It is April 2nd. A haggard young man sits in his garage. He is numb. Numb for once in his life. And he can’t recognize this hand in front of his eyes scrawling letters shakily onto parchment. His thoughts are moving faster than his brain can handle, despite its genius. “The fans, Courtney, Frances, I can’t…but I can’t do it anymore and it hurts and the gun, the gun is right here and waiting, and they’ll just send me back, and it’ll be hell, worse than this.” The hand stops writing and reaches upward to brush away the tears stranded upon the man’s sallow cheeks. It is so cold, but not for long. The note is carefully placed beside him on the floor. It will be easy to find. The shotgun replaces parchment and is clutched sympathetically to his chest like an understanding best friend, the ultimate answer, the pain to end all pain. He closes the eyes and shuts out every light with one jolt of the trigger. “I love you Fra…” The blast severs his infant’s name before it cuts quickly through brain and skull to the other side. He is slumped upon a chair, lifeless. A bloody marionette in ironic comparison to his live self. He is a damnedstupidfool, member of the music death club so popular these days. He is a coward, a waste at the top of his career, a morbid surprise for an electrician three days later. He is a legend.