The band was playing late that night. Kerton wasn't sure if they'd ever wrap it up or not. "Much later and it'll be daybreak," he muttered to himself as he shifted his position between the two girls he didn't know. He wasn't even sure how these two had come to join him. In fact, he didn't remember much of anything beyond the cosmic voyage of the guitarist up on stage.

That was Branny, or what he called himself. His real identity was never exposed to anyone, and Kerton supposed that was how he kept up his superhero-like charm. The mystery of the hidden persona.

In the meantime, it was growing hazy dawn outside. The very edge of the sky was lifting, and a tiny glimmer of the sun's veil peeped over the horizon.

But inside, the smoky air of the club was filled with the greasy light of many keroscene lamps and more than a few cigarettes. Branny was gleaming in the stage lights like some mad yellow monster, his eyes shut as he concentrated on each perfect chord. His fingers worked in absolute harmony, marking off each pause and rhythm change with unparallelled intricacy. It was like watching the old women of some far-off country, weaving intricate patterns into exquisite mats, nimble fingers flying. In the same way, the glitter-purple guitar seemed to create patterns in the air, colors made by music. His jacket shone in the clouded air, and it appeared, now and again, that one could almost make out a pair of wings behind him, and a perhaps a halo over his head.

With a suddenness like the end of a free-fall, the music ended, the last single note left hanging on the air, floating through a sea of smoke. There was a pause, as though the audience had been frozen somehow, and then they began to clap. It was the tired yet sincere applause of people who have been up all night, with barely the energy left to move. In fact, many of them very likely had been there all night long.

Branny said a few words of thanks, feeling pretty drained himself, and then took his bow and departed the stage. He came and sat beside Kerton, wedging himself between he and the blonde. She giggled, her red lips cupped in her bony little hand. Her skirt was nearly short enough to be called a belt and she flaunted it, though she didn't really have the body for it. She stroked Branny's firey red hair, giggling as she did so, and leaned against him. He chose to ignore her and just let her cling to him for a while.

"Good show," said Kerton. He leaned back into the deep couch. In the lamp-light, the fabric looked almost black. "I think you've got a following, Brann." He motioned to the familiar faces in the crowd.

"I hope not," he said, putting his arm around the girl at his side. "I'm not in this for fame. Not even money. You know how it is, Kerton. It's a calling." He laughed throatily, not only at his words, but because the blonde girl's hand had worked its way to his crotch. He slid down a little and let her work, relaxing in the cushion of the couch. "I haven't got the guts for a cult following. I'm not like you, man. I would crack under that kind of pressure. You're the one who takes it easy, not me."

"Nah, it's all on the outside." Kerton glanced at the sooty window on the far wall behind them. A few sparse beams of daylight made it in, searchlights in the fog. It turned the smoke from blue to yellow-orange wherever it touched. "It's getting late, Branny. You going to stay the day here?"

Branny was otherwise occupied. He whispered something to the girl. She ran off happily and disappeared into the crowd. Branny turned back to Kerton. "Room upstairs still open?"

"Always vacant for you, Brann," Kerton answered, smiling kindly. "You look beat. Go ahead up."

The guitarist took the rickety stairs to the flat above the club. Kerton owned the place, and it was one of the few places left where Branny could seek refuge. Kerton was like a father to him, had raised him from a child.

His head felt muddled, as it usually did when he played all night. Like something had been using his head and left it in tatters inside. He yawned deeply, and stretched his aching arms. He placed Albaorix, his guitar, next to the mat on which he slept. He liked to keep her by him. As soon as he lay down, his head went dark and fuzzy, daring him to slip further into unconsciousness. It seemed he had no choice.

The dreams seemed to last for hours, but perhaps they were only minutes long, or seconds. Giant, pinwheeling mushrooms of strange colors danced before him, swirling and changing, as though for his amusement (laughter from the mushrooms). Then they began to sweep before him, pummeling him like great hard boulders, but of less inertia. The shapes began to merge together, making great tornadoes of intermingled colors, twisting and writhing, and at last forming a shape. A great multi-hued lizard stood before him, eyes gleaming and grand maw gaping. It made a sound, a sound for him and him alone to hear. Soft and rough, bitter and melodious, loud and low, the humming ran through his brain and shook it into liquid.

It grew stronger and stranger. A heart beating, a trainwhistle, both at once! The sheer power of it was enough to make Branny believe that his head would explode. The lizard. The great and horrible and beautiful and strange Lizard!

Then with a pop his mind opened fully to the sound and the humming filled his mind (almost to overflowing), his very brain seemed to squirm with the weight of all he was taking in from the huge beast before him. And he realized then that it was his own hands pressing against his head and he took them away, scolding them loudly for their traitorous action, and the pain he felt in his head alleviated considerably. The sound still flowed into him from the Lizard, but it was painless and numbing, a soft water moving over his mind, rather than thrusting its way though it. He listened to the sound not only with his ears and mind, but also with his soul, and only then did he understand what the Lizard wanted.

It was calling his name.

Calling him toward it and away from what he had been taught was real.

And it was calling him by his real name, though how he knew this, he did not fully comprehend.

The Lizard called him "Mheshto-nak-tek" (which, as he understood, translated roughly to "He-who-makes-the-rain-music-electric").

He wanted to go to the Lizard, to stroke its great, scaled, smooth-rough skin, but something held him back. Something dispermitted him from going.

His eyes locked onto the Lizard and he told It in a meaning unhooked from language, that he wanted to go to it, he really did. He wanted to join whatever the Lizard had in mind for him and to go wherever the Lizard bade him go. The only response was that Its great, pink tongue lolled out of its mouth. The tongue dripped black ichor, though its surface was marred not at all with the stuff. Mheshto realized only then that the Humming had stopped, recalled that it had stopped when he had recognized the sound and accepted his name.

He continued to watch the Lizard, watching each drop of ichor fall down; down and never stopping. The drops fell an infinite distance while remaining in one spot . . . and they began to change. Each bit of the Lizard's saliva became a bird. Crows, ravens, magpies and martens flew at him, past him, through him, until he thought he would go insane from the constant brushing of their feathers against and in his skin.

But wait! If he was seeing such things, he must already be insane.

Right? Righty-right??

When the lights came back on, he could see everything, except (he realized after due amount of concentration) the Lizard and his bird-kin-saliva-beings. Below him (or as best he could determine, it was down), sprawled like some crazy insect clinging desperately to the wall, was his own body. It shone with sweat, which gave the appearance of being covered with a scaly hide, rather than soft human skin.

He was being pushed away from this image by a thousand caressing hands, all moving in rhythmic patterns over his entire being, carrying him up; up away from it all. The whiteness of the space around him gradually began to shift and change color, undulating and gyrating insanely until he was sure he could stand it no more. Waves of darkness traveled over his vision. He was perfectly calm (ecstatic!!), at ease (in a frenzy!!), and still (twitchy!!). Which way was up again?

There was no up. No down, either. Wait, there had to be a down because that was the direction he was going in. He shot like a diving eagle into his body again, past the skin and meat and bones. Down, down, DOWN.

He felt heavy, barely able to move. It was no longer silent: There was another voice calling his name. Not his name. Yes, it was his name. This new Voice called him "Branny." Yes, that seems familiar. . . .

Kerton's bright blue eyes looked into his own muddy gray ones.

"I thought you'd never wake," said Kerton, in his light, cultured voice. He sat back, relieved.

"Why?" Branny asked groggily. He held his head in an attempt to keep it from rolling off his shoulders. "Have I been out that long?"

"It's nearly midnight."

"I slept all day??"

"No . . . you slept for two days. I would have called the hospital, had I not been able to get you up tonight. Are you okay?"

"Uh . . . no. . . ."

"What do you need?"

"Hard liquor would be nice. Heh, heh." Laughter only made his head hurt more. Besides, his joke didn't feel all that funny to even himself. He felt so hungover that he thought his eyes might pop out of his skull. And best of all, he didn't give a damn whether they did or not.

Kerton smiled warmly and patted him on the back. "You'll be all right." He went and got Branny a glass of water, handed it to him. "Be back on your feet in no time, I'll wager."

Branny's eyes skimmed the floor. He did a double take and sprung to his feet like a mad rabbit. Droplets of water flew out of the glass, shimmering beads of glass on the fire-lit floor . . . dancing. "Where's Albaorix??" he nearly yelled, his voice rising in panic. "I've gotta play tonight!"

Kerton stood and took his shoulder firmly. "Calm down, Branny. She's over there." He pointed to the guitar stand by the wall. Indeed, the purple guitar was there, gleaming with yellow highlights from the light in the room. "You rolled around a lot," he explained quickly. "I was afraid you or she might get hurt. And," he added, "you don't have to play tonight. I booked someone to fill in for you, as I imagined you might not be up and about by now."

Branny's shoulders drooped and he took a deep breath. Then his knees gave out and he almost fell to the floor. The water glass dropped and shattered on the floor, spilling water in great slow-motion tidal action. Branny went down on his knees, despite Kerton's attempt to catch him. His hand grated into the glass, slicing his palm and fingers. Blood mingled with spilled water. "I've got to play tonight!" Branny moaned, his other hand over his face. He did not notice the blood.

"Lie down!" Kerton said, becoming perturbed. He shoved Branny back onto the mat, pinning him there. He ran and got a piece of cloth and a dish with some water in it.

While Branny lay almost patiently, Kerton cleaned and bandaged his hand, even picking out all the little pieces of glass that had remained in the cuts. As he worked, he talked. "You're to stay in here, understood? I have to go out and mind the club. If you value your access to my flat, you'll stay here until I give you permission to come down to the club." He stood up, straightening his blazer. "There's pizza in the fridge," he said and turned to leave.

"Kerton?" Branny asked in a strained voice.

"What is it?" asked Kerton, turning around with a sigh.

"Thanks, man."

He smiled a little. "You're welcome." And then he left.

Branny wiped his nose and put his left hand behind his head. He held the other out and looked at it. Blood was already seeping through the bandages in a few tiny dots, like red roses in the snow. Or drops of blood, he thought. His eyes shifted to the textured plaster ceiling. Faces stared down at him. For a moment he saw a great grinning lizard, but he couldn't be sure. He looked away.

The guitar seemed to squirm as his eyes fell on it. It looked as though it were trying to jump off of the rack. He watched in facination and then a thought struck him, really hard. He wondered if maybe he couldn't bring his guitar to him without even getting up.

He smiled at this thought, a bit wolfishly, and licked his lips. Then he held out his right hand toward his guitar. "Albaorix, come to me!" he said in a mockingly authoritative tone. The guitar shivered, strings shining in multi-faceted arrays of rainbow light. "Albaorix, come to me!" he shouted. The guitar shivered again, more of a spasm, twisting as though alive. And then it moved. It jumped right out of the rack and seemed almost to bolt through the air. He caught her and layed her out across his chest. Quietly, he caressed the strings. The whole thing was carved to look like some strange dragon, purple and white scales. The glass eyes seemed nearly alive, as though red fire burned within them. As his fingers touched the smooth enamel, it seemed that Albaorix purred, ever so slightly, and with a somewhat reptillian tone. Pleasure. The enamel was smooth and warm somehow, as though heated by an internal fire.

Branny thought nothing of it.

It all seemed perfectly natural, however surreal it might have been or felt.

"You my girl, aren't you, Albaorix?" he said slowly, thickly, and in a language that did not feel quite like English. He did not notice the change. "We're going to go places, aren't we?" He stroked the neck of the guitar. It felt like flesh beneath his fingertips.

He lifted up his ivory pick and pressed it to the strings. The music they made was golden and carried well on the red air, but it was not right. It needed something. Electicity. Albaorix needed the amplifier and where was the amp, but downstairs in the club.

Branny/Mheshto got up shakily, clutching Albaorix to him tightly. He thought he felt the guitar writhe for a moment but he held on and stumbled through the door.

He sneaked downstairs and onto the backstage, which wasn't hard with such poor lighting in the club. He was fairly certain that Kerton had not seen him.

The guitarist onstage ripped away, showing no mercy to his beautiful instrument. He pounded notes out of it as though raping it. A drummer and bass guitar player accompanied him onstage, also making noise. It hurt Branny's ears until he felt they might bleed, so he did the only thing he felt was right: He pulled the plug. Shocked looks from the audience, not to mention the stunned player. The bassist continued, hoping his bandmate would catch up, and the drummer seemed not to have noticed anything at all. The guitarist fiddled with his instrument, hoping to get some electric sound out of it. The bass player had stopped and had gotten the drummer to cease as well.

Branny/Mheshto walked out on stage.

The bandmembers shouted at him, but the audience cheered. After all, it was Branny they had come to see. The three men on stage with him hurled curses and angry gestures Branny's way, but he did not notice. Angrily, the three marched off stage, kicking and yelling as they went. The audience, although small, gave a huge cry.

He had already plugged in. Branny/Mheshto needed no band. He stepped up to the microphone.

"Good morning, folks," he crooned in his soft baritone voice. Whistles and hoots from the crowd. Blue smoke blurred their faces. "I don't know what I'm gonna play for you, uh . . . we'll just let it . . . tumble across the strings and . . . see what happens, alright?" He winked at Kerton's bitter face in the crowd, only recognizable by his familiar position on the couch.

Branny/Mheshto shut his eyes, face to the ceiling, and then slowly lowered his countenence. The music came slow at first, long-carried and sadly sweet. He picked up speed, fingers weaving strangely over the frets, keeping up with the pumping rhythm of his right hand. His left hand danced faster and faster as though dancing to summon the gods themselves. The music rose and fell. Became higher, then lower, chasing its own tail, catching it, and then running on. There was awed silence from the audience. Not even a chair squeaked. He did not have to think through the chords; the music came unbidden, unplanned, instinctive. His fingers blurred and left trails. He opened his eyes only once, and it seemed that Albaorix was glowing in his very hands. He closed his eyes again, feeling the power channel through him and drive the music. The bandages had long since fallen from his hand. The ivory pick went flying off into the crowd, landing with no sound. Blood spattered across the strings, the stage, smearing and dripping across the white pick-guard.

Kerton watched him playing like a madman. He saw the guitar flare and was as caught up with it as anyone else. He was frozen, leaning forward, unable to look away. The girls on either side of him, too, had left off drinking or fondling, but sat forward, stupified, watching the man with the violet dragon in his hands.

They all watched on the edge of their seats, the entire club. Branny's fingers seemed to disappear altogether, but the music kept coming, faster than anything they had ever seen. Sweat poured from his forehead and sizzled when it hit the strings. His own blood spattered his face and shirt, but still he kept playing. He looked up once more and saw, above the blue smoke obscuring the crowd, or perhaps made of it, the form of the Lizard. It gloated over the crowd and smiled at him. He played faster, eyes locked onto the Lizard's own. Faster, faster, FASTER!

And then it stopped.

Everything. Mheshto was gone. He did not *poof* out of existance in a puff of smoke or even a flare of light, but simply quit being there. The guitar, too, was gone, leaving a single clear note hanging on the air as the only reminder that the Electric Rain-Music maker had ever been there at all. And then that was gone as well.

There was a thump as an audience member fell to the ground. A hole, about the size and shape of a guitar pick, was evident in his skull.

This seemed to shake the others from their trance. They shook their heads and whispered to each other. The amplifier had melted into the stage floor.

Kerton got to his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, Branny! Let's have some applause!"

Gingerly, the fans began to clap.