Don’t Fret
by Allen Cash
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Iggy woke the next morning to massive pain, as if a tiny gremlin was inside his chest and practicing field goals with his heart. Doubled over, clutching himself in a bear hug, willing the pain to stop, Iggy reached for his phone and called 911.
After the paramedics gave him a mild sedative, his pain subsided. A short, chunky man with a growing bald spot told Iggy that, by all accounts, he had suffered a heart attack but, since he was only twenty-three, that was highly unlikely and that it was probably a panic attack.
Iggy thanked them and said he was fine and didn’t need the hospital. As he closed the door, all he could think about was the gig that night. There was too much riding on it. He grabbed the warlock and started playing. As his fingers danced along the fretboard, his mind wandered to the show, and he decided not to tell the guys what had happened to him. Why cause them to be distracted by what could be the biggest night of their lives?
Iggy jumped in the shower. While toweling off, he noticed the mirror reflected a shocking image. Iggy had silver hair and dark circles under his eyes; his skin seemed to hang from his bones. Sharp pain ran through his stomach. Panic crept in like fog.
Acting out of denial, Iggy put his hair in a ponytail, lined his eyes with eyeliner, and hoped the lights would be dim on stage. One last look in the mirror, Iggy grabbed the warlock and was out the door.
* * *
The crowd was already electric. Bass thumped the walls, random cheers, howls and other shrieks of sin rolled through the building.
Jake met them backstage. “Okay, guys, you go on after the next band. That gives you about twenty minutes, so get loose and have some fun. I will check back before you go on.”
After the set, Iggy knew it was a hit. As the last note echoed from the amp, the guys caught their breath. Iggy looked around at the crowd going insane. Zak, Lance, and Jake were all jumping from excitement. He could see Sammy Butler’s designer suit cutting through the crowd like a shark. Hands clapping and nodding in approval, he made his way backstage.
“You boys were terrific! I haven’t heard a sound like that in years, and I would love to work with you.” Sammy stood well over Iggy’s six-foot frame and had to weigh in at two-fifty. A block of a man. He moved like silk and had a sly foxiness in his eyes.
“My secretary will call to set up a meeting. You boys are going to be rich!” He gave Jake a nod of approval, turned, put his cell to his ear, and disappeared like an apparition back into the crowd.
While the guys continued to celebrate, Iggy noticed a smokin’ hot brunette looking at him from the front row. They locked eyes, and Iggy gestured to the side stage. She was tall, thin, and had a dynamite smile that accented her green eyes.
“You want to party with the band tonight, sweetheart?” Iggy asked.
As she looked him up and down, a sexy smile formed on her perfect lips. “I want to do more than that, cowboy.”
* * *
After a night of shots, drugs, and sex, Iggy woke with a leather tongue and a glaring light piercing his eyes. He felt a soft breath on his chest.
“Last night was awesome, baby,” she said while nuzzling him closer.
“Thanks, you were pretty good yourself.” But Iggy couldn’t honestly remember if that was true.
After a couple more minutes, the hottie said, “I gotta pee.” She sat up, leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and let out a gagging sound.
“What the hell! Oh my God! What kind of freak are you?!” She jumped up, grabbed her clothes without bothering to put them on and ran out of the apartment.
Stunned, Iggy followed her but stopped short when one of his wristbands fell to the floor. He frantically put it back on and cinched it tight. Busting into the bathroom and flicking on the light, he was thrown back by what the mirror revealed.
His skin was yellow and saggy. His eyes were blueish-yellow dots in black puddles. Just then, he was struck by a sharp pain deep in his gut. His toes were the color of beets.
After rushing him to Emergency, the doctor ran tests and more tests. With a mix of confusion and concern plastered across his face, the doctor sat at the foot of the bed and placed his hand on Iggy’s ankle. “Mr. Blaine, I don’t know how to say this, but we don’t know what is wrong with you. We have run multiple tests, and it seems as though you are getting worse by the minute.”
“Well, how can that be? I’m only twenty-three.”
Looking at Iggy now, the doctor could only see an eighty-seven-year old man dying from liver disease and kidney failure.
“We will continue to run tests and monitor the situation but, I have to be honest, if there is someone you would like to call, then I suggest you do that now.”
“What the hell does that mean? Am I going to die?”
“Mr. Blaine—”
“Call me Iggy.”
“Iggy, all I can say for sure is that when you first came in, the tests revealed a failing liver. When we ran the second set of tests, your kidneys were also failing. I looked at your blood under the microscope, and I could see the cells dying. That is highly uncommon. I want you to get some rest. We will give you something to help you sleep. I promise you I am on this.” With one last reassuring nod of the head and a pat on the leg, the doctor left the room.
Iggy’s chest tightened, and his arms started to itch. Am I going to die? Why is this happening? I didn’t eat anything weird or smoke anything unusual. Then his mind flashed back to the strange shop and the feeling he got when he picked up the warlock for the first time. And all the crazy stuff he saw on the shelves. Damn, even the old Chinese man was creepy. He knew he couldn’t stay here; he needed to get to his place. He needed to get to his guitar.
Wearing only a hospital gown and boots, he hailed a cab. After a couple of friendly honks, a cab finally pulled over. A bored-looking black man sat with his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. He glanced at Iggy through the rearview. “Where to, mister?”
Thankful that the cabbie didn’t ask questions about his appearance, Iggy sat back and tried not to scratch like a crackhead. When they pulled up in front of his apartment, he told the driver to wait, and he would give him an extra twenty.
“Shoot for an extra twenty, I sit here for you, old man.” Iggy shot the man a bitter look and then remembered he did look like an old man. And he felt like one, too. His breathing was labored, and the four steps leading up to his door took a toll on him. Finally reaching the door, he paused to catch his breath. His legs trembledm and his hands were shaky.
Grabbing his guitar, Iggy made his way back to the cab in slow, lurching steps.
“Hey, buddy, you, ok? You need a hand with that?”
“No, I just need you to drive, and hurry.” Iggy fell into the backseat and started to play.
“You got it, mister,” said the cabbie, who no longer looked at all bored.
They pulled up in front of Mr. Choo, Oddities and Antiquities. Iggy’s hair and face had regained some of their usual color, and his skin didn’t sag quite so badly. A nervous and scared-looking driver sat staring in the rearview with giant eyes.
“You need to get the hell outa my cab, mister.”
Busting through the door of the shop and threatening the life of the little bell that hung from the jamb, Iggy ran or, rather, limped to the counter in the center of the room, yelling for Mr. Choo. He heard shuffling feet coming from behind a beaded curtain.
Mr. Choo entered the room in his slow, calm manner. He was holding a strange item that looked like a snake eating a pig.
“I tell you no play. I tell you it’s a decoration.”
“Come on, man, what is this thing?”
“I tell you: a decoration. And you play. Now you grow old... very old... very fast.”
“Can you stop it?”
“No, I cannot stop. You play, so now you keep playing!” Mr. Choo turned and started to shuffle through the curtain. He stopped and turned back to see a rapidly dying old man slouched against the counter scratching raw spots on his arms.
“Okay, fine, you come back here and play. I will try to help.”
Iggy made his way to the back, sat in an old dusty chair, and started to play. The sound of shuffling sandals faded into the shop, and Iggy started to play. Faster and faster, he ripped cords and licks repeatedly, his knuckles grew stiff, and his mind filled with fog until all he could remember were scales from childhood lessons. He heard the sound of a small bell and stopped playing.
His heart dropped. Mr. Choo had left. There was no help coming. Iggy started to play more frantically. Stands of hair fell around him, and his knuckles started to lock up.
Iggy’s last thoughts came in strobes: his first guitar and playing in front of people for the first time; the first time his playing got him laid; the better days when playing was fun; no pressure on the band. It was just the music, and that’s what he loved. As his hands slipped from the fretboard and the guitar, two leather wristbands fell to the floor.
Once the playing stopped, Mr Choo slowly made his way to the back, stopping only to adjust a trinket and to fuss over the placement of one thing or another. Upon entering the room, he saw an old, lifeless, decayed body. Where flesh once was full, it now hung in dry, gray strands. A chunk of thin white hair tied in a ponytail looked out of place, and the eyes were nothing but puss bubbles.
Mr. Choo shuffled over to the corpse and gently took the instrument from its dead, bony fingers. “I tell you no play.” He turned toward the counter and began whistling a soft tune when his sandal kicked two worn leather wristbands. “Oh well, now, very interesting.” He put them in his pocket.
One by one, he removed the strings and wiped the instrument clean. Mr. Choo shuffled his way to the window and put the guitar back in its original place among the other oddities. Then, removing Iggy’s leather wristbands from his robe and placing them in the window at the base of the guitar, he said, “Yes, this makes very nice... decoration.”
Copyright © 2025 by Allen Cash
