Five nights at 5000 capacity theaters instead of one night in an arena was his idea.
He sat on the catwalk high above the stage in… St. Louis? No. Milwaukee? Milwaukee.
A sign above the stage entrance would remind him, he’d have it memorized by the third night.
His thighs were sweating.
He hated heights.
Lindy would have lost his mind if he had seen Johnny climb up here, but Lindy was in rehab in…San Diego? Maybe that’s where he was but he had bottomed out in Salt Lake City.
They assigned a woman assistant to him. Thai Kick Boxer named Beth, doubled as a bodyguard.
The other bodyguards were in catering, venue completely secured except the interior of Johnny’s head.
He asked Beth to call him Johnny.
She blushed when she told him her contract stated that she could only refer to him as his full nom de guerre, Palachine X 55, or the offshoots: Five Squared, Prodigal Pal, or simply X Dog.
“If you need me for something, just say ‘hey,’ Johnny said.
“It’s not my job to need you for something,” Beth replied. “I’m here for you. Simple. I don’t need anything from you.”
Johnny thought “except a paycheck,” but didn’t say it because it wasn’t her fault he was miserable.
And he had more money than he’d be able to spend on stupid shit in a lifetime.
Johnny went to chew his nails, remembered he had gotten a manicure for yesterday’s photoshoot and they put some weird lacquer on them.
He wouldn’t throw himself off this catwalk, he wanted to get vertigo and accidentally fall.
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