From the part of me that’s a postmodern classicist…
The opening chords filled the darkened stadium hushing the nine women who sat in front of the stage. Otherwise, the seats sat empty. The women were here to judge the Contest. The Stratocaster fell silent, and the spot light fell on Smintheus as he played. For this concert, he wore his black leather jeans, boots, and let his long, blond hair fell unbound down his back. Sound filled the still as he began a series of riffs that were more than sound; with them came pictures.
Smintheus typically played to sold out houses. His first album went platinum the day be began his first North American tour. Six months later, he swept the Grammies and had another album debut at the top of the charts. Overall, his career had taken off almost instantly and amazed everyone. Heavy metal, most people thought, was an all but passé style. He proved them wrong. Last month, Smintheus ended his tour and went back to the recording studio.
One thing, however, had happened to overshadow his success. Marsaeus, the bass player, had decided he was a far better musician than Smintheus. His style was unique, and he complemented Smintheus — able to follow any lead given to him. He was great in his own right, but compared to Smintheus, he was merely a beginner with promise. The reality was lost on Marsaeus. He wanted the lead (and ultimately control of the band), and he was determined to have it. Smintheus and Marsaeus argued constantly over the facts and fought over emotions. Last week they came to blows and if Pan, the drummer, hadn’t pulled them apart, they would have killed one another. Hermes, the rhythm guitarist, had suggested the Contest. Simply put, the winner could exact the punishment of his choice on the loser.
In his hubris, Marsaeus knew Victory was his. He began planning the next album and tour, but, most especially, he began planning how he would punish Smintheus. It occupied his waking hours, and several times he forgot to eat so lost was he in the fantasy. His dreams were spent exacting revenge and hurt upon Smintheus.
Smintheus, on the other hand, gave little thought to the Contest and none at all to the Punishment. He had work to do. He gave money to charities, interviews to the media, and even filmed two commercials. When thought of the Contest came to his mind at all, he planned simply to show up and play his music.
The appointed date came and the pair showed up at the arena. Marsaeus came in a white limo; Smintheus rode in on his Harley with his guitar strapped across his back. By the flip of a drachma, Marsaeus went first. He played skillfully and movingly. His music took away all care and concern. One could sit and grow old listening him play. When he finished, the women wept. They wanted the music to continue and hold them in its arms forever. They called for an encore, but Hermes, acting as referee, wouldn’t allow it.
Smintheus took the darkened stage. He plugged in his Stratocaster and began to play. He silenced the strings, and one spotlight came on to light him as he began a series of riffs. The pictures the music formed showed the strife between him and Marsaeus. He glossed nothing not his own behavior or shortcomings, and he portrayed Marsaeus fairly and without judgement. Smintheus told only the Truth. Then the tempo changed. The chords strengthened, and a new tale began. Smintheus told of the formation of the Universe and the birth of the Stars. The listeners realized complex mathematical formulae, and a crescendo brought the Secrets of Life to their realization.
The music permeated them and filled them. It brought them to their feet, and lifted them into the air. Not only the women were lifted, but Hermes and Marsaeus also defied gravity. Floating, they dancedCmoved in perfect time to the Music, and became part of it as it became part of them. They gave themselves over to it and surrendered to its will.
On the stage, Smintheus’ fingers stroked the strings and moved along the frets. Now, he decided it was time to end. He slowed the music and returned everyone to a seat. This time they didn=t weep. They keened. They were saddened that it ended and awed that they had been given an experience where they saw past, present and future simultaneously. “Smintheus,” Euterpe proclaimed, “you are the winner. Victory is yours.”
Marsaeus stood on the side of the stage. He didn’t argue; mainly, because he couldn’t. He knew defeat. He turned to leave. “Wait,” Hermes called. “We aren’t done.
“I’m gone from the band. What else could there be?”
“Your Punishment,” Smintheus answered.
“According to the terms you agreed to, Smintheus gets to exact the Punishment of his choice.”
“And, I choose to flay you alive. You dared challenge me, and you put yourself before me. The game is ended, and I am the winner.”
Smintheus walked to the back of the stage and put the Stratocaster in the case. He picked up his backpack and pulled out a bullwhip he sometimes used as part of the show. Marsaeus knew his rival’s proficiency with the whip and he shuddered. His face contorted to give him the appearance of soon-to-be-road kill. He tried to flee, but Pan grabbed him and held him.
ii
In an open field, the bright morning Sun shone on Marsaeus. He was tied naked to a post. The crisp cool wind brushed against his back and he shuddered. He replayed the events of the last seven months in his mind. He feared.
Smintheus, accompanied by Hermes, Pan, and Niké, came from the east. All were dressed for a concert: blue jeans, boots, bared chests for the men and a tight white t-shirt for Niké. In addition, Smintheus wore a pair of black leather gauntlets. He stood behind Marsaeus and didn=t speak. He merely let the whip fly out and come backCfirst across Marsaeus= left shoulder then his left. The third strike hit his buttocks and the fourth his calves. Smintheus never struck the same place twice, but sometimes, he formed angles or interested slashes. He developed a rhythm but not a pattern with the whip.
As the first strike came down, Marsaeus cried out in pain, but as Smintheus continued, the pain became something else. At first it was pleasure, but it went beyond that as the strikes continued. The lashed became ecstasy. He began to struggle against his bindingsCnot to free himself but to lean back into the whip as it came down. An orgasm erupted and he fell forward against the stock. The beating continued.
Finally, Smintheus grew bored with the flogging, and he did the only thing he could do to make the situation worse for Marsaeus. He stopped. Marsaeus screamed out again in pain of not feeling the whip nip his skin. He anguished from the lack of the punishment he=d grown not to enjoy but to devour. He stood bruised, bloody, sweaty, and dirty. He had known fulfillment; now he knew emptiness. He howled in anguish. Satiation gave way to starvation. “No Smintheus,” Marsaeus cried out. “Only the cruelest master would stop.”
“I’m done,” Smintheus said flatly. It was over. “Come back to the band if you want. You were never meant to be banished. It’s my band though. I’m the victor. Know yourself Marsaeus. Next time, I may not stop. And you may not find the pleasure in the pain.”
i confess i’ve been a naughty boy
