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Confessions of an

Inarian Rock Star

Preface

By the author

I wrote this story as a fictional autobiography. It takes place in a place and time period I'm very familiar with. That being said, there is going to be a lot of name dropping of places and people. I try to portray them as either neutral or positive and I am not, in any way, trying to insinuate that I've either met them or know what they are like. Also, as far as places go, some don't exist, some aren't correct for the time period, but this is a work of fiction, even though I try to be as accurate in my setting as possible. There are also some events that don't happen, mostly as an effort to keep my story telling on the track I want.

As this is portraying a musician, there might be a bit of gear talk. I tried to keep it as simple as possible, but I am a gear nerd, so I do apologize if I go a bit overboard. If anyone needs an explanation as to what I'm talking about, feel free to message me and I'd be happy to explain.

I do want to explain a bit how the Inarians and Nekomatas work in my stories. In this story, they are both basically divergent evolutions from humans. Inarians evolved with fox ears and tails and Nekomatas are more cat- like with the said parts. Nekomatas have mostly dark hair, either black or shades of brown. There are some that come from colder areas that have lighter-colored fur, blonde hair, and thicker fur on their tails and ears, which give them a more wolf-like appearance and are typically called wolf-Nekomatas or just wolves. Inarians are mostly various shades of red, but blonde is not that uncommon. Of course, in the name of self-expression, some choose to dye their fur and hair, but it's not a natural occurrence.

Now, humans and Nekomata or Inarians can have children naturally, but Nekomatas and Inarians can't. I'm not going to go too much into it, but suffice it to say, humans are kind of like the DNA foundation between them and are compatible. A bit more gets explained in the story, so I'll leave it at that.

Now, on with Kevin Korig's story...

Introduction

September 8, 2009 was the worst day of my life. Libertine Priest had just played one of the best shows we had ever done the night before at Soldier Field in front of 80,000 fans in Chicago. We knew the night would be special, so we recorded the event for a live DVD and album.

The next morning, however, I was woken up at 7:28 by a pounding on my door. I knew we had to get ready for that night's show in Milwaukee, but I didn't think I had to be up so soon. There was no press or interviews, so I decided to sleep in. As I woke up, I heard a lot of commotion in the hallway and wondered what the hell was going on. When I opened the door, still in my t-shirt and boxer briefs, Mike our bass player, songwriting partner, and best friend since childhood was standing there, tears streaming into his well-trimmed beard.

I was still groggy, but I felt adrenaline kick in; something was terribly wrong, "What the hell's going on?"

Crying and choking back tears, all my friend could say was, "It's Brian, man... He's dead."

I felt my blood go cold and my tail fluff out in disbelief at what he just told me. I looked down the hallway and saw it full of people. Brian's room was right next to mine and I saw Fiadh, our Inarian keyboard player with her hands cupped over her face, staring into his room, tears running down her face. Jamal, our drummer stood next to her, jaw slack, wiping tears from his eyes, looking like a lost child.

Fiadh started crying out, "No! No! Oh god, Brian, WHY?!!"

The reality hit me when I saw the paramedics pushing a gurney with a body bag on it. Fiadh pushed into Jamal's chest, her tail fuzzed out as he tried to comfort her as they took his body away.

Our manager, Benny "the Penny" as Brian playfully called him, came over to us. He looked shaken, but put on a very brave front. I could tell he was hit as hard as the rest of us.

He spoke to us in a very somber, fatherly tone, "Listen, I can't say enough about Brian. He was like a son to me as much as you all are like my kids. I have to head to the coroner's office and take care Brian. I'm going to call his family before I go, as I suggest you all do, once you can. Jamal, your brother's going to take care of things here until I get back. Don't talk to the press, don't make any statements until I get back, understood?"

We all nodded in agreement.

We lingered in the hallway as our touring family came up to give their condolences. Brian was their family, too and they felt the loss as much as we did. Hardened roadies with years of experience and who have seen and did it all were shaken to their cores. Beast, who was a former biker and body guard for the Allman Brothers came up to me crying like a baby... no crying like he lost his own brother, "How the fuck could this happen? He shouldn't have died like this, man."

Beast had to reach down to hug me. He was 6' 5" and 300 lbs and even though he was much older than us, and about the toughest person I knew, he cried in my shoulder with audible sobs.

I turned to Mike and asked him what happened, "I went to wake Brian up so we could go out and grab breakfast."

It was a ritual the two of them had while on tour. If there wasn't anything booked in the morning, it gave them a chance to breathe and explore whatever city we happened to be in.

"I knocked on the door and I didn't hear anything, so I knocked harder, and nothing. I got Benny after knocking for five minutes so he could open the door. When he came, I went into the room and it was so quiet, so still. I saw Brian on the bed on his side and went to wake him. When I touched him, his skin was ice cold," he said as he began choking back tears.

"Mike, you didn't see any..." I began to ask before he cut me off.

"No, no, the only thing I saw other than his clothes was an open can of soda."

I felt bad asking the question, but given a really bad period he went through, I wanted to make sure. I still couldn't believe what was happening; it seemed like a bad dream I couldn't wake up from. I went back to my room, but I propped the door open. The first thing I did was call my parents. My dad answered the phone and I can honestly say it was good to hear his voice. He consoled me and asked if I wanted to speak to mom, so I told him I did. She let me talk and I just talked about all the good and bad times we had. We spoke for an hour and they told me how much they loved me before going.

When I got off the phone, the first image that flashed in my mind was the photo of Brian, taken when he was 13 in his Yankees little league uniform, surrounded by his proud parents. The young half-Nekomata, with his dad's ears peaking out the sides of his cap and a proud smile on his face triggered a flood of emotions that I held in. I bawled out, thinking about his parents and what they're going through.

Once I gained my composure, I called the Fashayahs. I didn't expect to get through, honestly, as I thought they'd be bombarded with calls about Brian.

Brian's dad answered the phone and I gave him my condolences. We spoke for a bit and he told me he appreciated the call. Mr Fashayah apologized for not being able to speak with Brian's mom; she was on the other line with her own mom. I couldn't imagine being a mother and having to console your own daughter over losing her only child.

The rest of the day was a blur. It didn't take long for the media to find out. Most were respectful, but a few outlets were making speculations about an overdose. We didn't even acknowledge these rumors and the circus eventually died down.

Brian was the one of the last true guitar heroes born. His stage presence and mysterious persona was on par with Jimmy Page, Jimi Hendrix, and Joe Perry. He was called the New Voodoo Child and lived the blues and rock n roll more than anyone I knew. To the fans, he was legendary. To the band, he was the shy Nekomata from Queens that completed our family. To me, he was my brother. To the world, he was the latest member of the infamous 27 Club.