles were purposely flying around her. She was glowing. It was her big moment.
Then the bubbles fell on her, and so did she.
Before I knew it, I was the last one standing. Me, in my sweaty plastic suit, with my thumb on the trigger. Well, I thought I was alone. The new manager, the guy with the weird single name, walked over and handed me a case of High Life. He smiled and tipped his hat, and walked away.
The beer wasn’t even cold.
I’ve never thought much about the afterlife, but I did after getting a terminal diagnosis. Not everyone knows if there is a God, Heaven, or Hell, but I did and knew where I was going. Maybe that’s why I kept this record after all these years. Who will she take when I play? Will she remember me? I’m almost too scared to find out, but then I remember that manager’s smiling face and think anything is better than an eternity with him.