Eldritch Noir

Part VII

The Parkerage Theater was a small building between a bank and a Marriot Hotel. Alaric had parked his car a few blocks away, as the street had been closed off. It was filled with adoring fans and paparazzi, snapping pics with large flash bulbs that lit up the night. The density of people intensified as Alaric got closer to the red carpet. The flash of the cameras set off a dull ache behind his eyes. He grunted. This was the type of shit he dealt with when he was dating Reneé, and he did not miss it. Alaric didn't want anyone to know they were dating, so they told the press that Alaric was her bodyguard, an old friend she had hired part-time to keep the crazies away. It was believable, given the number of times Alaric had to punch a photographer in the face or physically get between Reneé and whatever crazy fan just had to hug her.

Alaric remembered a story from the Bible. Meredith once told him about these people who created a golden calf and worshipped it above God. Alaric wasn't religious but supposed celebrities were the new golden calf. Some tattooed the names of people they never met on their flesh or had posters plastered against their walls. Some of it was normal, Alaric supposed. He could remember his adolescent bedroom, posters of Kurt Cobain and Brenden Urie on the walls. But people like this who would try to hop the fence at Reneé's mansion were just demented. And so easy to manipulate.

As Alaric made his way closer to the velvet ropes, people pushed and shoved him aside, trying to get closer. The cheers of people and the snapping of cameras filled Alaric's ears.

"Is that Bill Murray?"

"Mrs. Barnes, over here, over here!"

"Johny, I love you!"

From what Alaric understood about this film, it was merely a B-Lister sequel, but the random people crowding against the ropes seemed excited nonetheless.

Alaric closed his eyes and concentrated. He began to sing an earlier Nirvana track in his mind and heart. He swayed with the crowd, singing in the song, feeling its thrum, vibration, and energy.

A paparazzo shoved against him, and Alaric gently pressed his hand against the photographer's back.

"Get out of the way!" The photographer hissed at him. "You dumb..."

The photographer's voice trailed off. Alaric paid him no attention. A crazed fangirl brushed against Alaric and suddenly stopped screaming. Alaric lightly touched her shoulder. He continued to sing, to feel the vibration deep in his chest, the electric squeal of the guitars, the heavy pounding of the drums.

You feel it, Alaric told them. You feel it... you know who I am.

Sensing it was done, Alaric opened his eyes and felt the energy around him shift. People seemed to part around him, and the distance between him and the crowd grew. Alaric stepped forward, and people moved out of his way, parting like the Red Sea. Paparazzi and fans alike stared at Alaric in confusion until one girl broke the silence.

"It's him!" She screamed. "It's Alaric Hawthorne!"

People started snapping shots of Alaric directly now, and paparazzi and fangirls grabbed at him.

"Alaric, I love you, Alaric!"

"Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Hawthorne, look over here!"

"Wasn't he in Avatar?"

Alaric smiled a bit and ran a hand through his messy hair. These people clamored over a nobody. The paparazzi were wasting their camera storage on some fucker with oily hair and coffee stains on his dress shirt. On Monday, when the spell wore off, and they showed the photos to their supervisors, they would wonder why, in the hell, they had taken so many photos of some random smuck in the crowd.