Nybbas returned to applause.
When you're the Prince of the Media, you quickly learn
to distinguish between various types of applause.
There's many kinds, ranging from 'I'm applauding
because I really don't want to die' to 'I'm applauding
because everyone else is' to 'I'm applauding because
it's finally over and I can go back to what I was
originally doing'. Plus, of course, 'I'm applauding
because I'm a good little bootlicking toady' - but
that's practically part of Perdition's background
noise anyway. However, this particular time the
applause had an odd note to it.
The note was, freakishly enough, sincerity.
The decorations had obviously been set up on short
notice, but were impressive for all that. Monitors
flanked the broad clearing; on each one was a montage
of scenes from the Prince's recent Role on Earth as a
superstar musician, up to and including the fiery car
crash that culminated it. Every spare speaker in
Perdition had been dragooned into playing Nybbas'
signature song from that Role - a song that was now
assured even more airplay, even more obsession, even
more influence for the foreseeable future. Nybbas had
timed things perfectly; he had 'died' at the height of
his Role's popularity, and there were plenty of
previously recorded tracks available to keep the hype
going - not to mention control musical tastes for the
next ten years. In short, it was a virtuoso
performance that had impressed even the most jaded.
The applause had by now grown to deafening levels -
then shut off with a shocking finality. The crowd of
demons rippled as each one went to one knee (or
equivalent), showing their obeisance to their Prince.
The silence was broken only with the sound of hundred
of thousands of autograph books opened and proffered.
Nybbas grinned and raised his hands. "What can I say,
baby?"
The traditional response shook the Principality.
"LIVE FAST, DIE YOUNG AND LEAVE A GOOD-LOOKING
CORPSE!"
The crowd did not, of course, carry him to his office
- even under these unusual circumstances, Hell is not
a place to be too familiar - but it was still an
amazingly jovial and enthusiastic progression, all the
same. Demons are not given towards showing
appreciation for another's abilities, but there is
such a thing as professional pride. Nybbas had just
once again personally demonstrated that he was,
indeed, THE MAN - and incidentally made all of their
jobs easier. Besides, it wasn't showing weakness if
everybody else was doing it, too. Also, of course, no
one in the crowd even thought to speculate about
presuming to follow Nybbas into his inner sanctum. If
he needed any of them, he'd say so. If he didn't...
well, better not to spoil the Prince's mood.
Once in his office, the Prince relaxed. Seated in his
favorite chair, finest cigar in his mouth, his face
was unwontedly serene as he perused the ever-shifting
monitor bank in front of him. It was all good, baby.
Until, of course, it wasn't.
Nybbas had by now worn his trademark smile for so long
that it was a real effort to remove it - but for once
it went away normally as he stared out into nothing.
After a certain amount of time, he stood, opened a
desk drawer, pulled out a key and walked over to a
cabinet. Inside the cabinet were a variety of musical
instruments: all glittery and ornate, of course, but
of undeniable quality. Nybbas removed the guitar,
brought it over to an amp and plugged it in. Then, he
began to play.
The tune that he expertly performed was the same as
the one that heralded his arrival, but the Prince
didn't play it even remotely like he had a thousand
times on Earth. He played it... hesitantly,
carefully. Various bars would be replayed, as if he
was trying to hear something, or else bring something
forward. After running through the song several
times, Nybbas began to sing along, again almost
seeming to be trying to hear for some undetermined
note or lyric. His facial expressions were partly
obscured by his glasses, of course - but his very
posture declared that he was looking for something
that not even he was sure existed.
Eventually, he stopped, shrugged, unplugged the guitar
and put it back in the cabinet. Still obviously
vaguely dissatisfied, Nybbas turned - and froze.
There was a bulky envelope on his desk.
It took some time before the Prince of the Media could
be satisfied that the envelope and its contents
weren't about to explode, implode or otherwise attack
him. It took some more time before he could bring
himself to open it; there was a lingering smell to it
that Nybbas was grimly sure that he recognized.
Inside the envelope were a folded note and a standard
audiocassette tape. Being Nybbas, he naturally
accessed the latter first, not even bothering to use a
tape deck. What was on it shocked him.
It was his song.
Well, it was mostly his song. 99.99% his song. There
were minute changes: very, very minute. A few words
were pitched slightly differently, or altered. The
notes had been moved up or down in a few places. The
overall speed was somewhat slower. It was instantly
recognizable - and, somehow, so very, very different
than his version. So much better. Nybbas could hear
the improvement, and knew that this was what he had
been hearing in his head, all along. He also knew
that, once humanity heard this version, a thousand
cover bands would immediately switch to the new
arrangement. Somehow, he knew that humanity would
hear this arrangement.
It didn't destroy his success - it did something
worse. It used it.
After a while, he opened the note. It was, of course,
from that eternal thorn in his side.
<I was in a studio and just thought that I'd whip this
off; I could see where you were going with this one,
but you were forcing it. Stuff like this has got its
own opinion about what it should be. Let it flow out
next time and see where it takes you, OK?
-E
PS: No need to fix the Grammies this year: it'll win
on its own merits.>
The tape, envelope and note impacted the wall so hard
that they left dents - but, afterwards, the Prince of
the Media angrily set up the guitar again and replayed
the song, using the new arrangement. After playing
through the entire number, Nybbas simply stood there,
his face only slowly losing its furious expression.
Reluctantly, he nodded. It did work better - but, by
Lucifer, it was still his Goddamned song, not Eli's.
He made it, not the Archangel of Creation, and no
amount of the latter's tweaking could take that
accomplishment away from him.
It was not until quite some time later that it
occurred to Nybbas that possibly that had been Eli's
real point all along...
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