Bonus Epilogue Two
A Final Encore
Declan
“You sure you wanna do this?”
Issa has asked me this same question a dozen times since the beginning of tonight’s concert. She’s staring at me expectantly, her expression that of a wife long used to humoring her sometimes impulsive husband.
Smiling brightly, I nod, then bend down and place my lips firmly against hers. She barely has a moment to kiss me back before I straighten, lifting my guitar strap over my head and adjusting it exactly how I like it. I’m not meeting her eyes directly, but I see them narrow, her head cocking to the side as she examines me closely. Then one of her hands moves to her hip, the other coming up so she can point at me. “Declan Hughes, you better not—”
“Gotta go,” I interrupt, my hand raised to pull back the curtain blocking me from the stage. I grip the thick fabric, pausing to glance back at her over my shoulder as I add, “You should probably get your mic ready.”
“Goddamn it, Declan,” she huffs, but I’m already on the other side of the curtain, her loud cursing fading as the roar of the crowd pulses through the arena.
I step up to the mic, tapping on it as I always do, even though I know it’s on and works just fine. The loud noise riles the crowd, many of them frequent flyers who expect this type of behavior.
“Are we having a good time, or are we having a good time?”
The decibel level of the crowd increases exponentially, and I laugh, truly happy to be on this stage at this moment.
“I’m rich, you know,” I state nonchalantly, not at all surprised when the din of the crowd lessens slightly. I wait for them to quiet down, and then they stand there, staring up at me expectantly.
Because they know I’m gonna do something.
“Do you know how much revenue the average arena concert series generates?”
Various answers are shouted from the crowd, some comical, some angry. Some are even close to the truth. I laugh, nodding and then waving a hand in the air until once again they’re quiet, and then I respond, “Exactly. A lot of fucking money.”
I sigh heavily, suddenly turning somber. As if they sense the shift in my mood, the raucous uproar lessens. I wait patiently, allowing them to settle naturally, knowing that at some point, there will be complete silence.
Because they know what I do with complete silence.
I fuck it up.
“I know some of you are likely confused on why I’m playing the role of captain obvious douchebag up here, and let me assure you, I will explain fully once I get a few things off my chest.” I pause, allowing my words to sink in until the general vibe of the room is for me to continue, and so I do, “Anyone else here just fucking pissed off at the state of the world?”
A wave of hooting and shouting picks up, and then, right as things begin to dull, a sharp voice from the back shouts, “You mean the US of fucking A.”
I make a show of thinking about it and then another show of nodding my head as if I begrudgingly agree with the sentiment. There are a few boos, but for the most part, it appears the audience is in general agreement that the state of the USA is questionable.
“Listen, folks,” I say mildly. “I’ve been in some fucking clown cars in my day, and this one here, well…this one takes the fucking clown car cake all the way to fucking hell.”
Laughter titters through the arena, but it lacks what laughter needs to truly catch on and spread.
Joy.
“I can’t decide if humans are winning or losing,” I say softly. “I mean, surely there are millions of humans who feel they are winning off the backs of hundreds of millions of humans who are definitely fucking losing.”
The faces in front of me are nodding, some smiling sadly, even more looking tearful. Somberness sets in, a lightly detectable moroseness that has everyone settling in, waiting, listening.
“Anyone here feeling afraid?” There is shouts of confirmation, nodding heads. “Anyone here feeling sadness?” The shouts increase, vigorous nods, tears flow freely. “Anyone here feeling utterly infuriated?” Now, a solid vibrato of screaming fury that takes several minutes to dissipate.
I wait patiently, allowing them to blow off some much-needed steam before continuing, “Anyone here feel helpless?”
Silence.
Aching fucking silence.
I frown, knowing the difficulty behind admitting to something as vulnerable as helplessness. “It’s okay to feel all those things. We can be afraid, sad, and infuriated, and still attempt to do good in this world.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” an angry voice breaks through the stillness. I stare out into the crowd, searching out the voice, but coming up with mostly shadows and glaring lights.
So, I nod, “I won’t disagree with you there. It’s easy for me to be afraid, sad, and infuriated from the security of my Beverly Hills mansion. My sense of helplessness doesn’t even touch upon the helplessness felt by the millions of Americans who fear for their very lives every second of the fucking day.”
Everyone is quiet again, and I take a moment to collect my thoughts, preferring not to ramble aimlessly, even though that tends to be my forte. “But does my blatant privilege mean I should just sit back and stay quiet when so many of my fellow Americans are struggling and suffering?” Heads shake. “Should I ignore the utter lunacy going on around me just because it doesn’t affect me directly?” Fists raise.
“Because that’s exactly what they want,” I retort. “They want the wealthy to rest easy on their own laurels and not interfere. They want those with the means to actually do something to hide in their mansions and allow the power-hungry greed machine to do their work unfettered, untethered, and unquestioned because they will never have enough power.”
It’s quiet again, all those faces watching me, listening. But there’s a buzz beneath the silence, a yearning to do something, anything. So, I shout, “Now, what does a power-hungry greed machine do to attain more and more power?”
I stand back, allowing the audience to shout and scream, stomp and clap, then I step back up, nodding. “That’s fucking right. They fucking lie. They fucking steal. They pit all of us against each other in the hopes of dividing us because there is power in numbers, and the first thing they want to do is strip the everyday American of their power.
“They’re going to dismantle important programs; programs that provide for the less fortunate, programs that teach and heal. Programs that advocate for change, that protect those who cannot protect themselves because. without those protections, those at risk become hyper-dependent on the machine and, in turn, are more likely to follow said machine into chaos disguised as freedom.
A boo sounds from the front row. “As if your rich ass needs any more money.” I look down, meet the angry gaze of a young man who doesn’t look older than twenty. He’s glaring up at me, but there’s more than anger reflected in his eyes. Sadness, panic.
“You’re right,” I agree quietly, then state clearly. “I’m a rich-ass motherfucker who doesn’t actually need any more money. I could not work another day in my entire life and continue to live high off the interest payments alone, and that in itself sets me apart from hundreds of millions of Americans struggling to make a moderately comfortable life. It is also this that makes my silence completely unacceptable, and that’s why I’ve decided to use my profits from this concert series and any future concerts I put on in the future to establish a foundation that will fund much-needed programs to support those in need. Programs that will fight food insecurity, illiteracy, and gaps in adequate healthcare coverage. Programs that will enrich and educate American children because unless they are provided the appropriate tools to become successful adults, America is doomed and, along with it, any semblance of the American dream.”
The cheering reaches a crescendo, and I raise both hands, urging them to settle down. It takes a few moments, but soon, we’re back to the occasional whistle, and I continue, “I know this isn’t nearly enough to fix things; this is more of a temporary Band-Aid on an ever-festering wound, but there are over seven hundred billionaires in the United States. Over nine hundred mega rich citizens who could easily take a hint from me and dip their toes into true philanthropy if they decided they wanted to truly give back to their country.”
Again, they scream, stomp, and cheer, and I find myself suddenly blinking rapidly, a well of emotion catching me off-guard. “I hope you all know what a great privilege it has been for me to have had the opportunity to entertain you all for so many years. Yes, I’ve worked hard and put in the time, effort, sweat, and tears, but without your support, I would not be in the position I am today. It’s because of you all that I have the means to live well, and giving back is the best way I have to pay it forward.”
I use their exuberance to get some control over myself, swigging some water and then returning to the mic. “Now, I know you all want to hear a preview of my new song, a song that will also see its profits donated to those in need. Per usual, it’s not finished, and it’s rough, but who better to give it a first listen than an arena full of fans.”
“What do you say?” I drawl, already glancing toward the side of the stage where I know Issa is waiting, glaring daggers at me. “Shall we get my lovely wife out here?”
Just as expected, the crowd loses their fucking minds, and I chuckle, allowing the deep rumble to send vibrations through the arena. I turn to the side, peering at the curtain that has rustled but not parted, and after a moment, I sing-song, “Issa, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The curtain moves now, likely because she doesn’t want a repeat of the last time she attempted to thwart our impromptu rock opera rap battle duet. She appears with a stumble, which means Jessica likely gave her a little push, an assumption confirmed when Issa glares over her shoulder.
With a quick shake of her head, she rights herself fully and walks out onto the stage with her head held high. Waving at the cheering crowd, she smiles brightly, and I can see from the glow of her eyes that her response is genuine.
Then she stands beside me, glowering, her foot tapping impatiently.
“Do you want a chair, doll face?” I ask cheerily, knowing full well she’s gonna tell me to shove it right up my ass.
Issa glares at me, pressing her lips together briefly before finally bringing the mic to her lips. “Only if I can WWE you with it.”
Raising my brows at her, I shake my head, then turn to the crowd and respond, “Can you believe that? My lovely bride threatening me with a chair?”
Right on cue, the audience makes a show of siding with Issa, who smirks at me pleasantly. My heart swells in my chest, our standard concert battle a highlight of every show. And also one of the many delights of my life, if I’m totally honest.
I lean in close, but not so close that the microphone doesn’t pick up my words as I say, “No, really. Do you want a chair?”
She makes a show of rolling her eyes, and then she waves her hand dismissively. “I don’t take this as a sittin’ kinda encore.”
Grinning at her, I nod. “You know, I think you may be onto somethin’.”
Her expression turns rather prim, and my smile broadens as I turn back to the crowd. Connor, my lead guitarist, lays out a lick, the residual whine igniting silent electricity throughout the crowd.
“How about we close this fucker with a statement?”
Connor and the rest of my band don’t wait; they let the notes fly just as the crowd screams their acquiescence on whatever new shit I have coming. Because they already fucking know.
“Did someone say politically charged rage anthem?”
Issa gives me a sheepish smile, shaking her head slowly as I wink at her, then turn to face my mic.
Line ‘em up, ship ‘em out Don’t even bother askin’ about The fallout between human decency Empathy, as we continuously crush The backbone of humanity.
And for what? Babies cryin’, homeless and starvin’ Yanked from their mama’s and left dyin’ Veterans and the elderly abandoned, Education system ransacked and vacated.
Backs turned, the ignorant bliss Of living up high in that glass house Sitting pretty on a throne of thorns Sneering from shadows and darkness The only way to hide that head of horns
From the eyes of reality so blinded We feel resistance is futile The path of justice, now a dead-end All while we search for the beautiful The light, the tiny bits of joyful,
Our last-ditch effort to outsmart them The enemy that would see us doomed. While we hold on tight to all we have left, Hope, cause maybe we’ll relearn how to love Once we decide enough is enough.
Issa’s lip curls as I turn to her, her eyes still glaring, though no longer directed at me. The crowd waits, the tap, tap, tap of my drummer, knowing from experience that she’s revving up, that anger spiraling inside her fueling a fire she’ll unleash in due time.
Enough of this hate, This endless need to aggravate Indiscriminately yet with great intent To differentiate a gaping chasm between classes That were supposed to be long past eradicated.
Enough of this deep wrong Behind the societal norm To roll over and blindly conform To the man, the grifter, the mega-rich Motherfucking misogynist
Enough of the people who spout off About their personal ideas of ridiculousness Like basic human rights, Bodily autonomy, Social Security, A fucking Ponzi scheme
Enough of this closed-minded, Judgmental nonsense Where we waste all this energy Worrying about those doing no harm And instead, choose to openly support Cheats, thieves and rapists.
Enough of this complicity, this tendency to fall back on ignorance when the blowback doesn’t affect you. Because if you’ve forgotten how to love You need to ask yourself when is enough enough?
Issa drops her mic, her chest heaving, and I can tell from her stance that she’s having difficulty not throwing her microphone against a wall. I close the distance between us, gripping her hand that’s still holding the microphone and lifting it in front of me as the music stops and my voice grits out across the arena.
Our last-ditch effort to outsmart them The enemy that would see us doomed. While we hold on tight to all we have left, Hope, cause maybe we’ll relearn how to love Once we decide enough is enough.
She blinks at me as my last note fades, and I track the lone tear that trickles from the corner of her eye. Her hand drops to her side, and I step close, kissing away the tear and then pressing my lips against hers. I kiss her thoroughly, a show-ending staple at this point that has everyone hooting, and then I turn back to the crowd once more, my hand in the air. “Obviously, this is just the beginning. Now it’s your job to go out there and show America what America is made of. Be kind, take care of those you love, and live every day like it’s your last because it truly could be. I love you.”
I don’t wait for a response, turning back to Issa and grabbing her hand before heading off stage. One of my backstage crew holds the curtain open for us, then takes my guitar from me, handing me a towel and my jacket, before taking off in the direction of makeshift dressing rooms.
Normally, I would utilize one, at least for a quick wash up and a fresh set of clothes, but this time, I can’t be bothered. My phone pings from my jacket pocket, but I ignore it. I turn to Issa and hold my hand out to her as I ask, “Can we just go home?”
She smiles, her expression the same as it was not even an hour ago, and I grin, knowing that I, once again, owe her. After a moment, she puts her hand in mine, walking with me toward the back exit, where there’s a car waiting for us. “Home sounds good.”
My phone pings again, then two more times in a row, so I yank it out of my jacket pocket, sighing heavily as I open the fuck-around chat that has obviously been bust for a while. I scroll up to the beginning, rolling my eyes and then groaning as I get the general gist of the conversation.
Huffing, I pocket the phone, turning to Issa, who’s watching me intently. “Change of plans.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, something’s come up,” I explain, waving my hand around in my typical dismissive fashion. “So, we gotta make a little detour first.”
“Oh, really?” she asks, smiling knowingly. “And where are we going now?”
Pressing my hand against her lower back, I maneuver her ahead of me out the door, following closely behind as I reply, “The End, darlin’. We’re going to The End.”
The Actual Official Fucking End End