Chet Williamson - Reign

He had truly felt that hatred a few months before, when he and Ken, his lover, were walking hand in hand in the village and were passed by four young men who they had seen before in the area. As they walked by, one of the men cupped his genitals and called out, "Hey, faggots, eat me!" to which his friends responded by laughing as though it was the wittiest remark any of them had ever heard, and continued up the street, laughing. It was the first time in years that Quentin had been mocked in that way. But it was not that in itself that disturbed him as much as his hearing one of them say, "Eat me… they gonna get eaten, man, by that AIDS…” and the others laugh in reply.

And the thought had gone through his mind with the heat and savagery of the virus itself. They want me dead. They want all of us dead.

That night he had dreamed of their faces, white, hard, and cruel. And the faces of those ignorant, unthinking, and evil men grew larger and larger until their mouths were a foot across, snapping at him with sharp teeth, and he ran, but the heads rolled after him, and he knew they were not heads of men at all, but the cells of the virus, and once one pair of those sharp teeth had him, he would fall, and they would be on him, and he would be a dead man, having to watch while those ugly mouths ate him alive, leaving his own head for last, so that his eyes would watch and his mind would know and his nerves would feel everything as they slowly devoured him.

Ken shook him into a partial wakefulness, and Quentin, eyes pressed closed, sweated and sobbed and clutched at his lover, wanting to banish the nightmare vision, but hesitant to leave the reality of his dream for the true reality of waking, which could, he thought in the warped logic of dream, be even worse. It was not until Ken whispered over and over again, "Shhh, just a dream, come on, wake up, just a dream…” that Quentin forced his eyes open and saw the familiar glow of the city's lights at the windows. The dream had stayed with him ever since, the dream and the stupid laughter that had caused it.

So he had been grateful for the show, glad to immerse himself in his old friend Dennis Hamilton's real problems instead of his own fantasized ones. It had helped him to drive his phobia into the back of his mind. Like his mother had said, the best way to forget your own problems is to help other people. And God knows Dennis had needed help.

He had been absolutely dreadful in New York. More than simply embarrassing, his performance had been humiliating, nothing but rote memorization, and even that was done poorly, with Dennis dropping lines right and left, leaving the other principals nothing to do but trip on them. It had taken an outburst to make Dennis come to his senses, and Quentin was proud of the way he had handled it. True, it was John Steinberg's idea, but it had taken Quentin (who fancied himself still a decent actor) to bring it off. And true also, he had been shouted at by Dennis in front of the entire company, but he was sure they understood why he had driven Dennis to it. They had seen the remarkable change the outburst had caused.

It had turned the hesitant and sickly actor into the Emperor once again. It had restored the majesty not only to the character but to the man. In just a few short days, Dennis seemed to regain weight, his color had become ruddily healthy, and his voice filled the theatre as surely as his acting did the heart.

And tonight, with the audience, Dennis could only be better. Quentin had never seen a performer respond to an audience as much as Dennis Hamilton did.

Yes, he thought as he picked up his drink and drew his attention back to Dex and Dennis, tonight would be a performance to remember.

The limos started to arrive after seven-thirty, when all the company was safely within the theatre. The ticket takers had been cautioned to look for counterfeit tickets, and found several, although one holder of a counterfeit was actually seated before the ruse was discovered. The seat happened to belong to Cissy Morrison, who, when the usher showed her to an already occupied seat, raised such a fuss that tickets were compared and the man's was found to be wanting embossing. He turned out to be a reporter for one of the shabbier tabloids whose editors had not felt the five thousand dollar investment was worthwhile.

A few people complained about the metal detectors they had to pass through after their tickets were taken, but most went through with good will, even Dan Munro, who first showed his I.D. and then checked his service revolver with the guards. "Just like Dodge City," he told Patty. "Check your guns when you come into town."

An exception to the general cooperation was Willard Prescott, who had produced the film, Sweet Jesus, two years earlier, and had lived in fear of his life ever since a Christian militant organization had sent him a decapitated skunk in the mail, packaged in an Omaha Steaks box. Ever since that day, Prescott had carried a small. 32 caliber pistol in a shoulder holster. He did not, however, have a permit for the county of which Kirkland was a part, and the security guards, who had been warned of the possibility of someone smuggling a firearm into the theatre, patted and then threw Prescott down, removing his weapon while he howled in protest. It took John Steinberg's irked intervention to get Prescott released, although his pistol was unloaded and kept by the guards.

The other smuggler was Larry Peach of the Probe, who tried to carry in a small camera under his sport coat. He set up a howl greater than Prescott's, about freedom of the press and the rights of the public to be informed, but the guards were adamant, even more so when the squabble drew the doubly annoyed John Steinberg back to their sides.

"These bastards won't give me my camera," said Peach.

"When you receive your playbill," Steinberg said smoothly, "you'll find that the taking of photographs is strictly prohibited."

"Not when it's news, pal – or when it turns out to be news, and I got every indication that that's what just might happen tonight. You don't let a reporter photograph news, that's censorship, that's restraint of free trade!"

"And that's enough," Steinberg said, taking a checkbook from the pocket of his dinner jacket and writing in it with a gold fountain pen.

"What are you doing?" Peach asked, still restrained by the security guards.

Steinberg signed with a flourish, tore out a check, and stuffed it into Peach's breast pocket. "That is a check from The New American Musical Theatre Project for five thousand dollars. You are a nuisance, and are hereby ejected from the premises, but with a full refund. See the gentleman out, please."

" Hey! " Peach screamed as the guards half pushed, half dragged him to the doors. "You can't do this! Hey!" He saw a familiar face in the crowd. "Geraldo! Hey, lookit this, man! Freedom of the press! You believe this!… Hey, Geraldo, where you goin'?… Hey, man, this is a story!… Yo! Oprah! "

The security people guarding the stage door were even more vigilant than those in the front of the house. Every member of the company had been patted down for weapons, and every dance bag thoroughly checked. No one complained, as they had all been informed beforehand of the procedures. "It's for your own safety," Curt had told them, "and the safety of everyone in the theatre." He had been about to say, and no one has a thing to worry about, but couldn't get the words out honestly, so left them unsaid.

Curt was worried, in spite of himself. He had been to the bathroom every twenty minutes, knowing that the pressure in his bladder was due to nerves, but that knowledge did nothing to relieve it. It had all gone too easy in the last week.

Dennis had taken a turn for the brilliant, and while it had initially delighted Curt, it now disquieted him. It had been too instantaneous, too abrupt, like a switch in Dennis's brain had been turned on. And Curt knew all too well from working with electrics that what could be turned on could also be turned off. He could handle nearly anything technical that happened on or off the stage, but he couldn't do a thing about the vagaries of the actors' performances except spoon-feed lines, and lower the curtain if things got too bad.