That being said, my entire prompt for this piece was, literally, "Can you chop my ex's dick off?" I almost put it in a different story I was writing about a boat and a vagina with teeth, but eventually decided to do something different after realizing that boats aren't terribly interesting, and my prompt was "chop his dick off" not "bite his dick off with a vagina". So I went with this. It should be noted that, though I did use the bastard's actual name, he is not, in fact, a musician, but rather is studying some form of engineering. I don't know the first thing about engineering, so I wrote about music - particularly the music industry, which I also don't know that much about. We can assume that, were we to enter an alternate universe where this asshole was a musician rather than an engineer, this is exactly the course of events his life would take.
So, in conclusion, don't cheat. It makes you a bastard, and you might get your dick chopped, or eaten, or symbolically cursed by a badass construction chick with a pretty intense sweet tooth. Who is, in fact, also an engineer.
Creative Control
Nothing about this was what he had expected. Being invited to the home of a hugely successful record producer was generally something of an event. They lived in lavish Manhattan apartments or LA mansions, only descending into the ground level ranks of up and coming bands to charm them into submission.. Bands would get so seduced by a producer’s luxury and affluence, they would immediately do anything to please them. One minute they would be something new and interesting, the next second they were a heavily marketed boy band. Sam had seen it a thousand times. Most record producers were glorified retail manufacturers - more advertisers than artists.
This was, of course, not the case with Tatiana Eris.
She was the music industry’s most enigmatic and successful producer. Despite rarely being seen in public, the bands she signed were legendary - perfectly polished groups with some of the most interesting and unique sounds of the past decade. She famously gave each of her artists full creative control over their music, and it showed. If an album had an Eris Records stamp on it, it was guaranteed to be the music of a generation - forever played and replayed as an example of the popular culture of the times. To be scouted by Tatiana Eris was like getting a chance at immortality - no one refused a meeting.
So when Sam was asked to make an appearance at Tatiana's personal home unaccompanied by the rest of his band, he went. Instantly. Without the blessing or good wishes of his bandmates. It hadn’t been his fault, after all. The lead singer always got most of the attention in these situations. He was the face of the band, after all. He was the only one in the group with a well-crafted stage persona, a unique look, and a dynamic voice. It wasn’t his fault his bandmates just weren’t as interesting, right?
That’s what he was trying to tell himself. In all honesty, a part of him wished he didn’t have to do this alone. As confident as he was, Tatiana was a big name, and her strange choice of residence wasn’t doing much to calm his nerves. Choosing to live in an abandoned subway tunnel was, he thought, a bit more than simple artistic eccentricity. Sam didn’t like being in active, functional subway stations, let alone dark, empty ones.
But then, who was he to judge? She was the one about to give him stardom. Eventually, he would be big enough that he could leave her behind, and this would all be just a funny story to tell in an interview. His first bizarre brush with fame.
Footsteps echoed up the tunnel. A beautiful, familiar woman stepped out of the darkness and extended a hand.
“Delilah Smith,” said the woman, “I’m Miss Eris’ personal assistant. She’s very glad you could make it.”
Sam grinned, and studied her from top to bottom. He recognized her from his gig the other night. Built like a supermodel, she was tall and curvy with dark hair and deep red lips. She wore a black dress that clung to her in just the right places with matching, sharp stiletto heels, and a necklace dangling tantalizingly close to her cleavage. When she had spoken to him at the club, he remembered thinking how nice all her clothing and accessories would look on the floor, rather than needlessly covering up her body.
He smirked. Maybe when the contracts were signed. He was about to be a rock star, after all.
“Miss Eris is just this way,” she said, “If you’ll follow.”
“I’d follow you anywhere.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She turned around, slowly, and began the journey down the tunnel. Sam took a moment to watch her move. Her hips swayed with all the subtlety of a porn star, but with a strange, alluring sort of class. It was as if she had been designed specifically to be sexy - the kind of woman he thought only existed in legends and Playboy. He wondered how many soon-to-be stars had followed behind her, hoping she would be their introduction to the wild, sexual exploits of the music industry.
She turned.
“You are coming, correct?”
Sam caught himself. He had been ogling her.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, trying to remain composed, “yeah, I’m coming.”
She turned without another word, and he followed closely behind, trying to focus on the atmosphere around him rather than the fantasy walking in front of him. They stepped onto an old, dusty platform, rotting and withering with age and decay. Pieces of rusted equipment and decades old garbage littered their path, scuffing his pants and shoes. The air smelled of rancid shit and mold. He could swear there was a rat scurrying around every two feet.
“Not to make a bad impression,” he said, “But is there any particular reason Miss Eris lives down here?”
“She likes her privacy,” said Delilah, walking confidently through the rubble despite her thin heels, “She is passionate about the industry and the musicians she employs, but beyond that, dislikes the spotlight and chaos of the outside world. It interferes with her work. She finds this place suits her needs better than anywhere else.”
“Alright then.” said Sam, narrowly avoiding slipping on a decades old piece of rotting fruit.
“You know,” continued Delilah, “If Miss Eris signs you, she will require you to do all your recording exclusively in her studios which are, of course, built into these tunnels.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Oh, uh, no.”
In reality, of course, he hated subways. He hated being underground, in the dust and the dirt in small, airless tunnels. Everything about subways systems repulsed him. But, in the end, it would only be temporary. It would insufferable, and difficult, but it would make him a star.
“Excellent,” she said, stopping at the edge of the platform, “If you’ll just follow me down.”
“With pleasure.”
Unlike the station platform, which remained as disused and empty as one would imagine an abandoned subway station to be, the tunnel itself was well lit, clean, and decorated with portraits of every band Eris Records had ever signed. Sam recognized most of them; Heart's Lesson, The Oxymorons, Kelly Jupiter, The Cherry Tree Experiment, I ONE IX HE DIE - all sorts of different, bizarre acts allowed to explore their creativity and style without having to sell out to some generic corporate image, all discovered and produced by Tatiana Eris. Sam could easily picture some young, wide-eyed musician walking down this same tunnel past his own portrait. Delilah would smile and relate the exact moment he was living now, of Sam before the fame.
As they walked further through the tunnel, Sam began to hear music echo towards them - music he was eventually pleased to realize was his own. He wondered where she had gotten the recording. His band wasn’t exactly mainstream, they hadn’t even released a single yet, let alone a whole album. Maybe Delilah had made a recording at the concert the other night? Whatever the case, Tatiana Eris was listening to his music, preparing to sit down and discuss his future.
And his girlfriend said he should pursue engineering. Right.
Delilah stopped at a stairway. Another platform loomed above them.
“Miss Eris is up there.”
Sam looked up. This was it, this was the moment. His entire life would change the second he stepped up those stairs. Could he really do it? Could he turn away from the life he’d always known - from his bandmates and his girlfriend - and accept a whole new life? Fuck yeah, of course he could. He stepped up.
Tatiana Eris sat in the center of what had to be the largest, most elaborate subway station on the face of the planet. Expert tile work covered the station’s strangely ornate architecture - filled with gold arches, spiraling pseudo-Roman pillars, and elegant, technicolor mosaics. His music - or rather, his band’s music - played on an antique victrola next to a large, velvet couch. The enormous station was filled with a strange and eclectic assortment of seemingly random things, scattered unevenly around, yet with a certain unusual order to them. Overall, it looked less like the home of a wealthy music producer, and a bit more like the lair of the Phantom of the Opera.
“Sam,” said Tatiana, “It’s so good to finally meet you. Have a seat.”
Once again, Sam hesitated, if only to take a few moments to study the appearance of a woman so many people knew of, but had never actually seen. She was not at all what he had expected, especially after meeting Delilah. He had imagined she would be classically seductive - a sort of femme fatale figure who lured bands in with a sultry appearance and the tantalizing prospect of artistic freedom. Instead, Tatiana was somewhat stylishly unkempt - short, but trendy bright orange hair with a long, slightly ruffled black coat, a white, button down shirt, and a pair of boots that had to be from a thrift store. The effect was classy, but unexpected. A bit like the rock music coming out of her antique victrola.
He took a seat.
“You’re quite thin.” Tatiana observed.
“Oh, um, am I?” Sam had never really considered it. “It’s, uh, an honor to be here, Miss Eris.”
“Is it?” Tatiana’s face was an interesting mix of puzzled and amused, “Why is that?”
Sam was taken aback. How was that even a question? Was she not aware of her own fame? Maybe she just wanted to hear her accomplishments listed back at her. A lot of powerful people did. As stupid as it was, he would he happy to indulge her. There was no shame in a bit of ego stroking, she hadn’t drawn paperwork yet, after all.
“There is not a single person who doesn’t know your name, Miss Eris,” he began, “You’re a symbol for artistic freedom. You’ve changed the game by signing and marketing artists without interfering in their work. You let musicians be musicians, no matter how strange, or fucked up, or needlessly unconventional they might be. Everybody in the industry is dying to work with you. You would have to be completely insane to not feel honored to be in your presence.”
“Yes, I suppose you would,” Tatiana agreed, “It’s an interesting concept, though, isn’t it? Artistic freedom.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Sam, stumbling, “I guess.”
The conversation was somewhat unpredictable. Desperately, he tried to think of something more intelligent to say, something that made him sound a bit more profound and professional, and less like an uneducated amateur.
“It is interesting,” he agreed, after a moment, “It’s something that should just be given, you know? Like, automatically. And it shouldn’t be limited or made generic.”
“Do you feel your music is generic?”
“No,” said Sam, instantly, “but I think most of what’s on the radio these days is.”
“Interesting,” Tatiana mused, “And out of every band in the world, every bright, new musician determined to be special while clawing their way to stardom, you believe your group has created something new?”
“Um, yes?” Sam was getting anxious. “Why else would I be here?”
“Why else indeed?” said Tatiana, “Certainly not because of your band.”
Sam’s face fell.
“What?”
“Your band, “ repeated Tatiana, “What are they called? The Nonsense?”
“The Nonexistence.”
“Yes,” said Tatiana, nodding, “The Nonexistence. Non-existent is a good way to describe them. The sound is more generic than a reality show boy band. The cheap attempts at “grittiness” and “realism” sounds like a depressed thirteen-year-old’s impression of middle school, and I can guarantee you every “shocking” and “ironic” lyric has been written better before. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Sam didn’t know what to say. He was sure what they had done was unique - on a different, higher level than anything on the mainstream pop charts. That was why they had gone into music, after all. Everything sounded like shit, and they were going to change that. They’d spent years making sure they would. Where the hell had they managed to go wrong?
“Of course,” said Tatiana, “Without the band, you’re something else entirely.”
Oh.
Sam relaxed. He had forgotten, briefly, the circumstances of his invitation to the abandoned subway home of Tatiana Eris - his specifically solo invitation. It was true, his band may lack any sense of originality or excitement, but he wasn’t just his band. He was more. He was better.
That’s why he was here.
“Thank you,” he said, confident once again.
“Of course,” said Tatiana, smirking slightly, “Your band may be the most derivative thing to have ever walked the earth, but you? You have potential. I can see in you the next great star, the perfect success story. Would you like a drink?”
“Oh,” Sam smiled, surprised, “Um, sure.”
“Excellent,” she reached for a bell next to her seat, “Let me just call Delilah and we’ll get your contract settled.”
The bell rang, and Sam watched as seconds later - as if she’d simply been lying in wait for Tatiana’s call - Delilah descended slowly and enticingly down the steps of an elaborate archway.
“Miss Eris.”
“I would like the contract I drew up earlier,” said Tatiana, barely glancing at her assistant, “as well as a glass of Merlot, and whatever it is Sam drinks -”
“- Jack and coke, if that’s cool.” “And a jack and coke. Thank you.”
Delilah nodded and stepped away silently. Sam shot her a wink, which she responded to with a decidedly “come hither” look of her own. He grinned. What a day he was having. Getting her alone later would be the best way to end it. She disappeared up the same dark, arched stairwell she came down. Sam wondered how large the complex was. Delilah had said there were recording studios down here, right?
He turned back to Tatiana. She was studying him with some sort of strange intensity - not as someone appraising new talent, but as someone reviewing a recent purchase. It was as if she were checking for scratches or dents, appraising him to be sure she’d gotten her money’s worth. It was strange behavior, Sam thought, for someone renowned for their hands off approach to producing music. But then, she was an innovative recluse. She had every right to be eccentric.
Not that it wasn't making him nervous. Everything about her seemed to make him nervous.
“Delilah told me you have all your musicians record exclusively down here,” Sam began, hoping some conversation might make the air less strange and anxious, “is that true?”
“Indeed it is,” said Tatiana, her gaze unwavering, “I allow my artists complete creative control over their product. Once they’re signed with me, I rarely find I need to tell them how to work. In exchange, however, as I still like to feel involved, I only ask that they record exclusively where I can watch them. I’m sure you’ll find my facilities sufficient. I’ve spent a significant amount of money making sure they are the absolute state of the art.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” said Sam, taking a moment to, once again, examine the lavishly refurbished station they were sitting in. Renovating the complex must have cost a fortune.
“I do have to ask, though,” he continued, “why a subway? I know you don’t like the spotlight, but couldn’t you have built a skyscraper or a big complex in the desert or a private island or something? Why an underground train station?”
“That’s quite the story,” Tatiana began, “At the turn of the eighteenth century, this line, and in particular, this station, was built as a showpiece for the new subway system. It was designed to be unique - bright and elegant where the underground was dark and murky. It had five architects, all leading scholars on Romanesque revival architecture. It’s opening was an event attended by the city’s most elite leaders and celebrities - far more akin to something in the music industry than the transit authority. In the 50’s, however, the subway began to change, and the setup of this station became dangerous and antiquated. Due to its complexity, it couldn’t be renovated, and only certain trains could safely stop here. With so many other stations being built nearby, and this one rarely being used, the city deemed it redundant, and thus, had it closed down in December of 1955. For decades it went unused, except for one train that would loop past it while making its way back uptown in the middle of the night. You could only see it if you managed to stay on the train’s complete run, which I did, one night when I fell asleep and missed my stop. I was captivated. It just sat there - all this unused, untapped glory, forever doomed to waste its potential as a late night loop station. I realized this station was like music, and all the artists missing their opportunity to use their potential until I allowed them to. Instantly, I recognized that it was my destiny to fall asleep that night, it was my duty to give this place the same chance I give to my musicians.”
“So, what?” asked Sam, bewildered, “You bought the line?”
“I bought the line,” Tatiana nodded, “and I transformed it into what it always had the potential for - true art.”
Once again, Sam was at a loss as to how to respond. On one hand, the story of this station was incredible - a flawless example of everything Tatiana Eris stood for. The world had tried to keep this place hidden, cut off and underground despite its splendor, and it was only until Tatiana came along that it was allowed to be what it was, something above and beyond the average dust and grime of a subway station. She took something with great potential and allowed it to be great. It was, in a way, exactly what she was about to do for him.
And yet, it was also completely fucking insane. She bought an entire subway line and turned it into a recording studio - which she lived in. She was reclusive and strange, listened to metal on a victrola, and despite enormous wealth, looked like a hobo with access to professional hair products. Nothing about her was remotely normal, everything was alien and unsettling. Was artistic freedom really worth putting up with all this?
Delilah returned with two drinks and a stack of papers. She placed the tray on the table and distributed everything accordingly - the entire time making sure to bend further and further forward to give Sam a better view down her dress. Any subtlety she may have exerted was gone. When she passed his drink towards him, slow and enticing, he simply couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed her hand.
“Any chance I could see you later?” he asked, “Maybe buy you a drink? No matter how nice it is to watch you hand me one.”
She grinned, a small, alluring smirk.
“As soon as you’re done here,” she said, “You’ll find me.”
She stood slowly, clearly intending to give him a show. She took an unnecessarily deep breath, her chest rising to the point where it looked as if it would fall out of her dress. To his disappointment, it did not. He watched her go, admiring the way her hips moved in time to his own music on the victrola.
He glanced down at the contract, then back at the space in front of the table Delilah had just occupied. This was totally worth it. Whether Tatiana was crazy or not, he was going to be a rock star. Nothing else mattered.
“Where do I sign?”
“You’ll want to read that first, won’t you?”
“Nah,” Sam waved away her concern, “I’m sure I’ll figure everything out as I go.”
“And you’re aware this contract is for you and only for you?” she reiterated, “I have no interest in signing the rest of your band.”
“Me and me only,” said Sam, reaching for the pen, “Gotcha. The guys will get over it, we were moving in different directions anyway.”
“Indeed,” said Tatiana, “Then, if you would just sign the last form, we can finish our drinks and I’ll show you how we do things.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He picked up the contract and flipped to the back page. It seemed fairly long, but then, he really had no frame of reference. He hadn’t even seen a record contract before, let alone flipped through the fine print of one. It couldn’t be that complicated. It was a record deal - a record deal with an orange haired woman who lived in a subway station - but a record deal, nonetheless. He knew what to expect. Contracts were like itunes agreements, he was sure no one really read them.
He found the last page and signed. Dropping the pen, he picked up his drink and leaned back to relax.
Tatiana held up her wine glass.
“Welcome to Eris Records, Sam.” She took a sip. “Cheers.”
Sam grinned. What a day. He was having a drink with Tatiana Eris, and later, he would get to tear the dress off her beautiful assistant.
Everything was turning out as it should.
“How is your drink?” Tatiana asked, casually.
“Perfect.” Sam answered, and everything went black.
When he woke up, he was in a place that looked far more like what he imagined a dark, abandoned subway station was supposed to, with the exception of a bright, white light assaulting his eyes. As he tried to shield himself from the intensity of the light, shivering despite its heat, he realized two very distinct things; one, that he was firmly strapped down to a cold, metal table, and two, that he was naked. It took him a few moments to process this, and when he finally did, he screamed.
“Oh,” said a familiar voice, “Hello, Sam. Glad you’re awake on time.”
He squinted. It was Delilah. Despite being dressed in medical attire, she looked far less like the sexy nurse he had expected in this situation, and a bit more like a horror movie villain. Was that what she was into? Was that all this was? Had he just had too much to drink?
Then Tatiana appeared, similarly attired, but about a thousand times more frightening.
“Good to see you up, Sam,” she said, her orange hair peeking out wildly from the edges of her surgical cap, “Sorry you have to be awake for all this, it takes some preparation, and I don’t like to roofie people more than once. The pain will probably knock you out in a bit anyway, so you won’t suffer too long.”
“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.
“My job,” said Tatiana, reasonably, “I’m molding you. Like I did this station. I’m going to turn you into exactly the pop star society wants right now.”
“What?” Sam shouted, too terrified to form a more eloquent protest, “What happened to creative fucking control?”
“Oh, you will have it,” said Tatiana, “I just need to transform you into someone I feel is worthy of it first. You’re nearly there - you’re thin enough, and decently cute - but you don’t quite suit my purposes yet.”
“What?”
“It’s an interesting concept,” Tatiana mused, sorting through various pieces of intimidating looking medical equipment, “Artistic freedom. I was fascinated by it in the beginning. An artist allowed to simply be an artist. It’s beautiful. No limits or obstacles - I wondered how I could make it work for me. How could I allow artists their pure right to create while still getting the music I wanted?”
“You could try holding auditions,” said Sam, shakily.
“I could go back to that,” she said, “I suppose. But even then, no one was ever perfect. I would have had to interfere and stifle them to get what I needed - or rather, what society needed. I realized the best way to do it, was simply to transform musicians that were close to my vision into whatever kind of artist we needed at the time. That way, I don’t have to worry about disliking or not approving of what they do - because everything they do will be exactly what I want. No interference necessary. I get the exact artist I, and popular culture as a whole requires, and my musicians get total creative freedom. Everybody wins.”
“But doesn’t that complete fuck up the purpose of artistic freedom in the first place? You’re taking away my ability to be myself.”
“Oh, what is the self?” asked Tatiana, flippantly. She pointed to something across the room for Delilah to bring her. “It’s not as if anyone ever really knows. I’m just making sure that what you want to do creatively is what I want you to do.”
Delilah found whatever it was Tatiana had wanted. Though Sam was no medical expert, he could clearly see that it was long, metal, and terrifyingly sharp. If he squinted, he was almost positive he could see rust.
“And you know, Sam,” continued Tatiana, “even if you hadn’t already agreed to this, I can’t imagine you’d be too opposed to it anyway. If you really wanted to keep your current level of artistic integrity, after all, you wouldn’t have come here without your bandmates and agreed to record exclusively in a studio I know you find strange and off putting. You were on your way to this table from the moment you entered this tunnel. Now, I think it’s time we begin.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, at the moment, there’s a large market for young, thin, reasonably attractive male singers with a slightly effeminate bent to them. High tenors, long, interesting hair no one would ever really wear - you know the type. They’re looking for someone very attractive, but utterly unthreatening. No one’s looking for the dangerous, drug-addled, artistic sexpot right now. Artists need to be cute, different enough to make them want, but not sexual enough to make them worry. This is why, unfortunately, we’re going to have to do the worst part of the surgery first. Delilah, if you would be so kind as to lift it for me?”
In a moment he had previously only fantasized about, he felt Delilah’s deft fingers wrap around the tip of his penis, and despite his loud protests, lift it slowly upwards. He felt metal graze the bottom of his genitals, and screamed. This couldn’t be happening, and yet, here it was.
“It will be over soon.” Delilah said. He screamed again.
Tatiana stuffed a sock in his mouth to muffle him. He closed his eyes.
“Are we ready?” he heard Tatiana ask. He wondered if he ever would be.
The blade sliced him away. His muffled shrieks died slowly away as the world around him dissolved into blinding, unimaginable pain - and within moments, he was gone.
Five months later, a young, thin, scruffy haired pop singer sat for an interview to discuss his wildly popular debut album, and his already sold out tour. He was dressed in trendy, bright colors.
“Sam, tell me how it feels to have such a passionate and admiring fanbase?”
He gave a small smile, and adjusted his quirky, but attractive bow tie.
“I’m extremely honored,” he said, his voice light, “it’s unbelievable to think so many people are enjoying my work. I’m truly blessed to have been given this opportunity.”
