Horatio Slice (Guitar Slayer of the Universe #1)

Chapter 1

Gunner

Gunner Wilkes read the yellowed newspaper article that was tacked above his desk for probably the hundredth time.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. The fire burned so hot and so quick, every trace of Mr. Slice is gone. We didn’t find so much as a bone fragment or a speck of ash. It’s as if—god help me—it’s as if he vanished into thin air.”

The clipping was part of a memorial he’d put together to honor his favorite musician—not so large you’d think Gunner was an obsessed groupie-type—but not so small you wouldn’t think he cared.

Because he did care. A lot.

Two years ago today, he’d been at The Garden, crammed into the nosebleeds, mouthing the lyrics to every Monotony song. When the band launched into their new single, a blinding flash of pyrotechnics illuminated the stage, and when the smoke cleared, Horatio was gone.

Guitar and all.

The audience froze. A palpable hush filled the stadium as rhythm guitarist Beau Breakstone rushed to the spot where Horatio had stood and shouted, “Call 911!” Chaos erupted.

Gunner rode the train back to campus in a haze, and once inside his dorm, collapsed from shock.

A few weeks later, he not only had a wild theory about what may have happened to Horatio Slice—he had a plan to bring him back.

And tonight was his only chance.

After carefully removing the masking tape, Gunner tucked the article into an accordion folder stuffed with other assorted band memorabilia, and placed it in the bottom desk drawer. Tears welled as self doubt crept in, but he shoved all that aside.

He had work to do.

Gunner unlocked his storage closet and grinned at the hoard: six car batteries, four laundry baskets of scavenged computer parts, and enough extension cords to circle the building twice.

As he reached for a carton, one of the stacks shifted and crashed to the floor.

He barely jumped clear before a familiar rhythmic knock froze him in place.

Oh hell no. Not now.

He stomped to the door. “I told you six times already, dude, I’m not going.”

The knocking intensified. “Let me in!”

Knowing his friend wouldn’t leave without a fight, Gunner cracked open the door. Marcus stood there, reeking of body spray and clutching a case of beer.

“I’m in the middle of a big project—”

“Why are you working tonight? Did you forget what day it is?”

“It’s March 18th.”

Marcus grinned. “It’s also your birthday.”

“So let me spend it how I want. Alone.” Gunner tried to shut the door, but Marcus blew past like he was cardboard. Three steps in, he paused.

“Why’s all the furniture jammed against the walls?”

“I needed more floor space.”

“For what, a dance party? You already have the biggest dorm on campus.”

He dropped onto the worn tweed couch—directly facing the now-exposed secret stash.

Crap.

Marcus cracked open two beers and handed one to Gunner. “Take five minutes and have a birthday drink with… ” His voice trailed off as he stared at the mess. “Did your closet explode?” Blinking, he leaned closer. “Don’t tell me you’re selling hot merch.”

“No way. I’ve been collecting cast-offs for an extra credit project, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but six car batteries? You trying to bring back the dead?”

“Yes,” Gunner deadpanned. “Call me Dr. Frankenstein.” He sat on the couch and raised the can. “Twenty-two years around the sun and I’m still broke and single. Boo yah.”

“Boo yah, bro.” Marcus clinked his beer against Gunner’s. “You might meet someone interesting if you go to Gabe’s spring break rager.”

“You know this is a tough time of the year for me, right?”

Marcus winced. “Oh shit, sorry. I forgot Horatio Slice died on your birthday.” He turned his body toward Gunner, face washed in concern. “That was painful for you, but after two years, maybe it’s time to let go? I see you took your shrine down, that’s a healthy step forward.”

Gunner bristled. His love for Monotony’s music ran deeper than mere fandom. At sixteen, depressed and about to take his own life, Horatio’s lyrics pulled him from the darkness.

Horatio Slice saved Gunner’s life.

“It wasn’t a shrine. And just so you know, sometimes letting go is really fucking hard.”

Marcus switched to a more therapeutic tone. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not today, Mr. Psych Major.” Gunner glanced at the clock.

“Okay, let’s go to the party. Escaping this subterranean hellhole for a few hours will do you good.” Marcus looked him over, wrinkling his nose. “Go dry your hair and change into something less raggedy.”

Gunner stood, hoping he’d take the hint. “Everything I own looks like this. Besides, I’m fine. Go have a good time without me.”

“Right. I’ll be fielding questions from chicks all night.” Marcus adopted a mocking falsetto. “Where’s Gunner? Why didn’t you bring him? He’s so pretty and sweet. I want to braid his hair and pinch his cute round butt.”

“Wait… women really say that about my butt?”

“I might have paraphrased a little, but dude, you could hang out with a different woman every night, yet you sit in this dump alone.” Marcus stabbed the air with his finger. “What the hell is up with that?”

“Social situations give me hives. Besides, women are intimidating. I don’t know how to talk to them without sounding stupid.”

Marcus pointed to the vintage guitar hanging by its strap on the wall. “Bring that. Chicks will be on your ass like ants on sugar.”

“Until they find out I can only play three chords.” Gunner took a sip of the cheap, lukewarm beer and tried to pretend it didn’t taste like bug spray.

“Use it as a prop. You already have the whole rock star vibe going on.”

“My Gibson’s a one-of-a-kind collectible. I couldn’t take it anywhere. What if it got scratched?” His breath hitched. “Or stolen?”

Marcus let out an exhausted sigh. “I’m never getting you out of here, am I?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay. More hot chicks for me.” Marcus drained his beer and set the empty on the floor. “You’re still meeting me at the gym tomorrow?”

“Hell yeah. 9:00 a.m.” He helped Marcus extricate himself from the mushy couch cushions. “Good luck with the chicks.”

“With this bod, I don’t need luck.” He chuckled. “But I might need oxygen after they start piling on, you know what I’m saying?”

“You are messed up.” Gunner went in for a one-armed bro hug but shifted to an awkward bear hug instead. “Thanks for checking in. It means a lot.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, Wilkes.” Marcus squeezed him tight. “Hey, if dudes are more your thing, you can tell me. Nothing would change between us.”

“Look at the time.” Gunner forced a smile. “You’re gonna be super late.”

“Every serious conversation with you is like a game of dodgeball.” Marcus picked up the case and smirked. “Lucky you’re so pretty.”

Gunner raised an eyebrow. “Who’s into dudes now?”

“Seriously, Gun, I’ve always thought you were.”

Gunner rubbed his pendant—a tiny glass vial hanging from a leather cord—against his lower lip, wishing it possessed some magical power that would unlock his truth.

But it didn’t.

Instead, he offered a weak reply. “I guess it’s possible. Maybe.”

“Maybe take some time to figure it out. There’s a lot more to you than circuit boards, coding, and dressing like a tenth grader.” Marcus handed him another beer. “Party down. It’s still your goddamned birthday.”

“I’ll shotgun it in your honor. Like a tenth grader.”

After seeing Marcus out, he locked the door and sighed with relief.

It was time.

Gunner dragged the contents of his closet into the center of the room.

Following the diagram he’d labored over for months, he connected the pieces in precise order.

Hours later, he stood before an eight-foot circle of electronic gadgetry held together by paper clips, duct tape, and hope. He looked at the ceiling and winced.

“He’ll need a landing pad.” Gunner dragged the mattress from his bottom bunk and centered it. Hands on hips, he surveyed his machine.

“This has to work. It just fucking has to.”

He’d never believed Horatio Slice spontaneously combusted.

In the weeks following his ‘death’, Gunner scanned every concert clip he could find, frame by frame.

Just when he was ready to give up, he found a forgotten high-res video filmed by the band’s official photographer and spotted something no one else had: a green ring of light flaring beneath Horatio’s boots just before the pyrotechnics ignited.

To Gunner, it meant one thing: Horatio Slice had dropped through a portal into an alternate dimension.

Months from finishing his master’s in computer science, Gunner pushed beyond the limits of authorized knowledge, pouring everything he had—and a few secrets best left unexplained—into building a machine he hoped could reopen the portal.

Now, his brainchild lay before him, waiting to take its first breath. With the flick of a switch, batteries hummed, monitors glowed, and his custom-made software reported the status he’d hoped for: system functioning as expected.

“Yes!” Gunner pumped his fist. “I did it.”

A green box popped up on his laptop: Perform test now? Y or N?

Gunner stared at the Y key for five minutes before gathering the courage to click it. The machine roared to life, shaking so violently it shattered a nearby juice glass filled with spare change. Five seconds later, the room fell silent.

Another green box appeared: Test = positive.

Fearing what might happen at maximum power, Gunner built a haphazard shelter.

He pushed the sofa away from the wall, piled on pillows, and slid a low bookcase in front for added protection.

Satisfied, he checked the clock: 8:50 p.m. He needed to open the portal at 9:24, the exact moment Horatio had vanished.

If everything went according to plan, Horatio Slice would arrive in less than an hour.

“Less than an hour?”

The place was a mess. He stashed the beer in his mini-fridge, tossed some trash, and flung his dirty laundry onto the top bunk. On his way to the bathroom, he noticed two vivid blue eyes staring at him.

“Sorry, dude, you have to go.”

Gunner took down his favorite poster from the wall behind his dresser—a rather large copy of Horatio’s most famous shot. He wasn’t ashamed. He just didn’t want Horatio to see it and think he was some random horny fanboy.

Treasure stowed, he dashed to the bathroom and groaned at his dirty T-shirt and tangled hair.

Even after cleaning up for the fifth time, Gunner wasn’t ready to meet his idol.

Horatio was a GOD who’d probably arrive in a mist of expensive cologne, wrapped in skin-tight leather, dark hair gleaming as it cascaded down his insanely broad shoulders…

Fuck. I am a horny fanboy.

Gunner rested his butt against the bathroom counter. Marcus’ words lingered. He’d known he was gay since age fourteen, when he became obsessed with a long-haired anime character named Fang. Back then, it wasn’t about identity. It about his raging hormones and the satisfaction of a good wank.

But at sixteen, tragedy turned his life upside down. Grief consumed his identity, his desires, and even his will to go on. During his first year of college, the darkness began to lift, piece by piece, but then, Horatio Slice vanished.

The bathroom clock read 9:20 p.m.

“Four minutes!”

Gunner tucked his pendant into his shirt and sprinted to the machine. Squatting before the laptop, his hands trembled as he entered the password. A red box appeared: Open the portal? Y or N. In four minutes, he’d press Y and hope to hell his invention worked.

But what if something went wrong? What if the building exploded? What if he summoned Cthulhu instead of Horatio?

Fuck it. I’ve come this far. Might as well see it through.

He willed the clock to move faster while his fingers twitched in anticipation.

9:24 p.m.

“Okay, Horatio Slice. You saved my life. Now I return the favor.”

He punched Y, and the room exploded with light and sound.

“Holy shit!”

Gunner dove behind the fortress as if sliding into home base, wincing when his elbow scraped the rug.

Now on his knees, he peeked over the furniture, struggling to comprehend the chaos around him.

The air crackled and turned blue. Deafening vibrations shook every object in the room.

The noise crescendoed into a thunderous crack that reverberated through his spine.

He bit down on a knuckle to stifle his screams of terror as a shimmering circle of green light appeared in the ceiling.

In slow motion, two bare feet emerged, followed by muscled legs, one adorned with a distinctive snake tattoo winding around the calf.

“It’s really him,” Gunner gasped. “I fucking did it!”

What came next turned his mind inside out: a pair of firm balls, followed by something firmer. A cock. A gigantic, hard cock. The crown pointed north toward ridiculously defined abs.

Wondering why his clothes didn’t make the jump, Gunner rose higher on his knees for a better view as the rest of the rock god materialized.

Once his head cleared the portal, the cacophony ceased, and the room returned to normal.

Unfortunately for Horatio, so did time. He crash-landed onto the mattress with a sickening thud.

“Ow! That hurt like a motherfucker.”

And just like that, Horatio Slice was back—stark naked and kind of pissed off.