Brian Slade was restless. Ever since seeing that ultra-sexy, incredible show what's-his-name-oh-yeah-Curt Wild had given the innocent denizens of London, he had not been able to calm down.
Brian slid into the main room of his flat, grabbing his guitar. It was late late late and Mandy wasn't home yet.
"Might as well try something new," he muttered to himself. "Nothing old works anyway." Noticing a favorite book of his on the table, he picked it up and carried it with him.
The Picture of Dorian Gray. Tale of a man who gets his wish and destroys himself. Who gets to stay young forever, while a picture of him gets old and deformed and ugly. Finally the guilt over all the wrong things he's done gets to him, and he stabs the picture in the heart. Next morning they find the body of an disgusting old man on the floor and above him the painting of a beautiful Dorian, flawless.
Brian flipped through the book idly, noticing the careless remark: "Nothing makes one so vain as being told one is a sinner."
"Remember that one, could come in handy sometime," he told himself.
Pulling his guitar to him, he played a few bored chords, trying to imitate what he'd heard from the Wylde Rattz. Then stopped.
"I don't want to copy him, I want..."
"I want him." He said it quietly to himself, but it had as much effect as it he'd screamed it from the rooftops.
And almost as if the very admission gave him the words, he struck a fluid chord, and began a hesitant song, completely different from anything else he had ever done.
"Well you're the grand Wilde...have you noticed..."
Paused, grabbed a notebook and wrote the words down hastily.
Then glanced outside the window, a quick look...to see a star falling in the haze over London. Remembering the myth about Oscar Wilde's birth, he penned a few more words about fairies and starships, then dropped the pencil, lost.
Now what?
He picked up the book again, this time making a connection.
Wilde. And Wild. How very odd.
That his American crush should have the same last name as his British role model.
The next verse was easy.
"Well, you're the grand Wild...come and Curt me..."
He smiled, scribbling the words down. A secret message to a desired one. To a hot one. To Curt Wild...that's what this song would be .
END