The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 6: Shock Rock

“Rod, you can’t quit the band! You just can’t!” Travis demanded.

“Look, Travis, it’s been a long, fairly great ride, but the main thing here is that it’s been long. Too long for me,” Rodney responded.

“Listen, I know, I know. We’ve been at this a long time.”

“17 years!” Rod interrupted.

“16, c’mon! 16!” Travis countered.

“Yeah, O.K., whatever you say, but 16, 17, that’s just enough! More than enough. Too much. I’m done. I’ve had enough,” Rod shot back.

“And what did you mean, ‘fairly great’? It’s been a blast! And finally... Finally. After all the dues we’ve paid, we’re doing good! Aren’t we doin’ good?!”

“A blast?! Are you serious? For 10 years we drove around in a shitty Econoline van. And when that eventually broke down, what did we do? We got another van,” Rod said.

“But look at us now! We’re getting good gigs. We’re gettin’ paid a lot more than we used to. We’re just a step away. Just a step. You’re the heartbeat of this band. When you lock in, we all follow. The guys on guitars and me singing my guts out above it all. You got harmonies to boot. You are tight. You are the best drummer I know. And the tech side? Man, we could never set up without you, especially in the early days. You know everything about wiring and levels and shit. We’re nothin’ without you,” Travis offered.

“I had to learn all that, Travis. We never had roadies or setup guys. Someone had to do it. You? Travis, look, I appreciate all that. And we have had some really good times…” Rod began.

“And pharmaceuticals,” Travis said, “and girls.”

“O.K., O.K. I get all that, but for all of that, there have been lows and hard times. A lot of hard times.”

“Like what?” Travis asked.

“Are you serious? Broken van. Shitty motels. Crappy roadside food. Gigs in fucking horror shows in Wisconsin and Maine and everywhere. Then there was the time you ‘reinvented’ us as a Def Leppard tribute band. You made me hide my arm and try to drum with one hand and foot pedals. Or you announcing that you’re no longer Travis. Your name was Truck, and we became Truck and the Travelers. Holy shit.”

“But we’re good!” Travis objected.

“We’re not good. We’re O.K.,” Rod said.

“All right, but you have to admit that this last year has been better. Much, much better. We’re staying in decent places. We’ve actually got a bus. The added keyboard with Lenny is amping up our sound. And we’re gettin’ paid a lot more. You know that’s all true.”

A quiet moment passed, and the two band members, heads only a foot apart, stared into each other’s eyes.

“I’m tired, Travis. I’m just so fuckin’ tired of all this. I’m 41 years old,” Rod said.

“Well, I’m sorry, man, but you can’t quit. You just can’t. I won’t let you. There’s a reason.”

“You won’t let me. That’s rare. You won’t let me. Who do you think you are? Mick Jagger? Bono? You know what, Travis? I’m tired of you too. Maybe we’ve been together too long. Really, really tired of you. Maybe we need a divorce.”

“Well, you can’t quit. I was hoping I’d never have to tell you this, but I’m gonna anyway.” Travis took one long, deep breath, shook his head, dropped it between his shoulders and then looked back up at Rod.

“Do you remember our stay down in the Big Easy about, well, last year? We were playing another small joint. You know, New Orleans is basically open all night. All-night music. All night, other stuff as well.

“After one show I wandered around gettin’ blasted. Drinking, doin’ some other stuff, watchin’ girls flash from the balconies. Somehow I wandered into a really seedy section. I mean, even seedy for New Orleans. It was rough. Must have been maybe three or four in the morning. I was out of it, and I stumbled into an ugly voodoo ramshackle joint. I was lookin’ for some more of whatever. There was some hard-assed boys drinkin’ and snortin’, an ugly dice game over in the corner, and after a few more shots I found myself in a back room with some old, toothless hag of a woman. She told me she was a bokor, you know, like a witch, and asked me what I wanted. That’s what she called herself. A bokor. I had to look it up later.”

Travis continued, “Of course I thought it was all a load of crap, but just for the fun of it I said, ‘Fame, money, acclaim, notoriety, popularity. All the things that we’ve been chasing all these years.’

“And she said, ‘I can give you that. Yes, I can do that. But there’s a price.’

“‘Anything,’ I said. ‘Just do it.’”

“And she did,” Travis went on. “She did all this crazy conjuring, boiling stuff in a pot, adding in all kinds of things, some herbs, some dead small things… insects, I think, some drops of my blood, actually quite a bit of blood. Hoodoo, you know. Quite a show. And when it was over, she said, ‘You will have your desire, but…’ and here’s where it gets weird, ‘the price is that to keep your fame, your success, no one can leave the band unless one member dies. If one dies, the others are free.’”

Rod stared into Travis’ eyes and realized he wasn’t bullshitting. He actually believed this curse or magic or whatever the hell it was.

“You’ve got to stay. There’s no way around it,” Travis said.

Rod also shook his head and stayed still for a while. He put his gripes on hold. Temporarily. One month rolled into three. The money got better, much better. The venues got bigger. Record companies were dancing around the outskirts of the dressing rooms after shows, along with the girls half his age. A half year and they were in theaters with a thousand seats and SRO up front.

“I told you,” Travis would remind Rod often. “I told you.”

But after a full year, Rod was done. Completely, finally, done. Their time together had played out to 17 years. Maybe 8 years too long. He could do session work. He just couldn’t take the road: long days and endless nights. The exhaustion had seeped into Rod’s bones, and he could barely lift his arms after a night of pounding on his drum kit, never mind his spirits. Slowly, he came to the growing resolution that he hated Travis as well. Hated Truck or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself. Hated everything about him. And he made a plan. A plan that he knew could work.

The band was in Chicago at a joint called the Metro off N. Clark. Awesome spot, great sound, 1,000 patrons, most standing up close, balcony seating. They could kill this kind of place.

At the sound check, the band went through their usual paces; acoustics fantastic. After an hour, they took a break. A couple of members slugged beers. Rod stayed at his kit and rummaged around the stage. He reset his tom-tom and cymbals, checked sound levels, and then began to fiddle with the wiring and the microphone. He spent ten minutes adjusting, fixing, priming. Then he walked out into the audience.

“Hey, Travis!” he called out to the stage. “Do me a solid and just sit at the drums for a minute. I’m trying to check the mic. Just grab it and give me one of your famous wails, O.K.?”

“Just a minute, let me finish this beer,” Travis tossed back.

A minute passed, Rod staying calm, staying cool.

“Trav! Just give that mic a holler, O.K.?” Rod called.

“O.K.! O.K.! Just hold your drumsticks a sec,” Travis yelled this time.

Another minute.

“Travis! Truck!! Come on! Just grab that mic, will ya?”

Lenny, positioned at his keyboard just a few feet from the drum kit, spoke back to the darkened theater where Rod stood. “No problem, Rod. I’ll do it.” He stepped up onto the drum deck.

Before Rod could even call out, Lenny reached out and grabbed the mic.

A static, electrical buzz filled the auditorium. Lenny vibrated in a spastic dance, one arm flailing, the other soldered to the microphone, at least 200 volts passing through him. He never screamed. Small, sharp tendrils of fire leaped from his hair. One leg danced in a high kick. He still clutched the mic. Roadies frantically yelled and ran front and backstage. Lenny twitched like a large mackerel caught on a line. Currents were cut; everything electrical on stage died. Smoke in wisps and columns rose from Lenny’s body. Everyone ran to him. Chaotic yelling overlapped calls for help.

All but Travis.

He had dropped his beer and turned away from Lenny’s smoking carcass, looking out over the empty seats to the middle of the auditorium.

“You sonofabitch! Rod, you lousy sonofabitch! Now you can leave the band!”