Chapter Text
To some, Eddie Munson was a God. Untouchable, showstopping, talented beyond measure; he was one of the biggest rockstars in the world. He had achieved everything his former teenage self always dreamed of. Corroded Coffin, the garage band he founded at the tender age of fourteen had managed to attain overnight success after being scouted one night at a dive bar in Chicago in 1987. However, despite the glitz and glamour of fame, something was still missing from Eddie's life and little did the band know, their founding member was struggling behind the scenes.
February 1989. London, England. 7.37am.
Eddie lies asleep, cheek down on the floor of his hotel room in the Karma Sanctum Soho Hotel, surrounded by empty bottles of liquor, broken glass and four naked unconscious female bodies on the king sized bed behind him. The room is half lit, the morning sun shining through a gap in the hastily pulled curtains. The rockstar's nude frame, pale and slender is covered in tattoos, beads of sweat, bruises and faint needle pricks in areas nobody would think to seek them - in between his fingers, toes and legs. After almost a year of hiding his habit, he knew better than to shoot up in places visible to his fellow band members, management, fans and paparazzi.
A knock at the door wakes him and he lifts his head slowly to glance around the room before groaning and laying his head back down on the floor. His limbs ache like he's had seven shades of shit kicked out of him and his head is spinning, bringing with it an unpleasant wave of nausea. He shuts his eyes, swallowing hard and clenching his jaw with the hope it'll prevent his body's natural urge to puke. Whoever is at the door knocks again, harder this time.
Growling softly, Eddie barks out, "the FUCK you want?"
The door unlocks from the other side and a round-faced man with shoulder length mousey brown hair peers his head around the door. It's Corroded Coffin drummer, Gareth.
"We're heading out for breakfast, man, you coming?" he asks with a friendly smile before his eyes land on the carnage within. His brows furrow, expression quickly changing to one of concern.
Eddie remains on the floor, eyes still closed. He exhales hard as he pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows a few times, struggling to regain moisture in his mouth.
"Naw, man, I'm good," he manages to croak.
"If you want I can, uh, bring you back some pancakes?" Gareth suggests, "or uh, like an alka seltz-"
"Are you fucking deaf?" Eddie snaps back, eyes now wide open and staring at the ceiling. "I said I'm good, now get the fuck out and leave me alone."
He doesn't bother to watch as Gareth exits, closing the door gently behind him.
Grunting in frustration, Eddie forces himself to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the nearby television stand. The television itself has been smashed, explaining the shards of glass that lie scattered around the room, but how it came to be, he has no recollection of. He sighs as he looks around at the evidence of debauchery from the night before, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to remember exactly what happened.
Grabbing a pair of black ripped jeans from the floor, he throws them over his shoulder then proceeds to put two fingers in his mouth and whistles as loudly as he can, clapping his hands together and shouting at the women lying on his bed, waking them all up at once.
"Alright, up! All of you, time to get the fuck out."
All four women are blonde with tan skin and big breasts. Any other average Joe would be on his knees at the sight of them (they were all curvaceous, completely bald from the neck down and plump-lipped with legs which seemed to go on for days) but not Eddie. He was so accustomed to being surrounded by beautiful women who threw themselves at him after their shows that it no longer phased him; they're just objects to him now, more bodies for him to stick his dick into until he reaches sexual gratification, then he discards them without a second thought, like a used tissue.
As the women slowly find their bearings and begin hopping off the bed one by one to grab their clothes, Eddie heads to the bathroom and inspects his reflection in the mirror. He looks and feels like hammered shit; sallow skinned with bloodshot eyes and dark brown eyebags to match, as if he had aged ten years overnight.
He sets his jeans down on the marble bathroom counter next to the sink then spins on his heel, shuffling to the toilet to take a piss, not making any kind of effort to aim into the bowl, spraying urine over the seat and tiled floor. When he finishes, he doesn't bother to wash his hands but instead sticks two fingers down the back of his throat to vomit in an attempt to ease his hangover. Once he's voided his stomach, he feels a pang of regret at not accepting Gareth's generous offer of bringing back some pancakes.
He grabs his jeans from the marble countertop and sluggishly drags them up his legs, tucking his dick away but not bothering to zip them up so they hang around his hips, revealing a thicket of pubic hair. Heading back into the now empty living area, Eddie takes a seat at the top of the bed, back against the headboard. The television remote and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sits on the bedside table; Eddie grabs them both, taking a swig before looking up and remembering the TV is busted. As if trying to convince the voice in his head that he has nothing else to do, he starts rummaging through the pockets of his jeans, taking another swig of whiskey to chase away the aftertaste of bile lingering at the back of his throat.
"Gotcha," he mutters to himself once he finds what he's looking for, pulling out a small plastic baggie filled with white powder. Jack and smack, breakfast of champions, Eddie mentally sing-songs as he hauls himself back off the bed, heading barefoot towards the kitchenette. Being mindful of the shards of glass scattered across the floor, he hunkers down to grab a bottle of Evian water from the mini bar fridge.
He wastes no time opening the bottle and gulping down half of it's contents in hopes of easing his dehydration headache, subsequently screwing the lid back on and throwing it behind him on to the bed. He then turns to a cabinet beside the small fridge and opens the cupboard door to reveal a safe inside. He punches in the passcode and unlocks it, smiling at the sight before him. Hidden away was a small wooden cigar box he had received as a gift from his uncle Wayne when Corroded Coffin's debut album went platinum.
Eddie returns to the bed, taking a seat at the edge next to the adjacent table then leans over to turn on the lamp. He takes another swig from the bottle of Jack and takes a deep breath as he opens the cigar box. Inside is various paraphernalia; a burnt spoon, q-tips, rolling papers, a lighter, needles, syringes and an old polaroid of Eddie giving a piggyback to a smiling strawberry blonde haired woman with "Summer '86" and a little heart written on it. Lifting the polaroid up, he inspects it closely, just like he did every day. Just as he begins to feel tears welling in his eyes, he kisses the photo and sets it back down carefully inside the box.
Returning to his devices, he takes a deep breath. This was his morning ritual, and although his hands trembled as they hovered over the contents of the box, the suspense of what was soon to come provided a much needed comfort.
"Peaceful bliss just moments away..." he reassured himself as he lifted out the spoon and set it on the bedside table. He follows that by taking a pinch of the China White heroin from the baggie and sprinkling it onto the spoon.
Next, he takes out a clean needle and syringe from a clear medical packet. He begins quietly singing to himself (Creeping Death by Metallica) as he stretches back to grab the Evian bottle, pouring what's left of the water into an empty glass on the table and then removes the needle cap and extracts a few millilitres of water. He then gently pushes the plunger, releasing the water into the spoon. Once he's happy with the mixture, he stops singing in order to hold the syringe between his teeth, then carefully lifts the spoon before grabbing his lighter and holding the flame under the spoon, watching it bubble with glee. When the powder has dissolved, he sets the spoon back down on the table and grabs a q-tip from the cigar box, removing the cotton from the end and placing it on top of the spoon to let it soak. He takes the syringe out of his mouth and exhales heavily, mentally preparing himself as he slowly pulls on the plunger, drawing out the clear solution until there's nothing left to draw from the spoon.
The anticipation manifests as butterflies in Eddie's stomach prompting him to subconsciously start bouncing his leg and humming to himself as he gives the syringe a few taps to rid the liquid of air bubbles, then slowly pushes the liquid to the tip of the needle. He puts the syringe between his teeth one last time so he can remove the belt from his jeans; he's decided he no longer gives a shit about visible puncture marks. Careless? Perhaps. Maybe. Probably.
Shuffling back further onto the bed, he gets situated against the headboard and adjusts the belt on his left arm, tightening it and slapping his inner elbow as he clenches his fist, watching with bated breath as his veins protrude.
Just as he goes to remove the syringe from his mouth, a sudden pang of self loathing hits him like a freight train, as if he was suddenly watching himself from a third person perspective. He's done this countless times before, so why is this feeling only washing over him now? He looks at the cigar box and thinks of Wayne. What would the old man say if he could see me right now, Eddie wonders. He imagines his uncle's face; the familiar look of disappointment he had gotten countless times before after Chief Jim Hopper knocked on their front door with Eddie in tow after being caught shoplifting or dealing weed in the alley behind The Hideout on a Tuesday night, back when the band played local gigs to a near empty room of middle aged alcoholics. He shakes his head, as if trying to shake the mental images away, like a wet dog shaking itself off after being out in the rain.
The mental image of Wayne slowly fades, only to be replaced by the strawberry blonde woman from the polaroid picture. Chrissy Cunningham. His first and only love. High school sweethearts. The person he thinks of first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He knows it's not medically possible but he swears he feels his chest tighten and his heart skip a beat. What would she say if she could see him right now? Fuck.
He retrieves the syringe from his mouth and mutters to himself, "nope, nope," as if speaking out loud will rid him of the mental images.
There's no going back now, he thinks, the damage has already been done. This is his life now. His old life back in his hometown of Hawkins, Indiana feels like a lifetime ago.
Eddie takes another deep breath, closing his eyes tightly and trying to push the negative thoughts to the back of his mind, but the vivid image of Chrissy remains, as if she's tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. He replays a memory of her dancing and giggling in his living room, twirling while singing along to Fleetwood Mac.
Rock on, Gold Dust Woman. Take your silver spoon, dig your grave.
Without wasting another moment, he takes the syringe and pierces the most prominent vein in the ditch of his arm, pulling the plunger back ever so slightly to draw blood before finally shooting up the narcotic. He gasps, unclenching his fist as he feels a chill spread through him, just about managing to idly remove the needle from his arm as he feels his entire body relax. The image of Chrissy dissipates, the hotel room blurs and there's nothing but sheer euphoria. His body suddenly feels too heavy, but simultaneously light as a feather. He smiles to himself as he nods off... his body slumping against the headboard... and there is nothing but peaceful bliss.
10.30am.
Eddie's hotel room door unlocks and a tall stocky man with balding hair enters. His name is Ronnie Ward, manager of Corroded Coffin. He had been hired to manage the band after they signed with Megaforce Records, much to their delight as it was the same label a bunch of their favourite bands and heroes were also signed to; Metallica, Anthrax, Overkill and Testament to name a few.
Ronnie was from New Jersey and quite frankly, intimidated the fuck out of the guys. They felt comfortable enough to banter with him when he was in good spirits, but they didn't ever want to cross him. He steered them in the right direction but made it clear whenever they hired him that he meant business and wasn't to be messed with. Guitarist Jeff and bassist Seth were both convinced he was once in the Mafia, frequently comparing him to Vito Corleone.
Looking at the mess in front of him, he runs his hands through his hair and exhales sharply. "What in the fuckin' hell..." he whispers to himself, treading lightly across the carpeted floor. The room smells like stale alcohol, cigarettes, sex and something else Ronnie can't quite put his finger on.
"Munson?" he calls out, walking further into the room in search of the room's one and only patron, tutting as he kicks empty beer cans to clear a path.
He sees the busted television from afar and tuts to himself, shaking his head and growing increasingly flustered. He takes larger strides into the room, his heart hammering in his chest, fearing the worst after what Gareth had relayed to him earlier that morning, then peers around the corner of the room, stopping at the end of the bed.
Eddie is lying unconscious on his side, syringe in his right hand, belt still around his left arm with a trail of dried blood running down it. At his feet is the cigar box which is still lying open.
"You gotta be shittin' me," Ronnie says to himself, much louder now, as he walks around the side of the bed, lifting the box to look inside and cursing under his breath. He looks at Eddie's seemingly lifeless form, notices he's still breathing and thanks every God he doesn't believe in before he snatches the used needle and syringe from his hand and sets it next to the spoon on the bedside table.
"Eddie. Eddie!"
He doesn't respond.
"God fucking damn it, kid."
Grabbing the glass of water from the bedside table, he throws it over Eddie's face then smacks him around the back of the head. "Wake up, ya stupid son of a bitch!"
Eddie wakes almost immediately, dazed and confused. "Ronnie, man, what the fuck?"
"What the fuck? What the fuck? You're asking me what the fuck? Are you shitting me right now, Munson? You tryna fuckin' give me a heart attack? You know I got high blood pressure," he barely stops to take a breath as he continues his verbal bashing, his voice booming throughout the room now, "Actually fuck that, are you tryna throw your goddamn career down the drain, kid? Everything you fuckin' worked for? Are you fuckin' stupid or somethin'?"
Sitting up straight and looking down at the trail of dried blood down his forearm, Eddie hangs his head in shame. He had never been caught before. He had gone a year of keeping this dirty little secret to himself, and now he had been found out. Somehow, he had never considered the consequences of his addiction and what it could mean for his career and the future of the band. Between the volume of Ronnie's scolding, and the fear and panic of what will happen next, tears begin to flood his eyes.
Ronnie takes a seat on the edge of the bed, leaning over to put his head between his legs, sighing and running his hands through his hair once more, muttering expletives under his breath.
"I'm sorry, man, I-I-I fucked up," Eddie says shakily, the lump in his throat causing his voice to break.
Ronnie sits up, turning his head to look at the younger man, his face softening. "Kid. Why didn't ya just come to me? If you were struggling, you should'a talked to me. Jesus Christ."
Tears start streaming down Eddie's cheeks. "I didn't- I didn't think.." he trails off, putting his head in his hands, allowing himself to break down, full of shame.
"Look, kid, we'll figure this out, okay? We can get you into a detox facility as soon as we're back in Chicago, get you to some NA meetings, get you some of that counselling shit I always hear people talkin' about. I can.. we can help you through this. We can keep this shit under wraps."
Ronnie sighs again before continuing. "When Gareth said things looked bad in here, I thought the kid was just bein' fuckin' dramatic, you know how that stupid little cocksucka is."
Eddie lets out a half laugh-half sob at this, his head still buried in his hands.
They sit quietly for a few minutes with only the sounds of Eddie's sniveling filling the silence before Ronnie pats Eddie's leg. "C'mon kid, we gotta get you cleaned up. Last show of the tour tonight, okay? You can do this."
He pauses for a moment before his eyes glance over to the box of paraphernalia. "But that shit, that's gotta go. Flush it down the fuckin' toilet or somethin', I don't care, as long as it's not going up your fuckin' arm, d'ya hear me? Kid?"
Eddie looks up, and wipes the snot and tears from his face. "Y-yeah" he replies pathetically. "Wha.. what are we gonna tell the guys?"
Ronnie shakes his head at this. "We don't gotta tell the guys nothin' ya hear? This stays between us. We just tell 'em you took too much coke or somethin' and uh, couldn't handle the comedown or some shit."
"They're never going to believe that," Eddie says, putting his wet hair behind his ears.
"Well make 'em fuckin' believe, kid. I'll take care'a the rest. Now get in that fuckin' shower, you smell like a whore house. I'm serious, kid, the smell of pussy in here could knock out a fuckin' fishmonger."
Eddie cackles at this, both relieved and appreciative of Ronnie's more lighthearted tone. It was a breath of fresh air seeing this softer side to him, he knew he meant well and was grateful at the help he was willing to get him.
Getting to his feet, Ronnie lifted the cigar box and began collecting the evidence. It took Eddie a moment for the penny to drop.
"Shit, Ron, I need that back," he said, urgency in his voice. Seeing his manager's eyebrows raise and his mouth open, he quickly adds, "Just- just the box... and the picture inside it."
Ronnie looks down at the cigar box and nods, lifting everything back out but leaving the polaroid of Eddie & Chrissy inside.
"Who's the pretty girl?" he queries.
Eddie's stomach lurches nervously. "Uh, just, um," he pauses for a beat, feeling physically unable to respond. "Just an old friend from high school," he finally manages, voice quieter than before.
"Get outta here, kid, you think I'm fuckin' stupid? I can see that little love heart there clear as crystal. It's fine, ya don't gotta tell me shit. The two of you look cute together, s'all I'm sayin'"
"Thanks, Ron," Eddie smiles, sincerely, taking the box back off him. "I appreciate it. And I don't just mean this, I mean everything."
"Don't mention it, kid. Now seriously, get in that fuckin' shower, you got sound check in an hour."
1.35am.
Laying back against the headboard with his bottle of Jack, occasionally knocking back mouthful after mouthful, Eddie stares into space, feeling crippled with loneliness. All he could think about was Chrissy. He missed everything about her, the weight of her head on his shoulder and how she would absentmindedly run her fingers gently up and down his arm during a movie; her adorably crooked front teeth; the way she crinkled her nose before she sneezed; the taste of her peach lip balm; the whimpering moans that would escape her lips when he kissed her neck; the taste and smell of her sweet, sweet pussy; how she would braid his hair when he was writing in his lyrics book; how everything around him blurred when he looked into her eyes. Fuck, those eyes. Gigantic blue orbs as clear as a cloudless sky, that twinkled with every "I love you" he uttered to her.
It didn't matter how many women he brought back to their tour bus or hotel room and fucked; they were all faceless nobodies. Sure, he had fun, he had a lot of fun. Never in his wildest pubescent wet dreams did he think he could exist in a world where he got so much ass, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't thinking of Chrissy at some point during every encounter. It was why he needed to be blind drunk or coked off his face in order to touch another woman. Hell, he even let the occasional metalhead fanboy suck his dick backstage, just to see if indulging in something a little different would excite him enough to take the hurt away, and while it was hot and exciting, it was always to no avail.
When he made the groupies leave and the bedsheets were still warm, he'd lie down and close his eyes and pretend Chrissy was resting next to him. It took every fibre of restraint in his body to resist calling her from the road, and the temptation arose more times than he could count on both hands, but he always opted to drink himself into a mindless stupor and cry himself to sleep instead, lulled into unconsciousness by the sound of TV static or the tour bus engine, depending on where he lay his head for the night.
Occasionally he would try and keep his shit together, bearing in mind that so many legendary lyricists before him used their struggles to create incredible art, which was something his fellow bandmates also liked to remind him of when it was evident he was going through the emotional wringer.
"Dude, write all'a that shit down!" Jeff would loudly slur at him during their drunken heart to hearts. Jeff had a long distance girlfriend, so to an extent he understood the struggle of not having his sweetheart next to him day and night.
In fairness, the void Chrissy left in Eddie's life had inspired some of Corroded Coffin's biggest hits. He'd often find himself daydreaming of the band making it big enough to sell out a show at Madison Square Garden where he'd look out at the crowd and see her beautiful face beaming up at him, scream-singing along to songs that he wrote specifically about her.
He had in fact shared this fantasy with none other than the great Stevie Nicks herself one night in Kansas City after Fleetwood Mac's show at the Kemper Arena late September in 1987, not long after Corroded Coffin got signed. He told Stevie all about Chrissy, how she was her biggest fan and that watching the band's performance that night had evoked heartwarming memories of the love of his life twirling chiffon scarves in the living room of his old trailer while singing along to Dreams and Rihannon. She wasn't the best singer, which made it all the more endearing. He had tried calling Chrissy afterwards, desperately wanting to relay the events of that night to her, knowing just how thrilled she would've been for him, albeit extremely jealous. Unfortunately, he got her answering machine, so he hung up the phone in defeat and headed back to the green room to distract himself by doing lines of coke with Billy Burnette and Rick Vito.
Taking one last mouthful of whiskey, Eddie leaned over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. He had a flight to catch back to Chicago in five hours and couldn't wait to sleep in his own bed again after the last three months on the road touring all around Europe.
He could already feel the withdrawal symptoms kicking in and knew the next twenty four hours were probably going to be a living hell for him. He thought about what Ronnie had said earlier, about going through detox and getting cleaned up, attending NA meetings and doing the whole twelve steps bullshit, and although he had agreed to it at the time, now that he was alone in his room with only his thoughts to keep him company, he knew that wasn't going to happen. He had every intention of scoring as soon as he landed back home and continuing down his path of self destruction, isolation and self loathing.
Nothing would be able to stop him. At least that's what he thought.