Title: Hard Rock
“Freaks, punks, losers and degenerates of the world; brace yourself for the sheer impact of Seattle’s only grunge band, Hammered Head!” the emcee declares as sweat and eyeliner coalesce down his face in a huge oeuvre.
​
The grunge rock-stars strut up the stage in the stereotypical black leather jackets proliferated with rhinestones and spikes; and bulky electric guitars clinging onto their neck-straps.
The lead singer, Kurt, snags the nearest mic from the mic stand and purrs into his microphone, “The next song is inspired by my animosity towards exploitation of the working class-men and is titled ‘ Head And A Shotgun’.”
​
The band launches into song with gusto and a methodic, virtuosic strumming of the guitar. The crowd goes wild, vigorously shoving each other in ritualistic ‘moshing’. Kurt bangs his head violently over and over again to the frenetic hammering of the drums; when all of a sudden, he screeches and falls to the floor, clutching his stomach. The audience doesn’t care, continuing to partake in their moshing.
​
Kurt drags himself off stage and into a grimy dimly-lit bathroom; the only illuminations shafting in through the oblong venetian blinds. Tears spill down his cheeks as he stares back at the conspicuously pallid reflection in the grimy mirror.
​
“Awfff!” Kurt shrieks as he grabs his stomach once again.
“Kurt baby, are you all right?” Trent asks, barging into the bathroom and racing to take his face in his arms.
“I’m whatchamacallit suicidal, My stomach’s killing me! I can’t perform no more!” Kurt bellows.
Trent wraps his arms around Kurt, before pressing a blood-stained syringe into Kurt’s hand. ‘ There, Kurt. Some heroin. It’ll make you feel better. Just one shot.”
Kurt hugs Trent back, before penetrating the syringe into his forearm and pressing the opalescent liquid in the syringe down into his veins. Kurt smiles. “It helps. Just as usual.”
​
Kurt pirouettes out of the bathroom, arms and hands frenetically shaking all around him. The world whirls quickly around as he stumbles out of the bathroom with his platinum blonde shoulder-length hair flying about everywhere and crystalline blue eyes darting back and forth wildly.
​
All of a sudden, he screeches and clutches his stomach once again. “What?” he yells at himself, before thrashing violently.He throws himself onto the floor once again as paramedics hoist him up onto a stretcher and rush him out of the venue.
​
“How did you guys get here?” Kurt muses out loud.
His stretcher is thrusted into an ambulance car which speeds down highways and down lanes into a hospital parking lot. The ambulance doors swing open and he’s carried out into the white glare of a hospital room. A doctor in a tweed jacket twirling with her stethoscope smiles at the disheveled Kurt and proceeds to do the typical medical procedures.
​
“What’s happening to me?” Kurt screams.
“You’re in very critical state due to all the heroin ruining your stomach,” the doctor tells him.
Kurt yanks his head back and chortles loudly. Tears roll down his head as he grabs the nearest scalpel and uses it to rip out his stomach savagely, blood spraying out in geysers.
​
Title: The Devil'S Horns
SERANGOON BUNGALOW
AFTERNOON
​
Grace stares at the portrait in her hands. The portrait is of her son, Trent, in an Ivy League madras shirt and chinos waving his Bachelor’s Degree. Golden sun rays beat down on the portrait, creating a nacreous glow. With a slight smile playing over her lips, she manoeuvres her way through the living room maze of peony vases and gossamer cloth dangling off coffee tables, cradling the portrait against her chest.
“Plop Plop Plop..” the rhythm of Grace’s feet softly tapping against the linoleum plays out as she walks to her floral chintz sofa. She hangs the portrait above the sofa before taking a few steps back to gaze at the portrait. She nods to herself, before trailing her eyes to the nearby cat-clock. At the sight of those numerals, she hoists her phone out from her pocket and sends a voicemail to Trent, ” Honey, where are you? I can’t wait to see you!”
MEANWHILE, AT A TATTOO PARLOUR...
A smorgasbord of grunge rock band and skull posters take up the walls. Overhead fluorescent tubes illuminate the parlour in a reddish glow. “Dragula” by Rob Zombie blasts from speakers, amalgamating with the unremitting hammer of the tattoo machine jabbering into flesh.
“Ozzy Osbourne gnawed the head off a bat. Heck! Suzy my neighbour sends fan mail to criminals. This ranks nowhere near as deranged as that,” Brendon, a man who dons a trendy fedora, jet-black hipster glasses and Converse All-Stars, cackles as a tattooist inks a baby with devil horns up his arm.
“Babe, I don’t have cool hipster parents who are into Dario Argento and visual arts like you,” the low husky voice of Brendon’s boyfriend beside him grumbles. To Brendon’s side is the same Trent in Grace’s portrait. Except he dons pale ashen foundation, black lipstick, a black leather belt around his neck in lieu of a choker and a leather jacket filled with obscure Gothic band patches. A tattooist also happens to be burrowing in sterling silver into Trent’s septum as he speaks.
“Still best to let your Mum know all at one go. She’ll find out eventually,” Brendon asseverates, reaching to touch Trent.
1 HOUR LATER
OUTSIDE SERANGOON BUNGALOW...
​
Grace wheels around at the thud of the front door slamming against concrete. Trent, in full goth make-up and his tattoo in full view, attempts his best strut in, rattling his nose chain with each stride. Upon seeing Trent, Grace teeters backwards and steadies herself with the newel post behind her. Trent stops in front of Grace, permitting Grace to peer at him through her tortoise-shell glasses. Trent forces a smile. Beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead. A long pause as Grace’s eyes expand to the size of tennis balls. “Wha.. what am I looking at?” Grace rasps barely audibly, her legs rooted to the spot, her lower lip barely touching her upper lip with the parting of each word.
“This is my form of radical self-expression. My stand against the gender binary. Take a while to percolate this,” he sputters a tad too quickly, his eyes blinking rapidly and his hands clutching the hem of his skirt.
Grace inhales sharply, before finally lining her lips in a tight scowl. She rasps, “In the name of... radical self-expression, I might as well prance about in a skimpy bikini like an idiot. Punk rock, huh?”
“I’m Goth! Not Punk! They are two different sub-cultures and that, by the way, was a really anti-feminist statement!” Trent tosses out at break-neck speed, waving his hands about.
Grace swallows loudly, before shaking her auburn curls back and forth. She scrunches her face up into whorls of wrinkles. “What’s all this about, really?” she scoffs.
Trent’s smile immediately falls. He bites down hard onto his black matte lip and forces a shrug.Grace shifts her weight onto her right foot and probes on, inching closer towards Trent, “Don’t play dumb. I know that look on your face.”
Trent embeds his nails deeply into his palms and chomps down harder on his lip. He mumbles under his breath barely audibly, catapulting up Grace’s eyebrows. Grace bares her eyes deep into Trent’s face and refuses to avert her gaze.
He clenches his jaw tightly, his jugular veins coalescing into full view. He chokes out,” I.. I have a boyfriend.”
Grace’s eyes oscillate back and forth wildly akin to those of her cat clock. Her mouth hangs open, not forming words. Trent’s eyes remain on Grace as he shifts awkwardly in his position. Forcing a shrug, he vacuums in a huge shaft of air and continues, ”He—-he’s really cool. He’s an – an artist, rides a longboard, mostly pescatarian...”
Grace jolts out from her trance-like state. She manages to clasp her hands together and choke out, ”Well, I’m glad you didn’t bring him here...”
Trent’s mouth forms a huge “O” as his eyes bulge out of their sockets. He manages out a “Why?”, his legs shaking uncontrollably against his black pleated mini-skirt. The lower hinges of Grace’s jaw pull down into a grimace. “You think I need more right now? You know what the neighbours will say?!That my son’s a full-fledged gay Satanist!” she hisses.
Trent’s entire lanky frame tenses up into a sea of dark red veins and his nostrils flare, spewing out fume.“I wear that as a badge of honour! Thank you very much!” he retorts, furrowing his brows into angular ‘V’s and grinding his teeth wildly.
Grace slams her hand hard against the wall, sending a portrait hurtling down to the linoleum. The portrait is the one of Trent with his bachelor’s degree. “Where is my Trent? My son?!” she cries, her shoulders heaving up and down forcefully to shove out her words. “He’s dead!” Trent shrieks. He whirls around and marches to the front door, his face a stark florid and his hair cascading down in messy whorls. He wrestles the doorknob open and bolts out into the light. Grace’s diaphoretic, dishevelled frame shuffles to retrieve the fallen portrait. Tsunamis of glass cracks render the image of Trent unrecognizable. Grace snatches up the broken portrait and clutches it against her chest. Her rapid heaving gradually slows down to normal. Her glassy eyes fixate straight ahead onto blank space as an unnatural silence falls over the house.
4 DAYS LATER
GARCON HOTEL
Grace makes her way down the gouache-blue hallway and stops at the door at the far end. She inhales sharply and pauses before rapping onto the door. Muffled giggles and the pitter-patter of footfalls sound behind the door. Finally, the door swings open, revealing a giggling Trent and Brendon. Trent’s eyes bulge out of his sockets. His face pulls into a scowl. Grace’s eyes shoot to her feet as her mouth opens and closes in an attempt to formulate words out her mouth. Brendon’s eyes dart from Trent’s frown to Grace’s ruby-red eyes. He reaches a hand out to touch Grace and soothes, “He’s just hurt.”
Grace manages a weak smile at Brendon, before finally turning to Trent. Her eyes lock onto Trent as she rifles through her handbag and whispers, ”Trent honey, I found you through Facebook and I really have something to show you.”
A long impenetrable silence ensues until Grace pulls out a tiny gold-framed portrait of Trent in full Goth makeup. Grace slowly rasps, ”This was on your Facebook.” Trent looks up into his Mum’s eyes. A smile slowly plays across Trent’s face. Both mother and son then burst into raucous laughter, bobbing their heads up and down in the same familial manner. Trent beckons his mother to enter his hotel room with a warm smile. She waddles in and the door closes behind her.