Just For Tonight

Many thanks to Orchid for inspiring this mess, Triana for insight, and everyone who put up with me talking about it for months. And let's just pretend they're at some magical VMAs, ok? THNX!


Kinda I want to maybe just for tonight
We can pretend it's alright
What's the price I pay?
I don't care what they say
-Kinda I Want To, Nine Inch Nails

He didn’t care to be where he was. After all, award shows weren’t his thing, and he rarely made public appearances outside of concerts. So he was finally recognized and nominated for an award - even that wasn’t enough to convince him to attend. The ‘coveted’ moonman statuette would either go to the Pop Princess, Ghetto Superstar, Lucky Newcomer or the NuMetal Knock-Offs.

Talk about unoriginality. He’d been writing self destructive, wrist-slicing lyrics when those guys were rapping along with Sir Mix A Lot.

So why was he there?

Amusement, plain and simple.

The Big Easy was getting a little boring, and he needed some sort of diversion. A horribly produced awards show seemed to be just the thing. Even if it meant having to rub elbows with people he wouldn’t normally touch with a ten-foot pole.

Trent Reznor wasn’t exactly known for his social skills.

*******

He lost, no surprise there. At least Ghetto Superstar’s ‘posse’ ushered in some humor with their collective acceptance speech. It was always amusing when thugs who wrote about murdering their enemies took the time to thank the Lord, Jesus Christ.

Ahh well, now he knew better than to attend a trendy awards show full of screaming teens and wannabes. Not that the after party at the upscale restaurant was any better. For reasons unknown to him, he sat in one corner of the bar, drowning in a New Orleans Hurricane and pondering his next big project - if there was going to be one. He knew he was getting older, and he would much rather oversee the projects of other talents than write his own music, but his business was an unpredictable one, so he knew to never say never.

His gaze drifted casually toward the groups huddling around tables and in shadowy corners. Funny how cliques never seemed to outgrow high school. One table vaguely resembled Boyband U.S.A, while another was surrounded with glamorous dancing queens in their revealing Gucci dresses and heavily made-up faces, giggling vapidly and ragging on whoever wasn’t them. The darkest spot was reserved for the manic-depressive elite, their mouths making love to brandy snifters, smiles barely penetrating the surface of their deadpanned exteriors when Pop Princess warbled her award-winning song to those seated at her table and came off sounding like a velociraptor trapped in a net.

Then, there was Ghetto Superstar’s corner of the room.

Trent was amused by how small and frail the man seemed, compared to the others who joined him. Aside from the obvious contrast of his pale, creamy flesh and their dark bronze, he was shorter, and lanky, to the point where his oversized clothes threatened to swallow him whole. His cropped, bleached blonde hair, ice blue eyes – hidden behind a pair of purpled-lensed glasses - and sharp features were more suited for citizenship to Boyband U.S.A. than the world of rap. Not to mention those pink, permanently pouted lips, which cracked a wry smile as one of his friends recapped a day with his ‘bitch’.

Without intentionally prompting it, the superstar returned his gaze with a raised brow. ‘What’s your problem?’ it appeared to say.

Trent didn’t have a problem. As a matter of fact, he was quite entertained by the differences he was noticing. Ghetto Superstar reminded him of the curly haired heartthrob from Boyband U.S.A., or the vulnerable young twink from that Showtime program about the celebration of gay life.

Both of whom were named Justin.

He thought about approaching the little thug faerie – a shame that he was surrounded by his hired muscle and gold-chain-wearing partners in music. They didn’t look like they were going to leave soon, either. Ahh well, perhaps an opportunity will present itself another time.

Searching for another source of entertainment, Trent soon noticed Political Rock Activist sitting not too far from where he was, donning his trademark shades under the glare of the overhead bar light as he awaited his order. Finishing his own drink, Trent strolled toward the aging rock star, whose charmingly flapping mouth immediately initiated conversation upon seeing him. They talked about politics, the man being regularly distracted by people wanting to shake his hand, and before he knew it, Rock Activist received his drink and returned to the familiarity of his band.

Trent sighed in disappointment, figuring he would’ve been better off staying home. He finished his drink and passed one final, fleeting glance toward Ghetto Superstar, surprised when he found a petite woman standing before their table. Her expressive eyes, snow-white flesh and wild shock of red curls gave away her identity immediately.

It was his good friend, the Faerie Queen.

She waved him over.

Before his very eyes, an opportunity to approach Ghetto Superstar had just presented itself. He would be a fool to turn it down.

After leaving a tip for the bartender, Trent calmly approached the table, doing well to ignore the purposeful looks of intimidation by the men walling in their pretty little friend.

“Have you all met Trent here?” The Faerie Queen wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “We go way back, you know.”

“Yeah?” The Ghetto Superstar nodded politely, the rest not caring either way. “Cool.”

“You know Eminem, right?” she dared to ask.

“Know –of- him,” he replied with a smirk. “But how do –you- know him?”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling like the crystal clear lakes one could only find at the highest elevations. “I, uh, covered one of his songs.”

He frowned at himself for not having kept up with her latest projects. “Did you?”

“’97 Bonnie and Clyde…” the superstar replied, a twisted sort of smile stretching across his face, gaze leveled at the Faerie Queen. “Me an’ my daughter.” He followed his statement with a shrug. “Not my kinda music, but it was pretty well done. Hailie says it makes her sleepy.”

“You let your daughter listen to that?” Faerie Queen slanted her vibrant eyes. “Uh, no offense, but what kind of parent lets his kid listen to a song about how a father kills his ex-wife and her family?”

Ghetto Superstar met the fiery maned beauty’s gaze with one of his own powerful stares and leaned forward on his table, arms folded. “The kind of parent that don’t lie to his kid about what he does for a living.”

Faerie Queen sighed, full lips pursed in disagreement. “Well then…” Apparently annoyed at the overabundance of testosterone, she uttered her courteous good-byes, leaving Trent to face the wrath of Ghetto Superstar and his band of g-dogs by his lonesome.

“This party’s weak,” one of them muttered miserably. “Man, I’m headin’ to Dre’s party, who’s comin’ with?” Others nodded and mumbled in agreement, looking to their leader for approval. “What’s it gonna be, Slim?”

His alarmi int intelligent eyes focused on each member of his group, then landed on Trent with a indistinctly entertained light – was he still there? With a shrug, he replied, “Nah, y’all can go, tell Dre that Slim’ll see his ass tomorrow on the Drive.” Turning to his bodyguard, he said, “And you take the night off, man.”

“You sure?” the stocky man asked, expression hidden behind a pair of dark shades.

“Yeah, take off.” He shooed the rest of the group with a wave of his hand. “Give a guy some time to himself.”

Waiting until the table was entirely cleared from sour-faced interruptions, Trent then sat across from the Ghetto Superstar – Slim Shady, Eminem, Marshall Mathers - and idly played with a discarded match until a sharp knock on the table distracted him.

“Aye,” he frowned, “I ain’t ever said –you- could stay.”

Eyes narrowed at the odd little fae, Trent lifted his chin defiantly. “Never told me to leave, either.”

With arched brow, Eminem smirked and wound his arms over the modest expanse of his chest. “Yeah, you’re right.” Rubbing a fist into his left eye, he asked, “So, you and Tori Amos, huh?”

“Not exactly,” Trent shrugged, tilting his chair as he thought of the Faerie Queen. “We’re just friends, that’s all.”

“Makes sense,” he replied, a cynical grin lifting the corners of his succulent mouth. “Y’all have serious issues.”

Amused, Trent laughed at what he considered a broad assumption. “And you don’t?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “Eminem does.”

Trent raised a brow. “And you’re not Eminem?”

“Nope.” With a slight smile - one that seemed as though it had been achieved through years of practice - he added, “I’m Marshall.”