Where the stairway to Heaven meets the highway to Hell, there is a rock and roll Valhalla where the fallen warriors of rock perform forevermore. And I am going to find it.

by Kothardarastrix

Whitwer: Everyone who knows anything about music is aware of the 27 Club. Johnson, Jones, Jimi, Janis, Jim, and now Kurt Cobain, all legendary artists, all tragically cut down at that auspicious age of 27. But there is another legend at the core of this statistical tall tale, a story whispered in the back rooms of the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, in the unpublished memoirs of NDA'd groupies, in the poem that Jim Morrison scrawled on the back of his own death certificate, in the back-masked mysteries of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The 27 Club is not just a phenomenon, not just a list of those who burned out instead of fading away. It is a place. Where the stairway to Heaven meets the highway to Hell, there is a rock and roll Valhalla where the fallen warriors of rock perform forevermore before an eternally young audience, eternally feasting and drinking in those hoary, hallowed halls.

And I am going to find it.

[Whitwer laughs, then returns to a more casual tone.]

Whitwer: I'm also gonna record fifty bootleg tapes of the music in there and make a couple million dollars selling copies of them. Jimi, Janis, and Morrison jamming together? Kurt Cobain playing again? There are people who'd give their right hands for that! No more starving artist life for me!

If it's actually real, that is.

It had better be.

The Crossroads

Item #: SCP-8027

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: Known access points to SCP-8027 are to be discreetly monitored by covert listening posts. Individuals attempting to access SCP-8027 are to be interrupted and taken into custody as vandals or under another suitable cover story and questioned about their knowledge of the anomaly, which is then to be removed via amnestization. Individuals who emerge from SCP-8027 are to be detained, questioned, amnestized, given a plausible cover stories, and released. If the subject has been inside SCP-8027 long enough for their lack of aging to become noticeable, they are to be conscripted as D-class personnel instead.

SCP-8027 is to be checked for new manifestations after the death of any high-profile blues, rock, or metal musician below the age of 50. If a new manifestation occurs, relevant locations are to be added to the list of known access points and contained appropriately.

Description: SCP-8027 is a Valhalla-class Purgatorial Space1 that takes the form of a large bar/restaurant/hotel/music venue called "The 27 Club". The cosmetic features and architectural style of the structure vary over time, but its name, floor plan, and purpose remain constant. SCP-8027 can be accessed by a number of Ways, most of which are located at the graves or memorial sites of SCP-8027-A instances, or other locations signficiant to musical folklore.

The Knock needed to open one of these Ways is always the ritual outpouring of an alcoholic drink, performed while singing a specific song lyric from the musical artist associated with that location, typically one related to death or the afterlife ("I'm on a highway to Hell," "oh Lord, I feel like I'm dying," "and she's buying a stairway to Heaven," etc.) Subjects arriving in SCP-8027 step from a revolving door in its lobby and can exit freely through the same aperture, emerging from the same Way by which they entered; however, no individual may re-enter after leaving. No other means of egress or ingress is known.

[Loud traffic is audible in the background.]

Whitwer: [singing] Went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees. The Crossroads, at least according to the sign. There's actually considerable debate over which crossroads is actually the one from the legend - and, of course, whether Robert Johnson even sold his soul at the crossroads at all - but I guess this must be the one, if the ritual really works.

Honestly? It's really underwhelming. I expected a statue or something, but all they got is this lousy sign.

Alright, gonna try the ritual now. See if that old hippie was full of shit or not.

[the pop of a bottle opening]

[liquid being poured onto a hard surface]

You may bury my body

Down by the highway side

So my old evil spirit

Can get a Greyhound bus and ride

[Audio begins to distort.]

["Voodoo Child" becomes audible. It grows louder as the distortion increases.]

Oh sh-

SCP-8027 is inhabited by approximately 500 living humans and exactly 27 deceased musicians.

Addendum 1: Performers

Two original, apparently genuine paintings by Jean-Michel Basquiat (supposedly titled "Bluesman" and "Record Deal") flank the entrance. The opposite wall is decorated with 27 poster-sized photographs of deceased musicians, each of which is currently an instance of SCP-8027-A.

Beyond the lobby is a large2 dining room that occupies the majority of SCP-8027's first floor. The half of the room closest to the entrance is occupied by an assortment of tables, chairs, and stools of varying size, height, and style, with shaded booths along the right wall. The further half of the room is open, providing standing room to the audience. A large stage stands against the far wall, and it is here that SCP-8027-A perform.

Member
Original Band
Instrument
Cause of Death
Year of Death
Age

Robert Johnson
solo artist
guitar, vocals
poison
1938
27

Buddy Holly
The Crickets
guitar, vocals
plane crash
1959
22

Ritchie Valens
solo artist
guitar, vocals
plane crash
1959
17

"The Big Bopper" J.P. Richardson
solo artist
guitar, vocals
plane crash
1959
28

Paul McCartney
The Beatles
bass, vocals
car accident
1966
24

Brian Jones
The Rolling Stones
various
drowning
1969
27

Alan "Blind Owl" Wilson
Canned Heat
guitar, vocals
overdose
1970
27

Jimi Hendrix
solo artist
guitar, vocals
overdose
1970
27

Janis Joplin
Big Brother and the Holding Company, solo artist
guitar, vocals
overdose
1970
27

Jim Morrison
The Doors
vocals
unknown3
1971
27

Duane Allman
The Allman Brothers Band
guitar, slide guitar, dobro
motorcycle accident
1971
24

Ron "Pigpen" McKernan
The Grateful Dead
various
autoimmune disorder, alcoholism
1973
27

Gram Parsons
The Byrds, the Flying Burrito Brothers
various
overdose
1973
26

Ronnie Van Zant
Lynyrd Skynyrd
vocals
plane crash
1977
29

Steve Gaines
Lynyrd Skynyrd
guitar
plane crash
1977
28

Keith Moon
The Who
drums
overdose
1978
32

Bon Scott
AC/DC
vocals
alcoholism
1980
33

John Lennon
The Beatles
guitar, vocals
murder
1980
40

John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
drums
alcoholism
1980
32

Randy Rhoads
Ozzy Osbourne, Quiet Riot
guitar
plane/bus collision
1982
25

Dennis Wilson
The Beach Boys
drums, vocals
drowning
1983
39

Nicholas "Razzle" Dingley
Hanoi Rocks
drums
car accident
1984
24

Cliff Burton
Metallica
bass
freak accident
1986
24

Stevie Ray Vaughan
Double Trouble
guitar, vocals
helicopter crash
1990
35

Steve Clark
Def Leppard
guitar
overdose
1991
30

Freddie Mercury
Queen
vocals, piano
acquired immunodeficiency syndrome
1991
45

Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
guitar, vocals
suicide
1994
27

Additionally, the ghostly left arm of Def Leppard's still-living drummer Rick Allen - severed in a 1984 car accident - rests at one end of the bar, tapping its fingers to the beat.

SCP-8027-A act as a house band for the 27 Club. Except for brief intervals in which instruments and sound equipment is changed, at least one instance is always performing. Instances rotate frequently, sharing time onstage approximately equally and typically grouping up with members who perform in the same general genre. There are two exceptions: Robert Johnson plays only once per year, on the anniversary of his death, and Kurt Cobain has apparently never been seen or heard inside the Club by any of its human residents. Like the other instances, both are assumed to spend all of their time offstage in the backstage dressing rooms, which are off-limits to living humans.

Ambiguous contractual obligations prevent SCP-8027-A from leaving the band or club of their own volition. However, the band has always had (and, according to SCP-8027-B, must always have) exactly 27 members. SCP-8027-B maintains this count by releasing older artists from their contracts as newer ones arrive. Less frequently, disruptive artists4 have been "fired," and one artist5 was able to "quit" the band by returning to life. No patron or Foundation observer has witnessed the arrival or departure of a band member, as these events take place in the off-limits backstage area, and none can say for certain what happens to an instance that is released or fired. When asked, SCP-8027-B simply stated that he "sends them back where they belong".

Addendum 2: SCP-8027-B

In the main room of SCP-8027, a bar runs half the length of the left wall. The bar is always stocked with numerous forms of drugs and alcohol, and it also offers a varied menu of typical bar foods prepared fresh-to-order in the adjoining kitchen. All drugs, drinks, and food items are provided free of charge, and are invariably of high quality.

The bar is always tended by SCP-8027-B, a Tartarean entity that claims to be the club's owner, manager, and "prince". It appears as an obese black man wearing a red seersucker suit with a snakeskin necktie. It speaks calmly, deeply, and with a faint southern American accent. The full extent of its anomalous capabilities is unknown, but prior displays suggest that it may be nearly-omnipotent within SCP-8027. It rarely uses these abilities, however, preferring to maintain an outward appearance of normality.

[A large crowd is audible in the background.]

SCP-8027-B: First time seeing one of our shows?

Whitwer: Yeah. Holy moly.

SCP-8027-B: Nothing holy about this place. What can I get ya?

Whitwer: Um, what do you have?

SCP-8027-B: Anything at all, my friend. Anything at all.

Whitwer: You know, how about some water to start with? Kinda hot in here.

[SCP-8027-B chuckles.]

SCP-8027-B: Certainly.

[There is a loud clink and a quiet scraping sound.]

SCP-8027-B: Drink up.

Whitwer: Thanks.

[Sounds of drinking. Whitwer sighs in relief.]

SCP-8027-B: So, how'd you find us?

Whitwer: Heard about it from some old hippie at the Whiskey.

SCP-8027-B Sounds about right. What's your name, kid?

Whitwer: Mike.

SCP-8027-B: Pleased to meet you. Hope you guess my name.

[Whitwer laughs.]

Whitwer: Really?

SCP-8027-B: Really.

[pause]

Whitwer: Wait. Really?

SCP-8027-B: Really. Go on.

Whitwer: …Lucifer?

[SCP-8027-B chortles loudly. The sound of him clapping Whitwer on the shoulder.]

SCP-8027-B: Sure, but most folks just call me Lou.

Whitwer: Uh. Right.

Lou: Don't look so surprised! Surely you noticed the horns on the dancers.

Whitwer: Uh.

Lou: They wouldn't be up there if they didn't want you to look. No need to be embarrassed about it.

[pause]

Whitwer: So…are you…really demons?

Lou: But of course!

Whitwer: Um. Excuse me for a moment.

Lou: Don't forget your water!

SCP-8027-B also appears on stage periodically to introduce performers, interact with the crowd, and otherwise act as host to the perpetual concert.

[Music is faintly audible. Whitwer whispers, and his voice echoes.]

Whitwer: What the fuck?!

[Whitwer sighs]

Whitwer: I guess I shouldn't be surprised. These guys are dead, of course there's demons running the joint. Angels sure wouldn't approve of this.

Whitwer: I should probably get out of here. If these guys are demons, then-

[The music stops. Whitwer stops talking. Lou speaks from the stage, his voice muffled and distant.]

Lou: Now, let's welcome to the stage…Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper!

[Muffled, distant cheering.]

Whitwer: What?!

[Music resumes, Holly's "Not Fade Away".]

Whitwer: Okay, fine. I'll record my bootlegs, and then I'll go.

Personnel are advised to avoid Lou entirely or, if such proves impossible, keep all interactions brief but polite. Hostility, rudeness, and persistence are typically responded to by polite evasiveness or, failing that, SCP-8027-C.

[Whitwer takes a deep breath. Quietly, he talks to himself.]

Whitwer: I'm a journalist, dammit. Getting straight answers is my job. I've talked to politicians, surely I can talk to Satan.

[Another deep breath.]

[Rustling of clothes as Whitwer moves through the crowd. A foamy hiss as someone pours a drink.]

Lou: You look like a man with questions.

[pause]

Lou: Oh, come now, don't look so afraid. I'm not the one who smites people.

Whitwer: Then what do you do?

Lou: What do you think? I want to know which strain of slander I'm debunking.

Whitwer: Well, you're clearly not torturing sinners in Hell, but I always knew that.

Lou: You're better learned than most, then.

Whitwer: Dad's a preacher.

Lou: The preacher's son! Lovely. So you know me through the Good Book, then, don't you? None of Dante's nonsense, or God forbid, Milton.

Whitwer: Not much of a poetry guy.

Lou: Ah, but you do love music. Rock and roll, I would assume.

Whitwer: Well, yeah. Anybody with taste does.

Lou: You flatter me! I've always thought it was my best work.

Whitwer: What is?

Lou: Rock and roll, of course! Or, rather, the blues from which it sprung.

Whitwer: You're telling me you invented the blues?

Lou: Heavens, no. But I like to think that my little bargain with Mr. Johnson was a big part of its success, and the success of all that came after. It's certainly what made this club possible.

Whitwer: So the legend about the crossroads, that's true?

Lou: Most legends are.

Whitwer: Is that how you got the ghost band up there? Buying their souls?

Lou: No, only Mr. Johnson made that mistake. But still, rock and roll has always been the devil's music. Those who belong to it belong to me as well.

Whitwer: W-what do you mean?

Lou: Oh, relax. You haven't sold your soul for rock 'n' roll, even metaphorically. It takes a great deal more…investment to wind up on that stage. Not to mention talent.

Whitwer: What are you trying to say?

Lou: I'm saying, Mr. Whitwer, that the most sinful thing you've ever done in the name of rock 'n' roll is smuggle some Kiss records past your parents. I respect the defiant spirit, of course, but a little teenage rebellion hardly seems damnation-worthy.

Whitwer: Well, what is damnation-worthy, then?

Lou: My Father is the one in charge of that. And your father should have told you already, if he was any good at preaching.

Whitwer: Don't avoid the question.

Lou: Apologies, Mr. Whitwer, but I'm a busy angel. I have no time to waste by telling people things they already know.

Whitwer: Hey, don't…

[When Lou next speaks, it is over the microphone from the stage.]

Lou: And let us now welcome to the stage, Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones!

[The crowd cheers.]

[The band begins to play a rendition of "Sympathy for the Devil".]

Whitwer: Subtle.

Addendum 3: Staff

The kitchen staff, servers, dancers, stagehands, housekeepers, and other club employees are all Tartarean entities. They appear mostly human, save for their small horns and sometimes unusual coloration. These beings are collectively designated SCP-8027-D.

Venue security is provided by SCP-8027-C, Tartarean entities with the outward appearance of middle-aged male motorcyclists. Each instance wears a denim or leather vest displaying membership in a "Transmaniacon Motorcycle Club" and sunglasses. Instances are superhumanly strong, seemingly indestructible, and armed with magically-enhanced improvised weaponry. Though harmless if unprovoked, they respond with force and finality to disruptive behaviors. Troublemakers are typically beaten to death and thrown in the club's "drunk tank," a storage room adjoining the lobby, until they resurrect. The ninth time that a patron incurs such a punishment, their corpse will instead be thrown out the revolving door and back into baseline reality, where it will remain dead.

Addendum 4: Patrons

SCP-8027 is patronized by approximately 500 living humans. Though people do enter and leave occasionally, the majority of patrons have resided in the club for one or more decades, enjoying its free amenities and the typical benefits of a Valhalla-class afterlife. Residents may stay in the hotel rooms on SCP-8027's eight upper floors. These rooms, like all of SCP-8027's comforts, are free. Keys can be obtained from a desk in the lobby, which is always manned by SCP-8027-B.

Whitwer: It's hard to sleep here. All the rooms have these huge glass doors and balconies overlooking the main room, so all the music and lights still get in. I guess most people just drink until they pass out when they want to get some rest. One of the many drawbacks of staying sober. Maybe I should leave, get a normal hotel in Clarksdale. But I haven't actually made any money since I got here, so I don't know how I'd pay for it.

Well, I could go for a walk at least. Get some sun for the first time in…

…fuck, how long have I been here?

Addendum 5: Discovery

On June 13th, 2009, MTF Eta-11 (“Savage Beasts”) raided the abandoned home of a deceased collector of anomalous music. Amongst his possessions, they discovered a vinyl carrying case containing 50 cassette tapes. 49 of these tapes contained bootleg live recordings of SCP-8027-A's performances. The 50th was the audio diary of one Michael Whitwer, which revealed SCP-8027's existence and means of access.

[Whitwer sounds tired and hoarse.]

Whitwer: Well, I found it. The catch. If I leave, I can't come back. The ritual only works once for each person, apparently. Maybe Lou was lying, but I asked around the bar and it doesn't seem like anybody else who's in here has ever left since they first arrived. I guess there are worse places to live. Some of these guys would probably be dead by now if they hadn't stuck around, as old as they are. And as drugged-out as they are, of course.

Maybe I don't need those last two recordings. Never listened to Nirvana much anyway. Johnson, though…there are only 59 recordings of his music. The king of the Delta blues, the original rockstar, the guitarist that most influenced every other damn blues-rock guitarist ever, reduced to just 59 tracks recorded at some improvised studio on shitty 1930s vinyl. It's not even the money, with him. If I get some more recordings of Robert Johnson, that'd be history. That'd be…

That'd be legendary.

[Whitwer groans]

Once a year, that's what I've heard. August 16th, the day he died. Not sure how far away that is, but I came in here in July, and I feel like it's got to have been at least a week by now. I wish I'd worn a watch that showed the date.

Just a few more weeks. Then I'm out of here, and I'll be staying someplace that isn't loud and doesn't smell like beer and pot and sweat and sex. Hell, I'll sell these damn tapes and buy me a mansion in Beverly Hills. Just a few more weeks.

A native of Charlotte, North Carolina, Whitwer was the son of a United Methodist pastor and a high school teacher. He was, by all accounts, a high-achieving and well-behaved student both at his local high school and at the University of North Carolina.

Whitwer: Lost track of how many times I've been propositioned. Mostly by women, but also a couple of guys. I might've considered if any of them looked sober, but I think I might be the only person in this joint who's not drunk or high. Turning them down was the right thing to do, or at least the cowardly one.

And that, my friends, is why I'm lying here alone while the room directly above me is having what sounds like a whole damn orgy. There were naked people running down the hall until the staff made them stop.

How did I become the only loser in this place who's not having fun?

[frustrated sigh]

I guess there's always been some irony there. Some tension. I love this rock music, always have. But I don't live like it, do I? All these songs about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, and all I've got is a failed career in the last one.

[exhausted groan]

Is it wrong to just like the music without living the life? Am I some kind of hypocrite?!

[Rustling. When Whitwer speaks, his voice is muffled by a pillow.]

'course I am. I'm wearing a cross in a place like this.

However, shortly after entering graduate school at the University of Alabama in Huntsville, Whitwer dropped out and moved to Los Angeles, where he had secured a job as a music journalist and hoped to become a professional musician. His parents strongly opposed this decision, and he continually refused their offers of assistance and insistent invitations to return home.

Whitwer: You know, I'm luckier than a lot of preacher's kids. Kids in general, really. My folks were livid when I dropped out, of course, but even after all the yelling and crying, they never did cut me off or disown me or anything. Never even called me a disgrace, though I could see that Mom, at least, was thinking it.

The night before I left, Dad called me. He warned me for the thousandth time that life would be hard in California, that it would be very different from the way I'd grown up, and I told him that was why I wanted to do it. He said that I was being stupid - and I absolutely was - but that I had that right, and that I'd still be his son no matter how many mistakes I made. He promised me that when things went wrong - when, not if - he and Mom would still have my back, that I would always be welcome at home, and that they'd try to help me however else they could.

And you know what I did? I hung up on him. Because all I could see in that declaration of fatherly love was one more attempt to control me.

I wonder if he still preaches about the Prodigal Son.

Whitwer lived in California for almost two years. According to his three roommates, Whitwer was dedicated to his job and even more so to his fledgling music career, preferring to practice guitar in his spare time instead of accompanying them to bars, clubs, or parties. Despite this, Whitwer's attempts to break into the music scene were ultimately unsuccessful, and his meager income was unable to keep pace with the cost of living.

[Whitwer is breathing heavily. His voice trembles.]

Whitwer: Fuck. Fuck.

I…I think I - no, I know - I watched a man die yesterday. Shot enough heroin to kill an elephant, right there at the bar. A couple of Hell's Angels picked up the foaming corpse and dragged it to the drunk tank while some janitors cleaned up the mess. And the worst thing was, nobody else seemed to think this was weird.

I was losing my shit of course, wondering why nobody was trying to do CPR or even freaking out the way I was, but Lou grabbed my arm to stop me before I could help the guy. I almost tried to slug him - since he was the one who brought that guy the heroin in the first place, after all - but he was still super calm, just asked for a chance to explain. And explain he did.

[heavy, shuddering sigh]

Apparently, this place really is like Valhalla. Once every day - well, every 27 hours - anybody who died in here, and is still in here, gets resurrected like it never happened, all at once. I told him he was full of shit and pulled away. Almost left right then, but in the time it took me to go back upstairs and get my tapes and find my way back down to the lobby - this place is really big, bigger than it looks - I guess we hit the 27-hour mark, and I saw that same dead guy stumbling out of the drunk tank, laughing and brushing the puke off his shirt.

I went up and talked to him. Had to make sure this wasn't a trick or something. I asked him if he was okay. Said "yeah, just died for a second". And then he laughed! He fucking laughed! About being dead!

[long pause]

I don't remember what I asked him after that. But I remember what his answer was.

[long pause]

He told me he's gonna do it again today. Said it was the greatest high of his life.

[long pause]

[quietly] I gotta get out of here.

On July 25th, 1994, Whitwer moved out of his apartment. He told his roommates that he was returning to North Carolina but planned to stop at various musical landmarks along the way, including Graceland and the Crossroads in Clarksdale, Mississippi.

Whitwer: What's your deal, man?

Lou: Whatever do you mean?

Whitwer: You know what I mean. Why did you make this club, why do you lure people in here and never let them come back?

Lou: Lure? Do you think me a fisher of men?

Whitwer: Don't throw scripture at me, Satan.

Lou: Please, just Lou.

Whitwer: Whatever. You're a devil, maybe even the Devil, so I know you have to be up to something. Did I accidentally sell you my soul or something when I came in here? Was there fine print on this bottle of water? What's your game?

Lou: Puzzling, isn't it?

Whitwer: Don't throw the Stones at me, either. Are you trying to take my soul or not?

Lou: Good Heavens, no! I've never taken anything.

Whitwer: I don't like the way you phrased that.

Lou: What's not to like? The preeminence of human free will over the otherworldly wiles of Heaven and Hell?

Whitwer: What's that supposed to mean?

Lou: My club is not a baited hook, or a honey trap, or whatever else you seem determined to conclude that it is. All I have I done is create a place where folks can be free. A place where all are welcome at the table, so long as they behave themselves. Just like Jesus, right?

Whitwer: Yeah, I don't think Jesus would be too happy with all this.

Lou: Why not? After all, it was His Father who created poppies and cannabis, who filled so many plants with sugars that ferment, who forged the laws of physics so a plucked string makes a sound, who tuned your tongues to the taste of fried flesh, and who made sex to feel so God-damn good. All I've done - and all humans have ever tried to do, really - is concentrate all those things in one place, in a way that allows them to be enjoyed without consequence.

Whitwer: God created nightshade, too. Doesn't mean we're supposed to eat it.

Lou: Of course not! But then, what does it mean? Why did our omnibenevolent omni-creator plop your ancestors in a garden full of everything, over all of which they were masters, then tell them not to enjoy it all? Why did your God plant a tree your kind was never supposed to eat from right where you could get to it? And why on Earth did He let me trick you into doing it?

[Whitwer takes a deep breath.]

Whitwer: Dad says that free will wouldn't really matter, that choices wouldn't really mean anything, if there wasn't the possibility of a bad outcome. If there's no way to screw up, there's no value to not screwing up.

Lou: So, what you're saying is, goodness only counts if the alternative is eternal damnation?

Whitwer: Um.

Lou: You know, I've met a lot of atheists, and quite a lot of them try to argue that goodness isn't really goodness if you only do it out of fear.

Whitwer: Wait, wait, hold on. That's not the only reason people do good things! You can want to be kind and helpful and loving without the fear of divine punishment!

Lou: All the atheists certainly thought so. And I'm inclined to agree; after all, if murderousness was y'all's natural state, you wouldn't have made it much past Cain. But murder ain't the only sin, is it? There's also theft, lying, adultery…

Whitwer: That's still covered by kindness. Everybody knows that stuff is wrong. Except, like, psychopaths. Every religion has rules against that stuff.

Lou: Well, mostly, yes. As before, I don't imagine that a civilization where theft isn't discouraged would stay civilized for long. That's why even secular societies have laws against it. But what are laws if not the threat of punishment? How can you be so sure that you don't just refrain from theft and murder because you don't want to go to jail?

Whitwer: I just am! I don't walk down the street thinking "damn, I would totally murder that guy and take his stuff and fuck his wife if only I wouldn't go to jail and Hell for it". I don't want to murder people! And I don't think that most people do.

Lou: How optimistic of you! And fine, I'll concede that point. It's perfectly possible and reasonable and good to not want to hurt each other. But what about sins against the self?

Whitwer: What?

[Lou affects a mocking, high-pitched tone.]

Lou: Defiling the temple that is your body with drugs, drunkenness, and whatever your preferred translation defines as "sexual immorality". You know, all of this.

Whitwer: Eh, that stuff can still hurt people indirectly. Drunk driving, STDs, you know.

Lou: Certainly, but Paul still told the Ephesians "be ye not drunk with wine," not "be ye not controlling a vehicle whilst drunk".

Whitwer: I mean, drugs and alcohol are bad for you. Hell, that's how most of your band ended up here in the first place.

Lou: And sex?

Whitwer: I mean…Freddie Mercury didn't get AIDS from nowhere.

Lou: Oh no, are you one of those fools who thinks it's my Father's punishment for gays and drug users?

Whitwer: What?! No!

Lou: Alright, alright! Just checking. You said your father was a preacher, so I figured-

Whitwer: Not that kind of preacher.

Lou: Apologies.

Whitwer: Hmm.

Lou: It is a sin, though, isn't it? Sex outside of marriage, no matter how ethical?

Whitwer: I mean-

Lou: No, don't mean. Say. Do you believe that extramarital sex is inherently immoral, or not?

Whitwer: …I don't want to.

Lou: So you try to rationalize it as unethical instead?

Whitwer: Or a bad idea, at least. Like, I don't think all those really specific laws in the Old Testament mean it's literally evil to eat pork or whatever, it was just a bad idea cuz pigs have tapeworms and stuff.

Lou: A scathing indictment of Judaism!

Whitwer: And screwing around is a bad idea because it can get you sick, or cause an unwanted pregnancy, or otherwise just make your life a whole lot more complicated than it should be!

Lou: Not in here, it can't. No one can get truly hurt or sick in this rock 'n' roll purgatory, and you certainly can't have babies. That being so, what reason remains to abstain?

[Whitwer does not answer]

Lou: It seems to me, Mr. Whitwer, that you are too scared of being wrong to take a chance on being right.

Whitwer: Of course I am! The cost of being wrong is eternal damnation, or whatever else happens after I die!

Lou: Pascal's Wager isn't much of a gamble.

[Whitwer does not answer.]

Lou: But it is an investment, isn't it? You and your father and my Father have spent so much time and effort telling you that this is wrong, that you aren't supposed to feel good or enjoy yourself, that all your instincts are wrong, that all your instincts are me, sitting on your shoulder and whispering little lies into your ear. And so despite all your wisdom, despite all your logic, despite all your faith in a loving God, despite all the generosity I've showed you, you are still sitting here with a white-knuckle grip on a bottle of water, certain that I'm going to trick you out of your soul, convinced that there has to be some kind of catch to what I'm offering you for free. But there isn't, Michael. I am being entirely honest with you, and as a consolation prize for your sheer stubbornness, I will make this question very simple.

Lou: Do you want to sip water?

[The sound of a fingernail tapping a glass bottle. Whitwer grunts in surprise.]

Lou: Or do you want to drink wine?

Whitwer: [quietly] Come on, man. You're the Devil. If you're telling me to do it, it's gotta be wrong.

Lou: The only thing I'm telling you to do is think. For once in your life, make a decision that wasn't outsourced to someone else. You can get up from this bar and walk out of my club like you were never even here, and I won't lift a finger to stop you. But if you do that, I want you to do it because you wanted to, not because your mother, or your father, or your God said so. Because all the reasons they gave, all the reasons you've made up for yourself, don't exist here. And if you leave here, if you abandon the closest thing to Heaven you're ever likely to see, it will haunt you for the rest of your miserable finite life. Every concert you attend, every time you bask in the fading glory of your aging idols on their interminable farewell tours, you will only be reminded of my band's eternal prime. Every woman who rejects you will only remind you of the dozens, no, hundreds of men, women, and more you could've had in here. Every single monotonous moment that you spend bending and scraping to unworthy overlords, wasting your life away for a pittance just to have food in your belly and a roof over your head, you will remember what you had here, for free. And every wound you suffer, every illness you contract, every ache and pain that will weigh down your aging body until the moment it finally surrenders your spirit to my Father's judgement, will be a constant reminder of what you gave up, all because a distant, invisible God told you that you shouldn't want it. And if, even after you turned all this down and walked away, He decides that you have still fallen short in the end, the things I could have given you will be the last regretful thoughts you have before the fires consume you. If you really think you can live with that, and die, with that, then by all means, go home. I will be immensely proud! That kind of willpower deserves respect. But I have only met one man who was that far above it all, and he was crucified for it.

[Whitwer says nothing. Lou leans closer and whispers.]

Lou: You are safe here, Michael. Safe from consequences. Safe from anyone who will ever again tell you what to do. Safe from the limitations of your fragile mortal coil. Safe from the hands of an angry God.

[Lou leans away. He speaks loudly.]

Lou: And, leave us not forget, surrounded by the best damned music ever made!

[The crowd cheers loudly.]

Lou: For God's sake, live a little.

[Slowly, the crowd quiets down.]

[Robert Johnson begins to play "Me and the Devil Blues".]

Whitwer: [indistinct]

Whitwer: Patrons slump stuporous against the bar, surrounded by drained drinks and empty syringes. In the shadowy booths across the room, couples and groups writhe roughly against each other or slink upstairs to the endless rings of hotel rooms. Acid-soaked hippies rub shoulders with coked-up metalheads and drunken greasers while grungy teens melt into opiate shadows, awaiting an idol that never comes. Silent, smiling devils bear platters of extravagant food, from freshly-buttered lobster to exquisitely sauced barbecue. Hell's Angels guard the gates, bike chains burning with the same hellfire that hides behind their shades. Above it all, black-horned go-go dancers strut in glass cages, the shifting web of spotlights setting their scarlet skin ablaze. And weaving through the roar of the crowd, above the peals of laughter and the cries of pleasure, is the ever-present music. Morrison struts the stage in his lizard leathers, and ecstatic groupies from every era clutch at his bare feet. Hendrix does impossible things with his upside-down guitar, playing the squealing feedback from his infernal amps like an instrument all its own. And Bonzo pounds the drums like a blacksmith hammering steel, beating a bass that could shatter the Earth and crashing symbols that could crack the heavens. The music smashes through the ears and right into the soul. Your heart pounds in time with the drums that rattle it, and your blood runs hot like the sparks of hellfire that fly from Jimi's fingers. It tells you to dance, to fight, to love, to live for as long as the music's loud.

Here, you can burn forever. Here, you will never fade.

Here, you are free.

Footnotes

1. aging suspended; pathogenic transmission impossible; illnesses suppressed; reproduction impossible; resurrective immortality

2. measurements inconsistent

3. Unlike the other instances, Morrison is not translucent and does not register as deceased to EVE scans.

4. such as Sid Vicious, who refused to perform and attempted to attack SCP-8027-B

5. Nikki Sixx, who died of a heroin overdose in 1987 and, allegedly, performed "Shout at the Devil" before he was resuscitated