The fortunate finn fairl.., p.1
The Fortunate Finn Fairlane, page 1
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
The Fortunate Finn Fairlane
Copyright © 2022 Nick Savage. All rights reserved.
4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
1497 Main St. Suite 169
Dunedin, FL 34698
4horsemenpublications.com
info@4horsemenpublications.com
Cover and typesetting by S. Casagrande
Editor 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.
This book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belong to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022939165
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-629-5
Audiobook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-627-1
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-628-8
Dedication
To Kris. You continue to inspire me.
Chapter 1
Epic
I’ve been told if you want to do something, get out there and do it. Don’t wait for things to happen. Don’t wait for things to come to you. They won’t because you have to make things happen. So, I did. It’s what I’ve always done. I create and help others create. Right now, I’m watching this thing I helped create―this living being that breathes on its own, unsteady on its infant legs, is unsure of what direction it wants (or is able) to move. But as it grows and matures, it finds its way. Its legs become steady, and it stands firm. It plays the music it helped to create through the conduit known as Spear Fist―the music from their fourth album, Badaboom.
I helped create that entity. I am a very proud parent, but it has grown. It is angry, screaming and cursing―and everyone loves it.
This creature that speaks to society―whispering to listeners’ souls and inspiring them―some call it a rock band, others a music group. I call the creature’s musical offspring records. I must nurture it and help it get to where it needs to go. Like a baby, it must be hand-held and guided. It must be led through the tour planning and nights of travel. It must learn the steps to the nightly performance: the setlist, the solo breaks, the song intros. That’s our next step: the tour.
People may think that without the members, the music doesn’t exist, but it does. It has always existed, laying all in wait for the right events to wake it up and usher it forth. Then, once the music is here, it never goes away. It lives on forever, not just through the albums, downloads, and radio waves, but with every impression it creates on a listener: the in-depth discussions about the meaning of a song; the older, lifelong fan imparting musical wisdom that is Rush on some bright-eyed youth tapping the beat as he listens to 2112 for the first time; the long-haired, teenage boy in his Iron Maiden T-shirt, flannel, and ripped jeans learning the chords to “Powerslave” on his new Fender. In this instance, however, people are experiencing it live. The record release party is hugely successful, and I couldn’t be happier. The current record label is here enjoying cocktails as they smooth talk possibilities with bigger labels. Potential tour managers, publicists, band managers, you name it … they are all here. The next step is happening right now.
It is all so beautiful. New life is rearing its head, and people are liking what they see and hear. It’s music to the fan’s ears. Many, many new fans and old fans are all enjoying the latest child of Spear Fist. Money in my pocket, cash in the band’s pockets, but it all comes at a hefty price. There’s a piper to be paid in order to produce something that will not be forgotten, to be part of that which will live on as its own. We’ve all seen it on MTV or VH1, or read about it in Spin, Kerrang, or Rolling Stone, the suicides and overdoses of the greatest musicians to ever live: Morrison, Jones, Joplin, Hendrix, Cobain. The harsh reality is that there’s more to that list than just the few 27 Club members rattled off, more that don’t belong to that club: Cornell, Bennington, Hide to name but three.
But the price is also paid behind the scenes. It’s what happens after the lights have dimmed that lead up to the hotel room destruction, fights with fans, or band member brawls played out on the nightly news or MTV, back when it was about music with the great Martha Quinn feeding it to us, bit by bit. The screaming matches and thrown fists behind the veil, the smashed drum sets, split guitar necks, cracked bass bodies, bloody noses, and broken bones; the snide comment made by someone thought of as a friend that ignited the spark that led to the crimson mess; the loved ones left behind in some small town to move out to L.A., New York, Chicago, or wherever it was that first caused the lonesome trail of estranged family and friends. The overdoses don’t start with peer pressure presented to them by some cheesetastic actor from a high school video warning about the danger of drugs in health class.
It begins without anyone noticing. It’s some seemingly mundane moment that goes almost unnoticed that starts it all. But a piper must be paid for the way I left Faith and Viv unanswered on the patio. Driving off, leaving behind two women you claim to love doesn’t go without repercussions. The rekindling of a flame nearing twenty years old doesn’t come without cost, and, much like a cable company, doesn’t forget the hidden charges and fees.
Those lucky enough to make it out the other side alive, sanity intact, get to see the music live on and take a shape all its own―actually enjoy the spoils of victory. Even more rare than not being written off as a has-been or never-was, or being crushed under the weight of everything, is the most precious of them all. If we are lucky enough; the loves we destroyed; the people who got left behind; the ones who mattered the most but wouldn’t, or couldn’t, stand in the way of the train wreck we call “pursuing the dream” are there at the end of it all. They stand with open arms as we crawl out from the wreckage of our success.
The band is on stage now, lights shining down on them. All the guys are in top form as the music blares forth from the amplifiers. The bassist, Neil, is uncharacteristically not standing off to the side, playing in some shadow. His energy carries him from one side of the stage to the next, over and over again, as his long curly hair trails behind like the tail of a comet. The sweat flies off Gregg as he hits drum skin after drum skin after drum skin. The veins in his arm course with as much blood as they can carry to make sure he delivers the boom of the bass drum in perfect timing and that each cymbal crash rings out with as much energy as the first in the set. Vincent rocks out his guitar riffs, showing his baby off to the world, and the world is eating it up.
D.B. is soaking in all the energy from the audience and putting it back out in his performance. The light glistens off the sweat of his brow as it drips onto the stage under him. D.B. screams word after word into the chrome microphone shining under the lights, helping bring this infant to life so the audience will always remember. It’s something that the audience will want to run out and buy and listen to over and over again until the song is so ingrained in their heads they won’t even need the CD anymore. It will just play in their minds, every note of every instrument in perfect pitch and perfect time.
I smile as I watch the band up there. This is it. The moment we’ve been working for―Finn Fairlane and his band of metal men. This moment is what it’s all about: all the blood, sweat, and tears; everyone and everything we left behind; the parts of ourselves lost in the making of this thing. The countless days of work that’s involved, the hours locked away in a studio seeing the same four faces over and over, the lack of sleep or proper food—most people don’t see it. They don’t know because they can’t know unless they’re in it. It’s not just cool jam sessions with hot girls draped over the amplifier. There’s so much more than most people know. But I know. Spear Fist knows.
Standing at the archway to the stadium, listening to them, watching them with her head leaned against the metal trim, is perhaps the only person in my life who knows how hard the music industry is without being in it herself. A melancholy smile hangs on her face as she stares toward the men on stage. A distant look in her eye, searching for answers to her life’s mysteries; perhaps trying to figure out if either of our dreams would have come true if we didn’t have the end we had. Maybe she is trying to figure out if her dreams have ever come true. But it is the sum of our experiences that make us who we are.
When I first met her, she was a much more straitlaced businesswoman-to-be. Even her admitted growing dislike of that field wouldn’t necessarily have pushed her out of it. She may have made more of hersel
She turns her head and looks down the row of seats to this section’s other entrance―to me. Her smile grows for a moment as she stares. She gives her head a couple of slow, determined shakes. There’s a thought in there. I wish to the heavens above that I knew what it was. No one shakes their head unless they are thinking of an idea that requires a response. But I don’t know why her smile grew. I can ponder forever and still not know. But after her smile has grown from ear to ear, her eyes light up. Her slow indication of a “no” stops. Her determined shake turns into a nod, one deliberate nod.
I nod back and return to watching the show. D.B. on stage, mic in hand, sings his heart out. Sweat pours off his entire body. He high fives a few people standing in the front row. I watch as I see our baby come to life up there, in front of a packed house.
A tap on my shoulder pulls me out of the trance and back to reality. A simple phrase is uttered, and the voice belonging to it is not Faith’s. No, that would make it simple and pleasant. It’s Vivian’s (Viv’s) voice that indicates her presence. I do love the sound of her voice. Though at this moment, all I want to do is enjoy the show, enjoy the party, enjoy this moment, and enjoy this night for all the work we put into it. I would like to relish in it for a while. But I hear Viv say, “Hey.” So, I turn to face the music.
I attempt to force a smile for her, except there’s too much on my mind. No smile emerges. The simple thought of not wanting to deal with her right now, not wanting to feel the fallout of recently passed events. I just wish she would see my intentions without me having to tell her them. I hate sounding like an asshole, but I guess if I sound like one while saying what’s on my mind, even if she knew what I wanted without saying it, I’d still be an asshole―if only by intention. I just want to relish the moment; savor this moment of perfection, for these moments are few and quickly fleeting. In that regard, I guess it has fleeted. So let the music play. I shall face it with gusto.
“Hey, Viv. Nice to see you here.” I keep it generic to not add to her ammo.
A chuckle from her indicates pleasantry, I hope. “Cut the quaint. I told you I’d be here. You think you leaving me with Faith, not answering either of us, is the worst thing that could have happened?” she fires at me.
“Yes,” I say, immediately realizing the size of my ego. “No. Well, it wasn’t a nice thing to do.”
“No, it wasn’t nice. But it’s done. It also wasn’t fair of either of us to corner you like that.” Viv smirks.
I don’t respond, not because I don’t have anything to respond with but for all the shitty things I’ve done in my life, calling her out on something like that would be hypocritical. So, I nod, as I often do, and turn back to the show.
She leans against the wall, resting half against it and myself, her head on my shoulder as we watch the crowd. I’ve always enjoyed watching the crowds. There’s your usual assortment of headbangers and mosh pit participants, but I like searching for the ones who feel the music on a higher level―not the guy in the pit who’s so drunk he sways in there like a ‘roided-out bodybuilder. Forget that guy. He’s just blowing off steam from the fact he’s got anger issues even outside the pit and knows it. Guys like that are just too stubborn to do anything about it. No, the one I want isn’t in the mosh. He’s close to the stage, protected by the buffer zone after the pit ends.
The fan whose focus is so zoned in on the stage and the sound that nothing else is in the room with them. Those fans are the people who need this the most. The kids in the mosh pit just need a release for anger, same with the headbangers. Whatever their need for release is, it’s justified, I’m sure: bad day at work, problems at home that won’t calm anytime soon, relationships, the gamut of issues everyone faces at some time. But those people out there, listening and watching with laser focus, those people need the cathartic energy. They have a spiritual connection with the music that ensures what we did wasn’t a passing fad, that it will help those in need now and in the future. Those are the ones who let our spirits live forever through our lyrics, our music, and our songs.
Viv looks at me as the song plays out its final cords. I stare at her, unsure what to say since the fallout was painless: no punching, no crying, no thrown sticks or stones. The aftermath felt more like the calm before the storm, but maybe that’s the way life works sometimes. The fallout is just there, an afterthought, something that exists in the background of our thoughts and minds. Sometimes, sometimes not.
I feel a hand wrap around my waist from the other side and slide toward Viv, which means it isn’t Viv’s hand. I turn to see Faith. Both women are not just within touching distance but are touching. Something feels wrong. Where’s the other shoe? When’s it going to drop and how hard? For the moment, I enjoy the silence among us and watch the event as the next song starts. I feel they understand what I did, what I had to do to get this to happen. The shoe will drop, just not now.
Chapter 2
Can’t Getcha Out of My Mind
There are significant moments in life that happen, and you have no choice but to feel yourself there, caught up in the moment, taking it all in: moments where you think you understand the impact of what is happening—moments when I stand off to the side, observing, watching, taking it all in, but my idea of the situation, my perceived comprehension of the events surrounding me, is not even close to what is actually transpiring. Sometimes what you see, what you think you are experiencing, is miles away from what is actually happening. The record release party had me basking in the warmth of what I had helped create: the event, the music, the surrounding atmosphere—all seemed calm after the storm as I looked onward to the stage. So, of course, I didn’t see what was happening while I had my back turned. I didn’t see the storm brewing quietly behind me.
It is a new night out with D.B., Vincent, Neil, and Gregg: no strumming guitars to make girls swoon, nor talks of upcoming albums; no new swooning fans for me to sweet talk into some carnal act behind bushes. The storm of this record is over, and not only did we survive, but we prevailed. So, we celebrate. As celebratory occasions call for, we decide to check out a new spot, to break the routine and start something new―some place called Taps & Corks, an unpredictable location that is, at any given time, either dead quiet or raucously boisterous and loud. But that doesn’t matter since the pool table is decent and the tap selection is one of the best in the area. It’s something of a hidden, local gem, far enough away from Orlando proper to not get too many weekend warriors but close enough to have the regulars night after night like a degenerate, drunken Cheers.
We all sit outside, under the Edison LED-lined, horseshoe awning at our wobbly wooden table and chairs. We sip on our local craft IPAs, laughing and joking around. The Orlando area after dark is always whispering a welcoming hello with a gentle breeze that whisks away the toils of the day on an otherwise quiet night.
“No, no, no,” I say in defense against some half-heard question as Neil takes careful, cautious steps toward us, carrying a round of shots. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: whether it was a one-night stand or some form of relationship, I’ve never had sex with a woman I didn’t love on some level.”
The guys laugh at that and wave me off.
“So, you’re telling me,” D.B. pipes in, “that you’ve never just nailed a girl to get your rocks off with no sort of emotional attachment at all?”
“Yes. But I think you all misunderstand what I say,” I retort.
“First, take a shot,” Neil says, setting down a round of shots.
“Fine,” I say, tapping the table with the shot glass, then downing the crappy tequila. “It’s not that I’ve been in love with every girl I’ve banged. I’m saying I’ve loved them on some level. It’s not some Disneyfied-over and unrealistic romanticism that’s been drilled into me from watching one too many princess stories.”
