Chapter Twelve:

A Gathering Of Crickets: The "Leveller Tour"

Anna sat up slowly, her mouth drawn downward in an expression of exasperation and irritation. "Burton, you see what I'm driving at? You're so damned defensive and you read volumes of pure crap into everything! You're damned paranoid, for God's sake! And your mind has shut down to anything at all that can't be wrapped in a sarcastic, bitterly ironic little package. Back in 1985 you were all gung ho about the Ethiopia Relief thing. Don't you recall any of that? You did a lot of work with Julian. Then he got you into Greenpeace and Amnesty International and you lived up to the reputation of your youth, as the radical, pre-punker. Now..." Anna waved her hand as if to erase her words as they hovered in the air above her, "Now all that concerns you is going through the motions of the tired rocker, whose main objective is to remain within the confines of your musical profession. You were as excited as Hell about "Leveller" until you heard you might have to tour with it eventually. Don't worry, I won't go on about that again. And I won't harp at you about Michael, except to say that I think it is your duty, since you insisted on eavesdropping and overhearing that conversation between him and Paul that time that Michael was in the hospital, to make sure he's back on track. Particularly if you guys are going to be on the road for a long time, as you're predicting".

Peck was really getting tired of the constant arguing with Anna that punctuated nearly every day of their married lives. Baby or no, he just didn't give a damn anymore. "Anna, I want you to leave me alone now. I think we've said more than enough to drive bamboo shoots deeper and deeper into each others' fingernails for one day. I'm sick to death of all this shit. I just want a life with a bit of peace and quiet and I don't think that's really a lot to ask". Peck's voice was deceptive in its practised calm. "Sure, you're the one with child and since you are, you take the bedroom tonight. I'll trade places with you on the couch".

Burton's thoughts were pushed forward, suddenly, to the present, with Gill roughly jolting his left elbow. "Wake up, will you? I'm not doing a solo act here. Either you work with me or I'm out of here".

"Buzz off", Peck muttered under his breath, placing his headphones over his ears that hummed with chronic fatigue. He could not comprehend why it was that everyone in his life had become so difficult to get along with. After all, wasn't he one of the most easygoing people in the music business?

* * * * * * *
After a heavy promotional tour that directly coincided with "Leveller's" release on June sixth, wherein Gill Giles and Michael Hope travelled to the areas of Canada and the U.S. to talk in some detail about the songs on the compact disk, as well as the significance of its title: "The name "leveller" alluedes to the force of a megaton bomb levelling a city, meaning that these songs are loud, bombastic and leave nothig standing in their wake", Gill had explained. The Big Event was officially underway.

Preparations for the tour, which had it's starting date on October second, were extensive and seemingly endless for all concerned. Tickets had gone on sale on the last Saturday of September and were sold out almost immediately. The reason for this probably hinged on the fact that Oxymoron had let so much time elapse between tours, causing public demand to skyrocket and reach a dizzying level.

Technical aspects and production fundamentals aside, the musicians themselves worked nearly around the clok, rehearsing with infinitely more driving energy than ever before. Oxymoron was, after all, quite out of practise and unquestionably rusty. For the first time in the band's relatively lengthy history, the members were seized with an all-consuming concern with image and how they would project this previously elusive element of their music.

The four of them began with the physical aspects: Each of them altered their basic appearance in varying ways. Bryan, as previously noted, now sported a permanent in his fair hair to perk it up a it and it worked quite well for him. His clothes were demure, as usual, mostly blacks, navy blues and browns. Whenever he sported one of his black ensembles, Peck would jokingly refer to him as "Johnny Cash". But his overall look was one of studied chic and Peck was secretly rather envious.

Paul Perry never really tested the waters of change too seriously, being ever-resistent to the allure of affected glamour like some rock stars and he was not about to change his attitude now. He opted for a small moustache that looked quite dashing and let his hair grow a bit longer.

Burton Peck, having done away with his beard and moustache, still clung to the long and shaggy hair, much to Anna's chagrin. But she was happy to have a clean-shaven husband back, however.

Then there was Michael, who, over the past few months, had claimed his place in he centre ring, as arguably the most flambouyant and outwardly controversial band member, regaring physical transformation.

Peck recalled the particular afternoon, shortly after the mixing of "Leveller" was completed, when Michael came breezing into the studio, dressed in baggy, ill-fitting jeans, a long, sloppy teeshirt and the ubiquitous baseball cap. He had sat down with Peck and Perry, looking first at one and then the other with an oddly mysterious grin on his face.

"What are you up to?" Paul asked, suspicion lacing his voice, "You look as if you just rolled some little old lady for her Social Securiy cheque".

Michael had laughed uproariously and hesitated, with a hint of "Hope theatrics", before whipping the navy blue cap from his head. The results caused both Eddie and Paul's jaws to drop to the floor.

"What the Hell did you do that for??!" exclaimed Peck, feeling quite certain that Michael had stretched the bounds of eccentricity to the tearing point this time. His bizarre friend of sixteen years had dyed his shortly-shorn hair a bright, electric blue.

Michael shrugged with banal aloofness."I don't know. Guess I figured it was time for a change. You have to admit, it caught your attention.

"Uh, yeah", Peck agreed, bemusedly, " it did that alright.

"Now you'll have to constantly worry about brown roots showing", quipped Paul, picking up Michael's cap and tossing it at his colourful friend.

It was clear to Eddie that Paul was not, in actuality, the least bit surprised that Michael had, ostensibly, in a moment of pure impulse, dyed his hair soley for shock value. He had become quite unpredictable of late, even somewhat exhibitionistic, which were quirky character traits foreign to him in previous years of shyness and reservation. "I don't suppose that crap just washes out, does it?" he asked.

Neither Peck nor Perry were aware of the real reason for Julian's newly-coloured locks: Lengthy periods of severely-restricted eating had caused a great deal of his hair to thin dramatically and even fall out, and so the dye job was simply for diversionary tactics. Of course, he would never divulge this damning information to Burton Peck, or any of the others.

Following an absolutely insane period of last-minute activities, as well as the quadruple checking to make certain that everything hummed along like a shiny, new engine, the "Leveller Tour" of 1994 was on its way.

None of the band members were particularly familiar with the itinerary; they simply went where they were supposed to, existing, for the most part, in a protected, essentially impenetrable environment.

Nothing could have pleased Peck more, for the less nonsense, hassles with those annoying hangers-on and dealings with anyone at all who was not a designated member of Oxymoron's "Inner Sanctum", the better.

Gill, who'd always made the most personal contact and interaction with outsiders, did not share Michael's aversion and was looking forward to kibbutzing with the throngs of young people who screamed and applauded with enthusiastic abandon at Oxymoron's live shows. He may have grown somewhat jaded and overused and certainly showed that among those who were emotionally close to him, but Gill Giles was affable, co-operative and even at times, kind to his fans.

Peck was keenly aware that Michael, stung repeatedly by selfish individuals who had made rude attempts to get close to him, did not often make himself available to his fans.

Giles never had, refusing to don the garments of the "pop icon" for reasons of self-preservation and the maintenance of his sanity.

Michael Hope was extremely careful with whom he chose to make any contact and it usually involved people who wanted more depth and value from a brief encounter than simply a scrawled autograph or a hastily-snapped photograph.

This tour, Oxymoron decreed, would follow these similar, unwritten rules of thumb, as there had to be some failsafe ways to protect themselves. Fans could be as predatory as the crickets that Giles had once heard about in a machine in Georgia, at some point during his youth.

The "Leveller Tour" was officially launched in New Zealand, in the city of Timaru and the band's opening night proved worthy of the exhorbitant ticket prices.

Peck was, due to the CD, finally showcased for the impressively talented lead guitarist that he'd always been. He could not, in all honesty, claim that he didn't enjoy the attention and the wild reactions to his no-holds-barred performances.

Michael, at the outset of the tour and for quite a few weeks into the physically-taxing excursion, was nothing short of spectacular in his rivetting, heavily-charged exhibition onstage.

Unlike some shows of years past, he rarely became overly nervous and so pre-occupied with with the physical projecting that it had once rendered him nearly paralyzed. His voice never whipped up and down his four octaves as effortlessly as it did during these first few months. He wore unconventional, off-beat clothing, which aptly suited the trail-blazing songs from "Leveller".

Michael, pausing rarely even for a moment during the two and one half hour performance was, at their tumultuous finale, literally drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as though he had run the New York City Marathon in less than that period of time.

Gill, not generally the type to be easily impressed, felt a grudging admiration for his friend and musical partner, who'd obviously made up his mind to discard any clinging traces of his physical problems in favour of embracing the personification of "The Captivatingly Charistmatic Rock Superstar". He pulled it off very well.

However, the idyllic, too-good-to-be-true proceedings of the "Leveller Tour" were not to go on indefinitely, but for a time, it appeared as if they would. Oxymoron took a three-week respite at Christmas, then travelled from England to North America for an extensive and detailed trek through the U.S. and Canada.

Although January to mid-May of 1995 unfolded without any undue number of difficulties, these months were not completely free from conflicts among Oxymoron's four, physically fraying bandmates.

Peck and Perry were feeling the negative effects of copious performances in the unpleasant form of stiff and aching muscles, numbing exhaustion and psychological pressure in extraordinary amounts.

Gill suffered in his customary silence, but not Burton Peck. He didn't have the warm, consoling arms of Anna to crawl into, as she was caring for their new baby and therefore not very appropriate travelling material. The two of them kept in close contact by phone, though, as did Paul and Lucinda, who had grown extremely tight over the past year, due in part to her difficulities with alarming psychiatric symptoms that kept her cloistered in Vancouver while Perry was on the road.(The chapter on Lucinda is not included on this Website).

Gill Giles, unattached romantically at this point, appeared to be thriving on this excursion and never complained of any discomforts, save regular headaches from the constant screetching of the crowd. However, he would hate to not hear it.

It was Michael who was unravelling and wearing out the most significantly, although until March the outward signs of this were completely invisible to the naked eye. Peck caught the occasional hint that all was not as rosy as it appeared with his old friend, but at first, he averted his attention and convinced himself that he was being too overprotective. After all, Julian was in pretty good health, apparently, being an unusually strong and vital young man, and this certainly worked in his favour.

With the goal of this world tour as something significant upon which to set his sights, Michael had chronicled in his journal, before the excursion began, the unique ways that he had essentially dissolved that ultra-destructive mind set and replaced it with a stronger, more life-affirming one:

It is not an effortless thing to do, to get rid of deeply-ingrained patterns that have dictated my every move for nearly ten years now and havev led me to engage in repugnant actions that no-one can ever, under any circumstances, catch me doing. I have absolutely no idea of how I would explain the vomitting and other unsavoury aspects of eating disorders, because, whether I want to face it or not, I've got them.

For now I just eat a little here and there, enough to exist but not sufficiant to gain any weight. True, I feel tired a lot of the time, but during this tour I make sure I eat enough to burn the calories during our shows. Otherwise I could never finish any of them and that would not be fair to our fans.

The only problem is, that lately I have been finding it more difficult to eat, since I have completely lost any appetite I may have ever had. But for now I will play it by ear. If it gets to the point where I involuntarily vomit up everything that goes into me, then I will have something about which to worry. Meanwhile, my main focus has to be this tour.

Of course, I can say this now, a few months into the tour and I could regress at any time. Who knows what the future will hold? Honestly, though, I don't believe that I am, nor have ever been, in any real danger. If I were going to die from this rather embarrassing problem, I would have done so long ago. There really isn't anything wrong with me, except that I do have a very strong aversion to fat. I was a chubby kid and was absolutely miserable. Anyway, isn't everyone in show business morbidly fearful of fat?"

"Denial" was stamped vigorously over this entire entry and it was gravely unfortunate for Michael Hope that he was so blinded to the ominous perils lurking directly around the corner for him.

Despite Michael's resolve to remain vital and free of anorexic symptoms, reality worked its twisted little fingers into his consciousness and grasped, with a wrenching chokehold, the part of his mind that, until that time, had been set in a hard and positive line.

Those nasty digits squeezed Michael's admirable, pre-tour decision until it was left completely limp and far too pliable. In other words, a future free of the prison bars of anorexia and bulimia was desicrated and in its place a stark and wooden gallows cut into his self-deceptive fog.

* * * *
Michael Hope, as their wildly-successful tour pressed on, was gradually coming to the grim realization that Michael was looking more and more gaunt and ravaged. Something was chipping tenaciously away at his taut, sinewy outer shell to reveal spidery bones and entwining, snake-like veins. Surely he wasn't----

Peck stopped himself suddenly in mid-thought, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the stab of aching familiarity hitting him in his throbbing temples. Naw, he thought to himself, that shit's all over with. This crazy lifestyle won't accommodate it. Peck felt reasonably certain that Michael had, like many musicians during a tour, lost a substantial amount of weight from the rigorous stage work. Burton was a regular guest at the "Fool's Paradise Hotel", but then, it was understandable. He desperately wanted Michael to finally be well.

Hope, unknown to Peck, Gill and Paul, had been abstaining almost completely from food since the beginning of March and had lost over twenty-eight pounds in less than three weeks.

Sliding into "Cover-Up Mode", he cleverly had hidden his transgressions from everyone, until Burton inadvertently caught him and the secret was revealed.

Much as he wished he hadn't, Peck made a discovery that caused the muscles in his throat to go into wild spasms: When the band was set to perform one evening in Denver, Peck caught Julian sleeping alone in his hotel room, which had been unlocked as it not often was, and became curious as to why he was hiding a bunch of sharp objects under his shirt. "What the Hell is he doing? Smuggling contraband in from Montana?" Peck mused, half-aloud. His light-heartedness took a sharp, downward turn, however, into the pit of repugnant horror, when he lifted Michael's "Save the Whales" sweatshirt and he could see, for the very firt time, what his friend really looked like under the camouflaging cover of cotton and polyester. His bones poked out repulsively from nearly transparent skin, forming hollows and deep craters in his chest and abdomen. Julian's body resembled a relief map constructed of paper mache, and with morbid curiosity Burton noticed that he was completely covered with wispy, down-like hair. As he stood gaping at the nigthmare displayed before him, Peck felt his adrenalin orchestrtating the classic fight-or-flight syndrome and he sensed a suffocating nausea settling upon him at the sight of a ribcage that looked for all the world like the hull of a sunken ship. Prominent hipbones reminded him of rhinestone coffin handles, for some reason, and rounding out this goulish picture from Hell was Michael's heavy network of veins that formed interwoven roadways, making him look more like a blue-striped zebra than a human being.

Peck knew that he had to get as far away from Michael as he could just then, before he began kicking and swearing with the hysteria of pure, unchecked rage. Rushing out of the room and gasping for air, Peck managed, during the next few minutes, to regain enough composure as not to be an obvious emotional wreck for all to see.

"My God, Michael, why are your torturing yourself like this?! You'd think you were one of those political prisoners that you're always trying to save!" He erupted then into a voluminous thundercrack of rage---to think that Michael Hope had deceived him, as well as Gill and Paul and treated them all like virtual idiots! "I know we all haven't had a Hell of a lot to do with one another for ages and frankly, I haven't invested any real time or effort in anything interpersonal with regard to Oxymoron, but dammit! I despise being made a jackass out of!!" Taylor kicked the ground hard, feeling suddenly violent. "That's it", he resolved, "I've had all I'm going to tolerate of this shit and if Michael wants to act like a freak as well as look like one, it's his problem. I am bowing out of this one".

Peck decided against confiding in Lee and Perry, or Jake for that matter, as it would have fueled too many heated arguements and thus greatly interfere with the tour. They all had worked too damn hard to allow everything to be jeopardized now.

Michael would have to be alone with his demons from now on.

* * * * * *
The twenty-sixth of May began as any other had for the "Leveller Tour", with one glaring exception: Oxymoron was about to play in their hometown, something to which they had all looked forward with great enthusiasm.

Burton and Paul were especially pleased, since they would be briefly re-united with the Vancouver-bound Anna and Lucinda for a twenty-four-hour period. Peck could barely comprehend that the band had been on the road for close to eight months and he was equally surprised that he was still physically able to get around.

Touring life had somehow been beneficial to the majority of Oxymoron. Peck had never enjoyed playing more during previous live events, nor had he felt such amazing torrents of audience-generated lifeblood feeding into him as it was so consistently this time out. "Hell, I'm really loving this!" He exclaimed to Anna, upon his arrival at the couple's house ten hour before showtime. Of course, he found ample time to play with his infant son, whom he absolutely adored. Anna couldn't have posssibly given him a more precious gift. "You wouldn't think I could be re-juvinated at this relatively late stage of my life, but it's true!"

Gill, who had never lost his professional enthusiasm and possessed the inborn ability to conserve his energy onstage and make it last for the diration of the show with little or no effort, it seemed, read the reviews of Oxymoron's every performance and could not help but be smugly satisfied that they were virtually universally favourable. Words like "spellbinding" and "breath-taking", not previously utilized with abandon to describe an Oxymoron shos, literally overflowed on the written page these days.

Paul Perry, Peck knew well, was wracked with internal conflict with regard to his touring responsibilities. He, like the others, loved the performing end, but the insane publicity wa something to which Paul had never grown accustomed and felt he never would. Even more fiercely protective of his privacy than Michael, he could not comprehend why he was obliged to make himself accessible to anyone and everyone who wished to "get closer". Being a drummer in one of the best-known rock bands in the world was, after all, just a job. It wasn't his entire life.

During the past several months, Michael had managed to distance himself from the rest of the band, which worked out well, considering that Giles, Perry and Peck had grown both suspicious and wary of their increasingly bizarre front man.

Peck wasn't privy to the fact that Paul and Gill knew more about what was going on with Michael than he figured; they were not stupid, after all, and those terrible days in the hospital had primed them to be on the lookout for certain signs.

Lee told Burton, two hours before the show, that he thought Michael to be "more reclusive and antisocial than he's ever been" and "I just can't deal with him anymore. He's changed, Burton. He's just not the same guy with whom we've worked together all these years and I hate to say it, but I really don't like him much anymore".

"Why?" Peck was curious. Julian might be weird, but certainly not unlikeable to any degree, as far as he could see, at least.

"He's become such a, well, a wet blanket. Haven't you noticed how everything is so damned serious with him now? I realize that he's quite intense and all that, but you have to have some fun in this life. What people see onstage and what we live with Michael are opposite extremes".

Peck thought quietly for a moment, feeling that Bryan was being unfair. "It hasn't been easy for him, you know", he began slowly. "and I don't think you know this, but he's into some pretty heavy shit right now, trying to pull everything together, I hope. Try to understand a little. Michael's just sort of stuck at the moment".

"Stuck?" Gill exclaimed and shook his mane of curls. "Believe me, Burton, I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do and I'll just say that we are not Michael's Goddamned babysitters! He had better get unstuck pretty freaking fast!"

As Giles walked away, Peck called out after him, "You don't have much of a heart left, Gill. Maybe you should make some internal repairs yourself".

Burton was surprised at this disturbing conversation with a man he had thought he knew well. He had been ready to write Michael off himself as a veritable basket case, turning from the anorexic issue in hopes that it would magically go away, but not now. Taylor was totally confused. "Dammit, I care", he murmured, biting his lower lip so hard that it began to bleed. "no-one else ever gave a shit about Michael until he was worth the megabucks. Maybe if someone had, he wouldn't be in the mess he's in".

Peck resolved that, following that night's performance, he would approach his ailing friend and tell him everything: That he had overheard Michael talking to Paul in the hospital and that he had seen what Michael really looked like under the flashy image of public stardom and mass adulation. "Hell, for all I know, he'll just tell me to shove my concern up my ass", Peck mused, rolling up his shirtsleeves, "but that's oaky. That kind of crap I can deal with".

* * * * * * * *
It was five minutes before showtime and the band members were all backstage, each preparing, in their own unique way, for their highly-anticipated grand entrance.

Gill strapped on his bass, his calm exterior camouflaging a hefty dose of classic pre-show jitters.

Paul paced nervously up and down, clicking his drumsticks together in a fidgetty manner that always emotionally ingnited the hyperactive Eddie.

Oxymoron's lead guitarist concentrated all of his mental energy on becoming completely focused, something that generally worked well for him.

None of them paid the slightest attention to Michael, who stood off to one side, his voice running the distance of four octaves to prepare for a one-hundred fifty-minute vocal work-out. He simultaneously went through a series of stretches, as his physical performance was do demanding on the muscles.

Stage directors ran about in their usual state of controlled chaos, barking orders to background instrumentalists and trying to divulge whether or not all of the lighting and special effects were set up properly. There was one giant video screen behind the stage and set up high, along with the many massive amplifiers, a welcome relief to fans who were used to having their eardrums severerely pummelled at other bands' concerts. The entire production was elaborate and costly, much more so than Oxymoron would have initially preferred, adverse as they were to pretense of any kind.

Peck could not shake a foreboding sensation that had suddenly crept under his skin. He was unable to discern what the source was, but was well aware from past experience that it was not a feeling to be taken lightly.

Just then he caught sight of Michael taking a liberal swig from a white, plastic bottle. Burton hollered over to him, "Hey, go easy on that stuff, Michael! We don't want your head fogging up before the show even starts". Although he was making a lame attempt at a joke, Peck knew that the bottle contained an antacid solution, for he'd noticed that Michael had been drinking a great deal of it during the past few days. Today, however, set some kind of record. "You suffering from terminal heartburn or what?"

Michael cast the now-empty bottle aside and hastily wiped his mouth. "Yeah. And this stuff's worse than milk for coating the vocal chords". He rinsed out his mouth with a large cupful of water.

"Don't drink it then". Peck wondered about Michael's obvious lack of common sense. He was normally so damned professional and fussy.

"Thirty seconds!!" A sharp voice cut into the juiced-up atmosphere. Burton ran through a series of comples chords and began walking with gradually increasing speed toward the stage's entrance. He could hear the crowd screaming and clapping rhythmically.

Oxymoron's opening act, a bold and innovative alternative band called "Brainstem" had exited twenty minutes before and had gotten everyone whipped into an absolute frenzy. This was Oxymoron's homecoming, after all: The "Golden Boys" had triumphantly returned to their roots, where they had always been held in the highest regard.

"Ladies and gentlemen!!" a short, ferret-like announcer hollered in a voice that far out-distanced his diminutive stature, "Without further hesitation....Waco, Texas's very own OXYMORON!!"

The din was so overwhelmingly thunderous that Peck was unable to hear himself play. It was great. The band started their show with the up-tempo, atomically-charged "Anthem For the Empty-Headed", from the "Leveller" CD, then launched into a relentless string of tunes that ran the gamut from the wistfully poignant, notable for their simplicoity, to complex numbers in keys like D sharp minor and A flat major. Nobody in the audience knew where the musical score was headed to next with some of those songs.

The atmosphere bordered on fevered hysteria as the fans, who'd been deprived for over five long years, could not seem to get their intense hunger satisfied.,/B>

Burton marvelled, as his lightening-fast fingers tore wildly at his axe, at the way in which his band was driving otherwise stolid, sensible and otherwise average human beings into such a cataclysmic feeding frenzy, as this show was turning out to be.

As the show progressed in its uncompromising, twisting-of-the-vertebra pace, Peck discovered that it was a near impossibility to maintain a steady performance. He felt as though an invisible fast-forward switch had been turned off inside his head and that he was suddenly reduced to the playing speed of a lumbering dinosaur. Sweat rivuletted down his back, as Calvin's driving beat carried him along, like a stick of wood caught in white water rapids.

Turning abruptedly, Peck was surprised to discover that he was in close proximity to Michael, who was pushing himself so hard that he looked as though he had stepped into a hot shower fully-clothed. Peck started moving backward slowly and just then, for a brief instant, his steady gaze met Michael's flashing indigo eyes. In the split second of Perry's drumstick hitting the high hat, the world as Burton knew it ruptured violently into a devastating emotional firestorm.

Michael had just begun to introduce Oxymoron's next number, "The Artist Overwhelmed", a particular audience favourite, having been the song that pushed the band into the superstardom spotlight back in 1991. He stood close to the microphone, breathing heavily and it seemed to Peck that he was having some difficulty speaking. Michael managed to get through the preamble, however and had just launched into the first few bars of the song when suddenly, he doubled over, spasmodically and began to scream in gut-wrenching agony.

Peck froze, feeling every internal organ flip on its side and begin to twitch incessantly. Just then, all of the noise and activity in the conjested arena appeared to be sucked powerfully into an invisible vacuum for Burton Peck, leaving both him and Michael Hope standing alone to play out their last scene together.

Michael collapsed onto the stage after grasping wildly at the microphone stand, in an effort to remain upright. Blazing floodlights bathed him in flourescent rouge, as he lay on his side, holding onto his gut and crying out in a voice laced with choking sobs, "Oh God, it hurts!! Make it stop!! Somebody please make it stop!!"

Somehow, Peck managed to reach his writhing friend, his stomach feeling as though it had been reemed out with a roto-tiller and poured full of concrete. He tossed his guitar aside and knelt down beside Michael, grasping Oxymoron's waif-like lead singer's blue-haired head in his cramping hands. He spoke as slowly and evenly as his rising panic would let him. "What is it? What's the matter for God's sake??"

Instead of responding, Michael, whose pain-wracked yelling had drifted into monotonal moans, suddenly lurched wildy, and to Eddie's shocked horror, vomitted a large quantity of dark red blood onto Peck's chest, completely saturating his white dress shirt.

All of this had transpired in a manner of seconds and by the time Gill Giles, clear across the stage and firmly esconsed in his own little world, noticed what was going on, Michael was lying unconscious near the edge of the stage, while Peck cried out for help. Gill stopped playing immediately, followed by Paul, who had gotten a chilling view "from the crow's nest".

Then began the savage pandemonium, as the stunned audience, watching the entire, grisly melodrama from its onset, was frighteningly transformed from shocked silence into a huge, wriggling blanket of predatory, unleashed panic. Their reaction was understandable: This sudden and unquestionably goulish turn of events was enough to unhinge even the most unshakable psyche, for it was completely unexpected and caused by reasons unknown.

As Peck's gaze darted quickly about, searching for a way to get Julian offstage, he heard hysterical voices in the madding crowd yelling questions riddled with desperation: "My God, what's going on??" "Is he having a drug reaction??" "Did somebody shoot him?" "Why is there so much blood???" "Is there a doctor somewhere???"

Gill and Paul, by this time, had arrived on the open set of the tragedy, along with a handful of individuals intent upon removing Michael from public view as quickly and uneventfully as possible. Two men grasped him swiftly, yet gently, under his stick-like arms, while a couple of others lifted his legs and carried him from the blood-pooled stage, amid the deafening crecendo of wailing audience members.

Backstage, Burton, Gill and Paul stood by while Michael was laid out on a blanket strewn hastily on the floor. Peck say that his gravely ill friend was pale as ivory, with tiny droplets of perspiration forming on his upper lip and forehead.

Suddenly, Michael jerked into consciousness and groaned. Peck moved closer. "Hang on, buddy. Help's coming soon. Just try to relax, okay?"

Michael made an attempt at to speak. His lips fumbled awkwadly around the words until unsettling gurgling sounds in his throat culminated in the spitting up of more blood.

"Turn his head to the side so he doesn't asperate!" Gill cried out, keeping a protective distance from Michael and Burton.

Peck did so, more of a reflex than anything else and to his dismay, the viscous blood continued pouring out of Michael's mouth.

He tried talking again. This time, despite choking on the life-giving substance rapidly deserting his body, Michael managed to mumble something to Peck in largely incomprehensible tones. Burton could, nonetheless, understand. "Burton----I-----I'm dying. Listen to me-----I have to say something to you. Please---"

peck shook his head, feeling suddenly very ill himself. "Don't talk like that! You're going to be fine. Really". He caught sight of Gill suddenly covering his hand with his mouth, having overheard the conversation. Peck grasped Michael's fragile hand. "The ambulance is coming right this minute. Just keep holding on, please!"

Michael tried to object, but was suddenly caught in a spasm of coughing, which, unfortunately, produced even more blood that ran all over his blue tee shirt.

"We'll talk later", Peck said quietly, squeezing Michael's shoulder. "You just concentrate on getting better".

The three able-bodied members of Oxymoron were driven by limousine to the same hospital that had received Michael nearly a year before. They said nothing to one another. Peck crouched in a corner of the seat, feeling his pulse reverberating in the roots of his teeth. Gill sat with his arms folded protectively across his chest, an unreadable expression on his ashen face, while Paul cradled his head in his hands and rocked in a slightly rhythmic motion between the other two.

Peck, at this point, did not even casually entertain the notion that Michael might not make it. After all, they'd lived this crisis before, or a similar one, hadn't they? Besides, people like Michael Hope practically lived forever, didn't they?

The hospital turned out to be a media circus, overrun by reporters and camera people, eager for anything that could be gleaned from anyone who looked at all informed.

"God, here we are again, and this time we're all going to be splashed on the front page of the paper!" Gill spat out in disgust.

"Is that all you freaking care about??!" Peck exploded, feeling a strong urge to strike the obviously cold and heartless Gill.

Paul moved away from his argumentative bandmates, wishing to distance himself as much as possible for self-protective reasons.

Peck swallowed hard, the obstructing lump in his throat seeming to swell up and press hard against his tonsils. He was oblivious to the people thronging all around him, with their annoying flashbulbs and microphones thrust into his face every other instant.

Just then, he was privy to a welcome sight in the form of Dr. Robinson, who was just then hurrying toward him with her left hand upheld and an expression of extreme distress on her face.

"Dr. Robinson! Come here, please!!" Burton waved spasmodically, neglecting to see the expression on the physician's face and expecting heartening news.

The young woman hurried over as fast as she could through the mass of raucous people. She had obviously been summoned when Michael had been brought in. Dr. Robinson, her hair trailing in wispy waves as she finally reached Taylor's side, spoke as calmly and comfortingly as she could. "They're examining Michael right now in the ER". She pointed to a set of double doors, twenty yards away to the right. "That's all I was told. I'll go in there now and see what's happening". She smiled warmly and patted Burton's forearm. "Don't lose hope".

The next few minutes seemed interminable. Peck entertained thoughts of escaping somewhere to get away from all of the confusion and mayhem, but then, a short while later, Dr. Robinson returned and announced that they would be operating immediately on Michael. She would not, however, give him any information on his condition, except to say that it was "extremely critical".

The next hour following this grim announcement was agonizing for Eddie and he was finally forced to duck quietly into a small washroom off the main lobby. He cloistered himself inside, sitting on the floor and grasping his knees to his chest. He was profoundly relieved to be in a temporary state of solitude, even though the newfound silence left a blank slate on which to sketch morbid thoughts about Julian. He did his best to mentally erase them as rapidly as they were formulated, saying aloud over and over in a voice that bounced from the tiles walls, "You're going to be alright. You have to be. It can't all end like this. It just can't".

Finally, after forty-five minutes had elapsed, Peck rose slowly to his feet and felt twinges opf discomfort in the back of his legs. He then peered warily outside the door. The circus hadn't pulled up stakes to leave yet, but he had to know what was going on in the operating room.

Staring straight ahead of him, a suffocating sensation of apprehension squeezed his ribcage, Peck walked down the conjested hallway, frantic to catch a glimpse of the doctor.

To his intense relief, he saw her getting off the elevator. However, he noticed with alarm that she was wearing a distinctly somber expression.

As Dr. Robinson opened her mouth to speak, looking even more unhappy, Taylor realized that it wasn't necessary for her to say a word. Her tragic and sympathetic demeanor was all-too-revealing. She did tell him, though, in a voice betraying her emotions, "The surgeons in there did everything they could. They worked on Michael all this time, but there was nothing that could be done to save him. He'd just lost too much blood. I'm so sorry".

Peck didn't notice Gill and Paul, who, having overheard, had moved up behind their bandmate in order to get the full story.

Dr. Robinson continued. "Michael died of a perforated ulcer. Such ulcers can develop in a matter of hours and are often quite dangerous. There was massive internal bleeding as well as the corrosive stomach acids being released and coming in contact with his other organs---"

Peck heard her droning voice of doom trailing off into nothingness, as his mind was totally unable, at first, to absorb the terrible news. When Robinson's words did finally penetrate his consciousness, he reacted with utter disbelief, peppered with flashes of anger. "No! That didn't really happen! You're a damned liar!" Turning on his heels, Burton pushed angrily past Gill and Paul and knew that it was suddenly imperative that he get as far away from that hospital as possible. He was, even in this emotional state, keenly aware that he nearly always responded to anything unpleasant by running away and hiding. It was a pattented Burton Peck character trait, developed over most of his life.

Never mind, he reasoned, as clearly as his mind would work at that moment. I'm just not going to deal with this now. I can't.

In his wake, Peck left poor Paul and Gill to handle the terrible details at the scene. Gill's reaction was to begin shouting, "Oh, God, NO!" repeatedly, hovering on the edge of unchecked hysteria, while Paul Perry smashed his fist forcefully into the wall in sad desperation.

It was now official: Michael Hope died at ten forty-seven PM on May twenty-sixth, 1995, at the age of thirty-five.

His long and anguished years of anorexic torment had finally come to an end.