Some beginnings of the two stories I'm currently typing:
1st Story Introduction:
Cologne, Germany โ Sporthalle โ July 22, 1993. The dressing room smelled like every other stop on the Devotional Tour: sweat, spilled lager, cigarette smoke, and the faint chemical bite of whatever the latest dealer had brought through the back door. Dave Gahan stood shirtless in front of the cracked mirror, studying the hollow-eyed messiah staring back at him. Long dark hair, unkempt beard, ribs showing under the skin. He looked exactly like what he was โ a man running on fumes, and chemistry. But tonight he wanted more than the usual. He wanted to feel something sacred. The dealer, a twitchy old local with bad teeth, handed him a small paper envelope. โThis oneโs new. They said itโsโฆ strong. Not the usual stuff. Donโt slam it.โ Dave didnโt listen to warnings anymore. He got out syringe and needle as he readies himself for the injection. With one long injection into the veins as fire and velvet exploded behind his eyes. โOhโฆ *fuck*โฆโ he breathed. The rush was different. Deeper. Heavier. It poured down his spine like warm oil, pooling low in his belly and groin. His cock twitched hard in his black trousers. A slow, rolling wave of euphoria made his knees soften. Every nerve lit up with a strange, almost starry glow. He laughed, low and throaty, rolling his head back as the warmth spread outward, making his skin tingle and his muscles feel loose and powerful at the same time. He then chased it instantly with two fat rails of cocaine. The combo was apocalyptic. His heart hammered. Energy crackled under his skin like electricity. The room felt brighter, the distant roar of the crowd sharper, it felt so good. He felt huge and invincible already. โDave, five minutes,โ a stage manager called through the door. โYeahโฆ yeah, Iโm ready,โ he slurred, voice already thickening.
2nd Story Introduction:
Dave Gahan was already a ghost wearing his own skin. The Songs of Faith and Devotion sessions had become an awful process โlong, punishing hours at the studio where everything felt too loud, too mean spirited, and too profane at the same time. Heroin kept him functional, but the highs were flatter, the crashes deeper. He needed something that would actually lift him from the exhaustion. One rain-slicked night after a brutal mixing session, he ended up in a dimly lit underground club in Silver Lake. The kind of place where industrial beats throbbed like a dying heart and the crowd moved like they were already halfway to damnation. A man approached him in the back roomโbald, thin, ageless, dressed in a faded black suit that smelled faintly of incense and copper. His eyes were too calm. โYou look like a man chasing transcendence, Mr. Gahan,โ the dealer said quietly, voice carrying over the music. โThe usual shit wonโt get you there anymore. But this will.โ He slid a small, ornate glass vial across the table. Inside swirled a liquid that caught the red lights and turned a deep, luminous blue. It almost seemed to move on its own. โThey call it the Sacrament. Old recipe. European occult bloodlines mixed withโฆ modern chemistry. One drop opens the door. More than that, and you walk through it.โ The dealer smiled thinly. โItโll make you feel devoted like the god you want to be. And itโll make others devoted to you. Perfect for a frontman like you, yeah?โ Dave was too exhausted and too hungry for escape to ask many questions. He paid in cash and a signed lyric sheet. The dealer warned him only once as it seems confusing to Dave: โDonโt share it. Not unless youโre ready to share everything.โ
