The Story Behind "The Soul of Andrew Scott"

“The Soul of Andrew Scott” started as a serialized short story that I wrote early on when I started Armadillo & Sands. I had the parts slightly mapped out, but the story still went a little longer than I originally anticipated. The story was originally meant to go for only four to sex posts, but ended up being seven posts long. I haven’t done any real revisions on the piece, although I did review for some small revisions when moving the story from Armadillo & Sands to here.

I’ve always been interested in the concept of Satan. He’s the ultimate villain, but you rarely see him humanized. I wasn’t really seeking to humanize him here, I did that in a ten minute play that I wrote that you’ll see here in the future. With “The Soul of Andrew Scott” I wanted to focus on the concept that the power that Satan has is given to him by the individual. This was in response to seeing Christians post comments about how we need to watch out for Satan.

The story was loosely, very loosely, inspired by stories like “The Devil and Daniel Webster” and “The Devil and Tom Walker” as well as “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. The concept was mainly centered on reinventing the idea of selling your soul to Satan as well as defining the motives for his actions. I feel like the end result ended up being partially satirical and partially transgressional. It also sets up the character of Satan in my form of fiction for the possibility of future use, which is something that I have considered.

Naturally, this isn’t a perfect story though. This is just the beginning of this story, and I intend to do further revisions of this story. I feel that I do need to make it more concise and shorten the length. I also primarily placed the focus on the Satan character, and I want to revise it to make Andrew Scott the focus of the story. Since I just reread it for the first time in a while, I think I’m going to sit on it for a bit. I’ll let you know when I revise it though.

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 7

Andrew slowly placed his head on the table as if fighting some unseen force that was pulling or pushing him down. After a moment he slowly lifted his head and looked around, and that was when the real fun began.

There was a flicker of recognition as he looked behind him to see a stage full of instruments with no band, and a banner behind it touting: Andrew Scott and the Great Wall of Thunder. Horror took recognition’s place as he looked around seeing that he was no longer in Maze, but rather in Billy Goat’s Rockin’ Pub. He looked at me like a little lost puppy dog and I couldn’t suppress my laughter any longer.

“Where are we?” he asked over my howls.

“We’re in Billy Goats’ my dear friend.”

Andrew further looked around the bar in astonishment before upchucking the contents of his stomach on the floor, with the exception of the Jack Daniels I had given him, which will never leave his system. “We shouldn’t be here man,” he said. “Why the fuck are we back here!”

This isn’t the first time I’ve pulled a job like this. As a matter of fact it’s a specialty of mine. Whenever I do such a job I have a little poem I recite to my “clients”. So when Andrew asked this question I felt obliged to recite it for him as well. I cleared my throat; ahem, ahem; and then I began:

“Dreams are a place that offer peace

Until a nightmare takes its seat

It will remain even when you wake

You cannot run despite the light of day.

And in the midst I will stand

In that dream I will take your hand

Planting seeds that spread my hate

Until you as man know your fate.”

Open mouthed, unsure of everything he had seen and heard Andrew screamed at me: “What the fuck does that mean?”

Calmly, or as calm as I could muster, I responded, “I suggest you lower your voice, you’ve partially earned my ire and by raising your voice to me you risk so much more.”

Andrew closed his mouth and stared at me, attentive to every word.

“You don’t understand what you have, or I should say what you had. See, I’ve known the greatest love this world has ever been privy to, a love that would have lasted an eternity. I made one simple mistake, however, and I lost it, all of it. I’ll never know that love ever again. Every day that same love is extended to you and you squander it. Never letting it pass through your sad, ignorant brain more than once since you left your parents. The love I knew was near that of a mother and father for their child. Even Jennifer could have loved you, but you took advantage of that as well. If she wasn’t gone, she could have been redemption for you, but you’re an asshole, a creep. You’re the scum of the earth that I seek out, the refuse that no one wants.

“I’m the father of lost causes, the king of con artists, not because I want to be, but because I have to be. You are a lost cause. You should have followed your parents’ wisdom, boy. I’ve heard sheep at the slaughter whose final screams had more musical talent than your whole oeuvre, and no matter what I do you’ll never be rich and famous. You’ll never amount to more than a druggie on the side of the road with a few dreams and no way to facilitate them.”

At this point Andrew was nearly in tears. He had been duped, and with good reason. He wasn’t very bright, he hadn’t been schooled on how to deal with con artists, and no one had bothered to tell him that a hill of beans would mount to more than him in this crazy world. I didn’t feel sorry for him though. His life, no matter how high it rose on a scale of fortune and misfortune, led to this point.

Finally, with the trembling lip of a toddler he said, “But you promised.”

“What did I promise you Andrew? I promised you dreams beyond your wildest imagination. In those dreams I promised you adoration, sex, the ability to do anything you wanted without consequence, and you experienced it all. Never trust a man who puts his hands in a drink he offers you, Mr. Scott. Now you see how that deal ends.

“You’ve still missed the point of this little lesson, but I didn’t expect any less of you. You never knew how to deal with love and adoration; you have no idea what real respect is. I’m not a genie Andrew; I can’t grant you one wish let alone several. When you get screwed by a con artist it’s not the con’s fault if you got duped, it’s yours. Unfortunately, you got picked off by the wrong con. My waking you up from your little fantasy was not the end, it was the beginning. Really, you could look at that as an act of mercy. Be glad I didn’t let you wallow in your proposed fame even more before waking you up. It doesn’t matter now though, you belong to me. Everything you are, you promised.”

Andrew stared, the fright and horror exuding from every part of his being. He had never understood exactly where that part of the promise was heading when he made it, but now I needed to make it explicitly clear. That’s one of the shortfalls of dealing with the ignorant.

“I don’t care if you’re starving living in a cardboard box under an overpass, if I call you: you better come with bells on. If I ask you to jump don’t bother asking how high, but if you can’t reach heaven you can consider yourself a failure. I’m assuming you’re used to that though.” I stood up and looked at Andrew’s bewildered look and chuckled to myself. “Take care, Andrew. And always remember: I’ll be watching you!”

I walked out of the empty bar and didn’t bother to look back at the poor boy. I say poor because he lost everything that day. I haven’t kept much of a tab on him; after all, I had my fun with him. However I do know that he quit the band, moved out of Steve’s place, and has been wandering around California like a nomad. He looks over his shoulder constantly, and his nightmares and past haunt him.

The truth is I’ll probably never see Andrew again; my purpose with him is done. I pointed out the error of his ways while making sure that he never rectifies them. I own his soul only in as much as he thinks he has no other choice, and that to me is the true victory. You people don’t seem to understand the true meaning of free will, but if you have no will the power of suggestion takes over.

Meanwhile, I have other fish to fry. As I scan my mind for future candidates for my unique brand of torture my mind comes to Zhou Long of Madison, Wisconsin. Yeah, I think he’ll do just fine!

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 6

Before he knew it, Andrew was playing the Roxy Theater in Los Angeles under the banner of simply Andrew Scott. With my help he assumed the role of solo artist with The Great Wall of Thunder taking the role of just a backing band. The power of suggestion is a splendid thing! He soon found a home at record label One Haven Music and recorded his debut solo album at Jungle Room Recording Studio. Of course, he forgot about most of the recording session in a haze of coke, booze, and pricey prostitutes.

That didn’t seem to matter to the record buying public, though, as Mr. Scott found his album titled Broken Trust Fund on a slow burn to number one all around the world. The Germans were the first to cement its number one status, showing that they haven’t gotten much more musically inclined since turning David Hasselhoff into a musical celebrity. Next he sky rocketed to the top of the charts in Japan, but let’s face it, that’s really not that hard to pull off. Soon England fell to my, I mean his, dastardly charms followed by France, Italy, and even America.

It wasn’t the quick rise that he was expecting, but what more can you expect when you start off the charts at 63. At least he broke the Billboard Hot 100. Each week though he progressively sold more and more till he reached number one after six weeks on the charts. He celebrated with heroine, meth, and a party that would have put the orgies of Emperor Caligula to shame; trust me, I’ve been to them all. Andrew found out that with my help he could do meth, coke, weed, and heroine in one sitting and be completely unfazed with nothing more than the buzz he desired.

Andrew experienced a love and adoration from his fans that few artists this side of The Beatles and Michael Jackson have ever experienced and every artist wanted to work with him. He recorded duets with Madonna, Paul McCartney, Rolling Stones, Jay-Z and additionally had affairs with many actresses and female pop stars that shall remain nameless (only because everyone already thinks they’re sluts anyway, they don’t need my help in that department). With my help and guidance Andrew Scott could do no wrong.

That year he launched a worldwide tour that took him from Australia to Taiwan and back to America with ten countries in between. He won Grammy’s for Best Rock Album, Best New Artist, and Best Solo Rock Vocal Performance as well as performing at the ceremony with a surprise walk on appearance by Eminem. It was one of many award ceremonies he performed at in the wake of our agreement. He even had the honor of shooting a music video on the Great Wall of China (The Great Wall of Thunder did not appear in the music video though).

Everything was going perfect for Andrew Scott. One day, after the tour was over and before he was set to go into the studio to record his second album, Andrew decided to go to Prague on vacation. To be honest, I’m not sure Scott even knew where Prague was on the map, but he found out that at The Hilton in Old Town Prague there was a restaurant called Maze by Gordon Ramsay and he was a big fan of Ramsay’s show Hell’s Kitchen (no one bothered to tell him that there was a Maze by Gordon Ramsay in New York as well). So I met with him one night for fine dining and a cocktail to discuss his recent fame and our arrangements.

When I arrived he had already ordered and was about to dig into a Beef Wellington. “Watchin’ Hell’s Kitchen I’ve always wondered what Beef Wellington and risotto tastes like.” He cut off a huge chunk and shoved it into his mouth. The look that passed across his face was purely orgasmic, exaggerated to the point where he would have disgusted his fellow patrons if it were not for the fact that he was a celebrity. “Oh God,” he said with a full mouth, “this is delicious!”

“Yeah,” I said with a smile, “you enjoying your new found celebrity.”

“Oh man, I have to thank you for that. I never knew it would be like this. You were right, this is all way beyond my wildest dreams. I ran into Madonna the other day, I don’t want to say I tapped that. But, well, you know.”

“Oh, I know. Actually, Andrew, I’m here to discuss our agreement.”

“Do you want somethin’ to eat first? You can put it on my tab, anything you want.”

“No, that’s okay, I’m not the eating type. No, I need something from you, it’s time for you to honor your side of the bargain.”

“Alright, sure, that won’t be a problem. Hell, you gave me all this, I’ll do anything.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I smiled and leaned forward a little bit and motioned him to come closer. “I need you to wake up.”

He furrowed his brow as a quizzical look crossed his face. “What?”

“Wake up, Andrew!”

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 5

“I don’t know, I’ve had some wild fantasies,” Andrew replied, a dumbass smirk on his face.

“Trust me, the whores of LA ain’t got nothin’ on what I have in store for you. You think you’ve seen heaven, but what you really want is one hell of a ride, and I can give you that. My dreams will make your hair stand on end and when you get off the roller coaster you’ll compare those drugs you took in the past to aspirin. The girls there will never leave you wanting more because they’ll never be more than a cock thrust away. And you want fame, no you think you want fame, but here there will be true adoration. These people will never forsake you, not like your parents did. And your parents! Your parents will be sorry, Andrew, sorry they ever doubted you. Sorry they ever destroyed your CD collection and threw your porn collection in the fireplace back in ‘98. Sorry they ever considered military school as an option for you when you came home drunk after that night of hangin’ with Dennis. You can watch them burn Andrew, in my dreams, which I will give to you, you can watch your parents burn and you can light the fire Andrew.”

The look on Scott’s face was so priceless that it took all that I had within me to keep from laughing out loud. Sheep don’t look that terrified when they’re being compelled to throw themselves off a cliff.

“How d’you know about all that? I never told noone about that shit!”

“I know you haven’t. I know because I’ve been watching you.”

“What, you like that peepin’ Tom shit?”

“At this moment I’m going to request that you shut your mouth, drink your drink, and raise your hand before spoken to. I don’t want to treat you like a cum filled grade school child, but you really don’t want to piss me off.” Naturally, at my instance Mr. Scott took a sip of his Jack and placed his hands politely in his lap. “I’m not some sick voyeur, but I’m purveyor of souls, so to speak. I seek out likeminded individuals that I feel need to be enlightened. This may be well over your head, Andrew, but I kept tabs on you from a very early age. I really began to take interest in you, though, when you were thirteen. Do you recall what happened when you were thirteen, Andrew?”

Andrew nodded slightly, it looked like he was about to cry; like a dumb puppy who just had his nose rubbed in the floor he just pissed on. I was having the time of my existence.

“Don’t worry I’m not going to tell anyone. Jennifer didn’t either. She cried every night for the rest of her miserable life after what you did. No need to tell you how that ended. Personally, I thought it took massive stones for you to do what you did, and I applauded it then, and every life decision you made since then. After all, that’s why we’re here today.”

Andrew timidly raised his hand. I nodded. “Why are we here?”

“So you can officially join my ranks, and so I can show you the wonders of the world. We’d make quite the team, you and I. You’ve got a little evil in you, and some would say I’m evil incarnate.”

“Who are you anyway?”

“Need you ask? You’ve known who I was since the moment I walked in here. That’s why you came over, isn’t it? To find out the truth, to see if I was real?”

“I s’pose. So what you want from me?”

I leaned back in my chair and feigned contemplating exactly what I wanted. Needless to say I had my mind made up for years. I wasn’t going to tell him I was looking for another notch on my belt though. “I want you.”

“Me? Ain’t you got enough people, why you need me?”

“Who said anything about need? I always want one more, each person is unique, special. There are things I can get from you that I can’t get from anyone else. Who knows if I’ll ever use you, but I like knowing I got reserves all around the world in case the sticky meets the icky. So what I want is your allegiance. I don’t just want part of you: I want your entire being. I may never call on you, but I want you ready if I do and if I do, you come without hesitation.”

“Alright, and what do I get in return?”

I slowly leaned forward knowing at this point he wouldn’t, couldn’t, say no. The hook was deep in his mouth and all I needed to do was jerk at the rod to catch him. My warm smile belied the true nature of our conversation. “Your dreams: more real, more excellent, more vivid than you ever imagined them before. I will show you the gift of fame, love, women, drugs, and more without the come down or the consequences. Everything you’ve ever experienced in your life will be dwarfed by what I can show you, by the dreams I will give you.”

Scott sat there as if thinking for a minute, but the decision had been made long before I finished talking. The Cheshire Cat would have been mad with glee at the grin that broke out on Andrew’s face, and I was pleased at the understanding in that smile. He thought he had conned me! He stretched out his arm across the table seeking my hand. I took it heartily. “Where do I sign?” he asked.

“You don’t, you finish your drink.”

“What?”

“You finish your drink. If you would have turned my offer down you would have walked away with a partially empty glass. This, though, is the kind of deal you make over glass of whiskey, and to seal the deal you finish it.”

Andrew looked at the glass and laughed. “I’ll drink to that!” And down the hatch the contents of the glass went.

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 4

I sat there and watched them play through their set. Scott up there gyrating and dancing around like he was having sex with a ghost in front of all six people who showed up for the display. Elvis’ hips had nothing on this kid. I’ve literally been through hell and the half hour they were on stage was pure torture. Even on the one song in their repertoire that was soft and slow Andrew’s voice emitted a banshee-like wail. Never once, though, did his eyes leave mine.

Finally, the racket ended with their would-be hit single, “Tango in Hell”; the irony wasn’t lost on me. Andrew started making his way obediently over to me; he could see my eyes beckoning him to me. He shimmied his way through the masses telling him they adore him and would follow him to the grave if he would just stop singing. He turned his eyes only out of politeness to those offering him misguided praise, but I didn’t mind by this point: he was mine and we both knew it.

The adoring druggies, I mean fans, finished saying their piece allowing Scott to make his way over to my table. Where everyone else kept glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes, Scott was cool, calm and collected. If anything he was more like a school boy who just figured out there was more to a penis than just the pee. All piss and vinegar, no off switch. He remained drawn to my stare and I could tell he was trying to figure me out, but my mind is incomprehensible. If he could have read my mind at that moment he probably would have soiled himself and spent the rest of his life crying in a corner of the bar until he succumbed to a brain hemorrhage less than ten minutes later.

He flashed me a wicked devilish grin, not realizing who he was giving it to. I returned it and the smile faded from his face. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, but I know you,” I replied, savoring the troubled look that started at his chin and rose to his eyebrows consuming his face. “I’ve known you all your life. Watched out for you, built you up when you were down, cared for you when no one else was around. I guess you could say that I’m something of your guardian angel, but I ain’t got no wings. I’ve pretty much known you since you were a small child.”

“So you’re an angel.”

“Pay attention, son, I said I’m something like your guardian angel, but I’m not an angel, not anymore anyway. Besides, angels don’t have time to be meddling in human affairs, nor do they particularly want to when they’re given the task. No, I’m no angel, but I’ve been there for you for years: leading and shepherding you to this moment, this meeting right here and now.”

“Ain’t nobody pushed me here though. How you been leadin’ me all this time an’ I never saw ya?”

“There’s more than one way to lead, kid. I do it mainly by hints and suggestions. You do as I say because you don’t know I say it.”

“What like ESP?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.”

I allow the smile to fade from my face which prompts his to return. I lean forward slowly and he leans back. The smile on his face quickly fades, but only for a second. He’s completely unaware of how everyone is looking at us, unsure of exactly what’s been going on. “Tell me, Andrew, why did you come over here?”

The look on his face as it went from that shit eating grin to a blank stare to an utterly perplexed look of anguish was delicious. Naturally, my smile returned with a flash of danger I don’t think he quite noticed. “I just felt like I had to, like I needed to be here.”

“Because you’re a moth drawn to my flame Mr. Scott. Look around you. All of these people here are afraid, because they don’t understand. They are the darkness scattering away from the light, and none of them know why. They haven’t earned, don’t deserve, what I’m going to give you.”

“How can you possibly do that?”

“You don’t have a drink in front of you, are you thirsty?” I pointed to the still full glass of water before me, I wasn’t really thirsty when I ordered it. “See this glass, Andrew? When I came in here I didn’t get this glass of water for me, I got it for you.”

“I don’t want no goddamn water, I can get my own drink. Hey…”

“You didn’t let me finish, and I suggest you don’t interrupt me again.” I didn’t notice in my slight spell of anger, but Andrew looked around as if the lights dimmed. The barkeep ran into the backroom. “I knew you wouldn’t want water, but I don’t pay for drinks. So viola…” I stuck my finger in the glass and after a couple of stirs the clear liquid turned a dark amber color. “…and you’ve got Jack Daniels.” Just once I’d like to whip up a drink for someone with taste, but they’re harder to screw with.

Scott picked up the glass and examined it, wide eyed as a doe about to be hit by a truck. He took a sip, and set it down shaking. “How did you do that?” he finally asked.

“Does it matter? Isn’t the more important question why I’m here? Shouldn’t you be asking why me? Aren’t you wondering in the least bit why I’m just now showing myself to you?”

Andrew shrugged, “I guess.”

I sat back and laughed and the bar cleared out. “Well, doesn’t that beat all! You really don’t care huh? Wow, you really are a simple man. That’s fine though, that’s all right. Son, I’m here to show you things you’ve never thought about in your wildest wet dreams.”

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 3

One of the best ways to feel the sin in the air of a population is to check out their late night entertainment. When not sewing discontent in the hearts of your brethren, I walk the streets at night scoping out your sick and depraved. From the strip joints where CEO’s watch titties jiggle while they plot to steal your 401k to college bars where you can smell the desperation on the guys known as “dude-brahs” as they try to tag a piece of ass for a late night score. Sometimes I make my way into the joints with live music, not the popular places where bands like Guns N’ Roses once played, but the dives where the bar owners don’t care about quality.

As much as everyone thinks rock n’ roll would be my style, I’m not really into it. Folk and classical are where my roots lie: the old souls of the musical world. (I also used to like country, until Charlie Daniels wrote a little song about a supernaturally gifted fiddle player.) Bob Dylan’s my fave, wouldn’t harm a hair on that old fart’s head if I could; still dig him. Now, when it comes to rock n’ roll you’d be surprised that it’s not the talented ones who try to sell their souls for fortune and fame. Those types don’t need my help, they don’t need anyone’s help and they know it. Then you have the extremely untalented bands that make it big because people have no taste, like The Darkness. Then you have those wannabe rock stars who think they have talent and are trying to find a way to make it. Those people think I’m their lord and savior.

Andrew Scott and the Great Wall of Thunder didn’t have the audacity of a band like The Darkness to gain a following, or the talent of GNR to make the regular rotation at the Roxy Theater down on the Sunset Strip. I had my eye on Andrew Scott for years, his collaborators would merely have been consolation prizes if I wanted to take the whole group down a peg, but Scott was one of my “people”, so to speak. Survival of the fittest is the way Father Nature plays his game, and I enjoy picking off the weak and damaging or collecting them.

It was with that intent that I walked into Billy Goat’s Rockin’ Pub on the outskirts of Santa Ana. I made sure to show up late so I would be noticed, and with only five people in the audience that night it was hard not to be noticed. The nauseating sound of un-tuned guitars and wailing and gnashing of teeth greeted me as I walked through the door, and that familiar feeling wafted over me. It was the feeling of every eye turning in my direction as the hairs on the backs of every neck stood up. One kid bolted for the bathroom making a retching sound more in tune with the music than Scott’s vocals.

I walked up to the bar where the bartender stood gawping at me with his mouth on the floor before he found the will, consciousness, and fortitude to speak.

“I’m sorry sir,” he finally found the gumption to say, “I don’t know why I was starin’, but you got a quite peculiar way about you.”

“I know, I get that all the time,” I replied.

“Well, what can I do ya for?”

“Just a glass of water for now, and if you get it right there’s a big tip in it for ya.” He looked at me with wide eyed wonder (or terror) as he poured the water, forgetting what he was doing until his hands were drenched with Sprite.  After a moment he realized his error and apologized. “Now, Steve,” I said slyly, “that’s not gonna do. I hope we won’t have a problem here.”

“How do you know my name?” he asked, stopping dead in his tracks, practically shaking.

“Just pour the drink,” I said with a slick grin (it might have turned out to be a little more sinister than that, I can never tell anymore) before adding almost as an afterthought, “Steve.” He jumped at the use of his name again and quickly hurried over the glass of water. “Thank you,” I said reaching in my pocket. Beads of sweat sprang up on his brow as I withdrew my hand from my pocket and tossed him a dime. “Keep the change and keep ‘em comin’ Steve.” I walked away not visibly noticing the dark spot that appeared on Steve’s trousers, but I took in the smell graciously.

I took my place at a dark table at the back of the bar, and all eyes turned to the band as if they’d all be vaporized if I caught them staring at me. It’s interesting to observe a room of people who are scared out of their wits but don’t know why. The Great Wall of Thunder kept their eyes on their audience or their instruments; all of them except Andrew Scott, who kept his eyes fixated on me. When I finally caught his eyes I made sure that he’d never look away, not until we spoke.

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 2

I hated Andrew Scott. Now it’s true that I hate most people, but Andrew Scott was one of those people I hate the most because I admired the heck out of that kid. So full of himself and so cocky; he reminded me of a version of myself back when the world was young and I was a perfect little angel. The kid had it and he knew it, walked around like a peacock splaying his feathers without a ladybird in sight. He was the kind of guy who talked just to hear himself talk, and he had a peculiar cock in his walk which was like his mating dance to let all the ladies know he was available.

Despite what Al Pacino might tell you, my favorite sin is pride, not vanity. (By the way, can someone tell Keanu Reeves to lay off the accents; he’s really bad at it.) Vanity is just an aspect of pride, and what do I care if you’re looking at yourself in the mirror all the time. No, pride is the big one; after all, it is pride that comes before a fall. Pride found Achilles’ heel when he thought he was in a moment of great strength. Pride told Delilah Sampson’s secret. Pride is why your neighbor cheats on his wife every night while she’s asleep, and it’s also why he doesn’t realize that tomorrow night she’ll be waiting for him to come home with a butcher knife in one hand and thoughts of castration on her mind.

Andrew Scott’s pride oozed off of him like thick cologne. At times it reeked of desperation, a smell I know very well. I said earlier that the kid had it, but no one really knew what it was, but they knew it wasn’t talent. I wouldn’t have been surprised if what he had was VD, but I knew he didn’t because that’s a smell I know very well too. What he had was closer to determination, and ignorance to the fact that when he stepped on stage the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to the sound of a cat in heat than angels in heaven. He had the swagger, he had the moves, but he and his band, Andrew Scott and the Great Wall of Thunder, didn’t have the talent or the name to make it anywhere.

Scott was one of those guys who thought his mommy and his daddy didn’t care about him because they put him in an expensive private school and despised it when he started listening to Body Count in middle school. When cell phones became popular when he was in high school they told him he’d have to get a job and pay his bill if he wanted one, so he ran away for a week. I half expected Andrew to punch his dad in the face when his dad scolded him on his eighteenth birthday for going out and getting a tattoo with the money that should have gone to his overdue phone bill.

Instead, Scott moved to my city. No, my city is not Las Vegas. He moved to Los Angeles, the City of Angels by name, and the city of demons by trade; everybody’s got one. There are very few places I feel more alive in this modern world than Los Angeles. Sure, Vegas has open debauchery, but I prefer the skeletons in the closets of Los Angeles. It’s brimming with the pride of the crushed souls of thousands of actors working as waiters serving the stars they think they should replace. The studio executives who snort cocaine off the tits of prostitutes while their wives play “tennis” with oiled up Latino musclemen down at the country club. Oh, it makes me giddy like a little school girl! Nero’s Rome, Hitler’s Germany, Stalin’s Russia, and Darfur combined don’t give me as much pleasure as the personal depravity that goes on in LA.

Andrew enjoyed it too, at first. He indulged in all the things his “strict” parents would have never allowed. Marijuana, sex, cocaine, anal sex, heroine, trannys, ecstasy, S & M Bondage, the works! He took out bank loans for prostitutes and drugs without a thought as to how he was going to pay them back. I thought for a while his propensity for these two commodities was limitless, and it truly was a thing of beauty; he just wouldn’t quit. I think he wouldn’t have quit if his body hadn’t done it for him.

One night he learned that it was unwise to mix meth, coke, weed, and heroine; or that at least you shouldn’t try to do so within the span of three hours. His heart stopped on the couch, but he was lucky enough to have an acquaintance nearby who had watched Pulp Fiction one too many times and kept an adrenaline shot in the fridge for just such an occasion. I say acquaintance because that day Andrew learned that these people weren’t his friends. Almost as soon as the needle was out of his chest he was kicked out of the only home in LA he had known. The out of work actors didn’t want to be associated with a drugged up junkie piece of shit, so they sent him packing.

For the next several months LA turned from the heaven of his choosing to the hell of his damning. He didn’t realize he had become addicted to the drugs, and without money or a supplier the fits hit him hard in the gutters of that once magical city. The banks wouldn’t give someone with $15,000 of debt another penny, so Andrew Scott merely wandered from place to place looking for handouts and luck. It was in Huntington Beach that he found a true friend in Steve Dorcet, who happened to be the drummer for an outfit called The Great Wall of Thunder. 

Steve let Andrew crash in a sleeping bag on his floor, while Andrew’s body violently leeched out all the crap he had ingested. During the moments he was lucid he would hear The Great Wall of Sound practicing in the garage sans singer. They were god awful, but if a monkeys screeching in the woods another’s bound to hear it and think it’s beautiful. Andrew would later recall that it was at this time that he felt himself coming to longer and longer, the music like vitamins for the soul or some such bullshit. I never really listened to him when he started talking about the spirituality of music. At any rate, he would start coming up with lyrics and melody in his pea brain until he reached the point he was actually able to join in on the orgy of crapitude.

Well, like maggots to rotting flesh they all came together, and since he completed the band, they just added his name to the front of the band name making the unwieldy title that much more ungainly. They wrote several songs together with titles like “Beach Bum Baby”, “Phone Booth of Love”, and “Convulsions #1”. Yeah, they weren’t going places, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Out of mercy or masochistic urges, bar owners granted them gigs and they’d play their empty little hearts out, not a care in the world or a brain cell between them. They all wanted something more though, a lot more. It was at one of these shows that I first met Andrew Scott.

The Soul of Andrew Scott, Part 1

Let’s be honest: a lot has been written about me, but not very much of it can be considered true. I could scream defamation of character, but that would be to say everything is black and white, right and wrong. People make assumptions, and we all know what happens when you assume; you make an ass out of you, not me. Although, almost everyone has tried to define me it’s really not that easy. Even going back to the beginning with a certain fruit in a young lass’s hand; well, everyone gets the story wrong. In the end though, I’ll always be the monster of humanity’s story even though the truth of the matter is: I did everything for love.

I know what you’re thinking, “What do you know about love?” I believe I know more than the combined knowledge of the entire human race when it comes to love. Did you know everything on your puny little planet with a functioning brain, and even some without, does everything for love? Think about it, even the narcissistic rock star that seems to compile tons upon tons of worldly material only does what he does so you’ll remember him. So you’ll adore him. And what’s another word for adoration? Love. A dog obeys so he’ll gain love from the leader of his pack. The monkey eats the ticks off his neighbor’s back so his neighbor will love him. Even a lot of murderers kill because of a lack or a denial of love. Love makes the world go round or turns it upside down.

I probably would have been a different being had I received more of it. Had I been lavished with love in my past life, I probably wouldn’t need to steal so much of it in this life. Of course, you can’t just take someone’s love away from another, but you can alter a person’s perspective of the one they are meant to love. If someone believes the one they love is a different type of person they may just never get close enough to fall in love. Even better, if they believe their intended doesn’t even exist, then they’ll go seek that love elsewhere. There’s really not much you have to do, just plant the seeds of thought in someone’s mind and they’ll make their own path.

Now, me, I don’t get no love anymore. Get a little taste of power, try to hang out on high for a split second and you’re cast from the highest highs into the deepest lows. You go from being the most beautiful creature in the universe, to being the most reviled. It doesn’t matter if you weren’t trying to take over, everyone automatically gets the assumption that if you try to sit in the throne your head’s swelling. Oh well, thanks to past experiences, no matter how horrendous, I have my own personal and influential throne of power right here.

And just because I’m not getting love lavished upon me on a daily basis doesn’t mean that people don’t heap praises on me, no matter how misguided or warped their perception of reality may be. The Rolling Stones called me a man of wealth and taste in one of their most popular songs (even though they got many of their facts wrong, as I have to say that I was nowhere near St. Petersburg during the Russian Revolution or the Romanov massacre, and that’s just one of the many biographical inaccuracies), and even if they didn’t intend directly to write it for me I still enjoyed it. Then there’s the black metal written in worship to me; it might be a nuisance to my ear, but I do appreciate the sentiment.

In one of my favorite movies, The Usual Suspects it was said that the greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world that I do not exist. Well, that’s part of it. It’s not enough to make someone disbelieve your existence, especially when you have a counterpart that can attest to your existence. Naturally, since they aren’t talking it’s been easy to downplay their existence. Then there are those people that will believe, despite the people around them that refute their claims at any given turn the existence of celestial beings. There’s a special way of handling these people: make them believe beyond the supernatural.

Look, there are a lot of things I can do, but people give me way too much credit. Don’t think that I mind, but for those of you actually keeping track out there: I live in a world of time and limits just like you. I can’t go back in time and change things to my will or see into the future. I’m also not omnipresent or omniscient. I know someone who is, but I think he gave up caring about your kind a long time ago. I can make myself invisible if I like, but I typically choose not to. So if you see me (and I get a kick out of this) I’ll look absolutely normal, but I’ll still make you piss your pants. The best part is you’ll never know why. I’m also not a genie. I can’t just pop in and out and make your wishes come true and take your soul when it’s all over. And possessions are a fool’s errand, I don’t participate in them. I have some friends (others call them minions) who enjoy messing with people, but I never participated in that. I prefer oppression to possession any day of the week.

Very few people can actually say that they’ve come in contact with me though; it’s quite a rare occurrence that I myself choose to meddle in human affairs. If you hear someone say, like Flip Wilson used to say all the time, that I made them do it, chances are I had nothing to do with it. It’s not like you need me to start your wars, and bring prejudices into existence, you guys do a good enough job of that on your own. I might have held sway over a few wannabe world conquerors, but for the most part you’ll destroy yourselves if left unchecked.

But I’ve digressed. You’re not here to hear about li’l ole me; after all, most of you don’t even believe I exist, and a little story ain’t gonna change that now is it? No, you’re here to hear me tell you a story. You want the story of a man who did cross my path seeking fame and fortune. A man willing to part with his soul for the love most, if not all, rock stars so enthusiastically seek. You’re here to hear the story of the soul of Andrew Scott.