Chapter 13: The Saints Take the Stage

Back In The Present

Chuck O'Donnell came barreling back three minutes before they were supposed to go on. His grin was so wide it bordered on unhinged—clear sign he'd dipped a little deeper into his cocaine stash.

He slung one meaty arm over Matt's shoulder, the other over Jake's, squeezing them like a proud dad. "How you boys doin'? Ready to go out there and rock some goddamn faces off?"

"Fuckin'-A," Matt replied, calm as ever, dragging off his latest cigarette.

"Bet your ass," Jake said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

The others chimed in, each with their own profane variation of hell yeah.

"Good, good," O'Donnell said, giving one last bear-hug squeeze before letting them go. He turned to Jake. "So all I gotta do to kick things off is hit the main mic amp, right?"

"Right," Jake nodded. "Mic'll be live once the amp's on." He hesitated a second, then added, "Just… uh… try not to mess with the tone or volume knobs."

O'Donnell gave him a look—half amused, half annoyed. "Kid, I've been in this business since before your daddy's nut sweat had a name. I'm not gonna touch your precious little knobs or knock your gear over. Relax."

"Sorry," Jake muttered.

"No need to be sorry," O'Donnell said. "You're just making sure I don't screw your sound. I won't."

He paused, then shifted into drill-sergeant mode. "Once I'm done with the intro, you walk—don't sprint—onstage. Grab your instruments, flip your amps, and go. Keep the between-song chatter minimal. These people want music, not speeches. And for God's sake, no political shit."

He locked eyes with Jake as he said it. "You wanna sneak your beliefs into your lyrics, be my guest. Just don't preach into the mic. Don't need people walking out 'cause someone whined about nuclear war or Ronald Reagan."

Jake nodded. "Got it."

Truth was, they hadn't planned much banter at all. Just the usual "How's everyone doing tonight?" type filler.

"Good," O'Donnell said. "And hey—sorry about Michaels and Hathaway. Some people get a taste of fame and forget how to act. But they were right about one thing: forty-five-minute set. Fifteen minutes teardown after. Stick to it."

"Unless we get encore requests," Matt said, already smirking.

Chuck chuckled. "Of course. Unless the crowd begs for more."

He checked his watch. "One minute to seven. Show time. You ready?"

They nodded.

"Then go give 'em a hell of a show."

With that, he strutted out onto the stage. The crowd—mostly at tables and bars—began to quiet down. They knew O'Donnell stepping out meant things were about to start.

He strolled over to Jake's amp, gave it a glance, and flicked the switch. The unit popped softly to life. Then he approached the mic. He didn't tap it—smart move. Instead, he stood on his toes to reach it.

"Good evening," he announced, his voice booming, "and welcome to Friday night live at D Street West."

Scattered claps. A few whistles.

"As usual," he went on, "our headliner tonight is Heritage's own kings of debauchery, those leather-wrapped advocates of the illegal and immoral—The Boozehounds!"

This time the applause was louder. Genuine.

"Morons," Matt muttered under his breath to Jake. "They're cheering a band that just sucks less than the other local garbage."

Jake didn't reply. He'd heard this rant before. And anyway, he was too busy trying not to throw up.

"But first," O'Donnell said, "I've got a new act for you. Never played live before. This is their debut gig, so cut 'em a little slack, huh?"

A few chuckles. Then a heckler from the front: "Screw that! Bring on the Hounds!"

More voices echoed the call. Someone clapped. O'Donnell let it ride, waited for the noise to die, then grinned.

"Well, I'd love to, but the Hounds are still backstage getting prepped—with their groupies. You know how they are. Can't play till they get their 'warm-up' in."

That got real laughter.

"Jesus Christ," Matt muttered. "Let's just do this."

"So anyway," O'Donnell went on, "these five young men are good. Real good. Original music, born and bred in Heritage. Give it up now—for the first of many times you'll hear them—The Saints!"

Polite applause. No cheers. Except from Michelle's table, a few scattered friends of Matt or Coop or Darren. Bill, of course, had none.

"C'mon guys," Matt said. "Let's fuckin' do it. Remember—"

"We rock," they all said.

Matt held out his hand. Jake slapped his on top. Coop followed. Then Darren. They all stared at Bill.

"Hand, Nerdly," Matt growled.

Bill blinked, then slapped his down, trembling a little.

They held it a beat. A spontaneous ritual born from nerves and brotherhood. It would become a tradition.

"Let's do it," Matt said.

"Let's do it," the others echoed.

They stepped out onto the stage.

The lights flared on, hot and harsh. The crowd went silent, watching, judging. Bill stood at the board, fingers hovering. He waited until Jake, Matt, and Darren had their instruments, then flipped each switch with care. A few pops. A hum.

Jake rolled his guitar pick in his fingers. His palms were sweating. He stepped up to the mic. The crowd's faces were mostly shadows—but every eye was on him.

Behind him, a cymbal clinked—Coop sitting down. Then a bass thump from Darren.

Jake inhaled deeply. We're gonna fuck this up, part of him muttered. We're just a garage band. No way we pull this off.

"No," he whispered. "We rock. We fuckin' rock."

He leaned into the mic.

"Good evening, D Street West. We are The Saints. Welcome to our show."

Matt didn't wait. His pick dropped—open low E and A strings roared from the amp. Distorted. Dark. He let it hang for a beat, then his fingers clamped at the sixth fret.

The riff hit.

Descent Into Nothing—loud, raw, and relentless—blasted through the venue for the first time.

It wouldn't be the last.