Starring -- A Novel

Chapter 2

Fear and Loathing in Neverland

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA--I thought things couldn't get any weirder. I was wrong.

Your old pal Doc Gonzo here, your eye on the Stars, your double agent on assignment in the realm of the New Gods. After all, somebody has to keep an eye on those bastards, and who better than one of their own... Messiahs need their Judases, and it may as well be me. I feel no sense of loyalty to this pack of power-crazed degenerates anyway, not since the Pope went ballistic and tried to destroy every condom on the planet...some kind of nanotech virus with a taste for latex is what the big brains think, but the how no longer really matters. What matters is that he had a success rate of nearly ninety-five percent--and that to the general population, it was just another wave of the magic wand that every celebrity in the world seems to hold since the aliens arrived.

ARTHUR C. CLARKE: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Indeed. The aliens. It's a whole new ballgame these days, boys and girls, and the players no longer rely on opinion polls, blow-dried hair and spin control out of Washington. Politics is dead; long live the Modern Pantheon. These days, the players wear leather & spandex & sunglasses. There are exceptions, such as his Holiness, but even he might owe his present power to the fact that he only appears in public wearing a dress & a funny hat.

The costume is part of the mystique, along with the one-word name & the mood it conjures up. Schwarzenegger. Madonna. Roseanne. Sting. These are the New Gods, people, and if they sometimes have the manners of spoiled children, they have a long tradition to lean on.

Zeus was never known for his self-control.

But Zeus didn't get his thunderbolts from a bunch of otherworldly beings calling themselves the Linkers who burst out of the ground of a Pennsylvania field one fine spring morning, in a tunnelling machine reminiscent of Jules Verne or H.G. Wells. If He had, the ancient Greeks might have muttered about demons & the underworld & pacts with unholy forces--but these days, anyone working out of Hollywood is presumed to have sold his or her soul long ago, and creatures from the bowels of the Earth are no more savage or strange than the usual LA power brokers.

DAVID BOWIE: "I've always had the repulsive sort of need to be something more than human."

Strange days, indeed... and if California is the country of the weird, I am about to enter its capital. Not Los Angeles--no, this place makes even LA look like Des Moine on a slow Wednesday night.

I'm talking about the home of the Boy King, the high priest of weirdness himself.

I'm talking about Michael Jackson, and Neverland.

When Jacko bought the property he named Neverland Valley in 1988, he paid 17 million dollars for a fully furnished main house of 13,000 square feet, sitting on almost 3,000 acres of land. He later added what amounted to his own amusement park & zoo. The amusement park is still there, but the house has been turned into a museum of Jackson memorabilia and the animals are all gone. He took them with him when he moved into roomier accomodations.

Which is where I am today--or rather, where I'm under. You've all seen news footage of it, of course--but video reduces it to a cheesy special effect, something even Spielberg couldn't make believable. Standing in its shadow makes you a believer. Your vision blurs and you have the sudden urge to bolt like an amphetamine-crazed rabbit. A flying goddamn city...

Except that's not what it is, really, or even what it looks like. If Walt Disney and George Lucas had done some serious peyote together, they might have come up with something approaching Neverland. The Death Star of amusement parks...the underside of the thing goes on for miles, all of it covered with neon running lights, lightning strobes, huge electric blue tubes that pulse like a junkie's veins. It hangs in the air like a hot-air balloon the size of Manhattan, and the only noise it makes is the sound of the carnival rides on the midway. That, and the nightly concerts.

This is where Jacko hangs his glove these days, and the rest of his clan--with the possible exception of Janet--are not welcome. Like all the Stars who have achieved godhood, he has divorced himself from any and all connections to normalcy--even Schwarzeneggar, the devoted family man, rarely speaks to his wife or kids anymore. It is as if the public personas the Stars have created have risen up and destroyed the human beings who birthed them, the kind of horrible Jekyll & Hyde nightmare countless celebs used to confess to in the pages of Variety and Entertainment Weekly. In this way they are victims, not rulers--and yet, none of them seem to mind. All the complaining about the public's perception of them is gone, seemingly burned away in the white-hot glare of true power. They are no longer completely human, boys & girls--just like we always wanted.

KURT VONNEGUT, JR.: "We are what we pretend to be."

But there is more to it than that, and perhaps in time I can reveal a few things not meant for mortal ears. But not now. There are things loose on the land that even the heavy hitters think about twice before fucking with... and they all answer to the aliens. Charlie Manson disappeared from his cell a week ago, leaving only the message "All the pigs will die" scrawled on the wall in a dead guard's blood. Mass murderers are celebrities too, after all, and more than one psychopathic son-of-a-bitch on Death Row is now wishing he'd gotten just a little more publicity. After all, what's a pantheon without monsters?

BETTE DAVIS: "Until you're known in my business as a monster, you're not a Star."

But it's hard to keep such darkness in my thoughts, when the world's biggest funhouse awaits overhead. And here comes my ride: A giant pink elephant, gliding along on outstretched ears, no doubt a sly nod to my well-known tendencies toward... indulgences. Yes.

And why not? I am, after all, a doctor of journalism... and if I'm going to a ride a pink elephant to Neverland, I sure as hell am not going sober. Or straight, for that matter... the solution is strapped to the small of my back, a device I intend to patent under the brand-name the Skullbuster 5000. The Skullbuster consists of numerous pressurized tanks, a small electric pump, & three intertwined hoses leading to a mouthpiece. It can deliver, on demand, various & ungodly cocktails--including a concoction I call a Laughing Nixon: a blast of nitrous oxide chased by precisely two ounces of 150 proof Tennessee moonshine mixed with an ounce & a half of marinated & pureed tequila worms.

Ah, much better...I close my eyes and let the laughing gas take me to that special place, where the inside of your skull vibrates like a crystal gong....and I wonder if I will be able to handle the weirdness ahead. Jackson could drop me in a cage full of mutant leopards just for laughs, and no one would ever know...in this place he is supreme and adults are not welcome, especially journalists. But as a semi-member of the ruling elite I've grudgingly been admitted entrance, and I intend to take full advantage of that fact.

The elephant lands with the kind of bone-jarring thud you'd expect from two tons of flying pachyderm, and motions me over with a wink & a flip of its pink trunk. The booze is filling me with a kind of doomed bravado, so I march over and clamber up the rope ladder hanging off the thing's side. Up close, it doesn't so much resemble an elephant as a cartoon come to life; its skin is a wrinkle-free, waxy pink, and its eyes are as large & luminous as glow-in-the-dark Frisbees.

There's a saddle complete with seat belt up top, and I have barely enough time to strap myself in before the ears come up and we take off. The ears don't have anything to do with the flying, of course--that's being powered by the same kind of antigravity magic that keeps Neverland aloft. It would revolutionize the aerospace industry, if Jacko would ever share the technology--but he won't. Peter Pan doesn't trust grownups, and I have to admit he has a point.

We zoom upward, and in a few minutes we're past the lip, giving me my first aerial view. It looks a lot like Disneyworld, plenty of electric mayhem & flashing lights--but there are full-grown lions wandering around, and they seem to have eaten all the adults.

But there's no shortage of children. They're everywhere, riding Timber wolves through the streets, screaming on the rides, running & shouting & doing all the things that children do. None of them seem to have the slightest fear of any of the animals, and when me & my pink elephant land they descend on me like a horde of underage papparazzi.

DR. SEUSS: "Adults are obsolete children."

I knew I should have brought ordinance... the urchins have obviously been briefed to make my life as hellish as possible. I dial up another Laughing Nixon on the Skullbuster and hope the methedrine I dropped earlier will kick in soon--I almost did Ecstasy instead, thinking I needed a nice, friendly drug to get me through this marshmallow nightmare, but I realized the dangers of taking a sex-enhancer in this atmosphere. I might find myself chasing half-naked fourteen-year-olds around the merry-go-round, and we all know what happened to Jacko under similar circumstances.

I manage to get down the rope ladder without hanging myself, and then they're all over me, like overeager extras in a production of Oliver. They're not looking for handouts, though--Jacko gives them all the goodies they could ever want. No, this seems to be personal--tickling, hair-tugging, pocket-rifling maliciousness. I'm tempted to give them all a taste of Mace--get a whiff of this candy, you Disney-crazed midgets--but some shred of self-control holds me back.

WALT DISNEY: "I love Mickey Mouse more than any woman I've ever known."

The mugging doesn't last long. They withdraw as suddenly as they swarmed, now in possession of my pens, notebook, wallet, & various other items. At least I still have the Skullbuster.

"Ah, the hope of the future," I mutter. "Anybody here know where Mr. Jackson might be?"

"WHO?" they all yell in unison, and then scatter, giggling. A second later I'm standing all alone in the middle of a carnival midway.

Except for the two white tigers.

They're staring at me intently, crouched down about thirty feet away. One of them licks its lips--and then they're charging toward me like two linebackers converging on a quarterback. I have no intention of running, but my legs seem to have ideas of their own. I get about ten yards before they bring me down.

I'm pinned, flat on my face, and the next thing I feel is a tongue the size & consistency of a sheet of warm, wet sandpaper, doing its best to scrape all the skin off the back of my neck. Then I hear a high-pitched giggle, followed by, "Okay, Diana, that's enough. Let Mr. Gonzo up."

The tiger gets off my back. "That's Doctor Gonzo," I manage. The other tiger is sitting on its haunches, watching me--and then its shape flows like mercury and I'm looking at a ten-year-old boy with a mischievous grin on his face. His pale, carefully sculpted, very famous face.

Jacko's never been comfortable with adults, or with being one himself. In fact, sometimes he seems uncomfortable with his race, his gender & his species--so it makes sense that he would choose shapeshifting as one of his New Godly attributes, and the form of a child among children. Just as it makes sense that he pulled the kind of prank any kid with an albino tiger would.

"Sorry about that, Doctor Gonzo," he says impishly. He's dressed from head to toe in silver leather, with red neon tubing strapped to various parts of his body. "Diana was only being playful."

"Sure." I dial up a quick hit of Xanex & brandy to calm my nerves, which Jackson doesn't seem to approve of--but after that stunt with the tiger, I think I deserve a little leeway. Besides, it's best if he gets used to my rate of drug ingestion as soon as possible--it may lull him into a false sense of security. This could be crucial if I begin to lose it... and give me the vital few seconds needed to escape this Saturday morning nightmare. The Skullbuster's tanks hold enough mood enhancers to destabilize a platoon of Republicans, and I may empty them before this story is done.

LILY TOMLIN: "Reality is a crutch for people who can't cope with drugs."

Jacko offers to show me around, and I mumble in the affirmative. We stroll down the midway, complete with robot carnival barkers, and I decline his offer to try some of the rides. Anti-gravity technology makes for some wild variations on the traditional stuff--try to imagine a zero-gravity rollercoaster--and the free adrenaline hit is tempting, but I need to focus on The Story. Besides, while my capacity for intoxicants is legendary, being spun upside down at a hundred & twenty miles an hour while under the influence of various psychedelics, stimulants & alcohol might tax even my system...and spraying Neverland with vomit would not be conducive to an in-depth interview.

But then, getting an interview is not really why I'm here. I'm here, as always, for The Story--and it's bigger than a few floating acres of amusement park.

It's about eternal life.

Some people say all the Stars are immortal now--they certainly seem to be impossible to kill, as more than one fanatic with a high-powered rifle & a grudge has found out. All the New Gods have personal force-fields that protect them from nasty things like bullets, toxic gasses or brute force, while allowing entry to food, drink, oxygen, & various sexual organs.

WOODY ALLEN: "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying."

It's too soon to tell whether or not the Stars are prey to other weaknesses of the flesh: aging, disease, unsightly weight gain--but it seems unlikely. If they can die at all, it will be at their own hands, in the kind of incestuous infighting gods have always indulged in. Or they'll be brutally executed by other, newer gods, created by a fickle public grown bored & restless with the old ones...in any case, Jacko doesn't have to worry about getting hit by a runaway truck. And he's done something none of the other Stars have--he's gotten younger. And that, of course, is the Holy Grail of American pop culture: not just eternal life, but Eternal Youth. The other Gods may have frozen the clock, but Jacko seems to have actually turned it back--and most Americans over the age of twenty-five would gladly trade anti-gravity for anti-aging. There are rumors that Jacko's youth has more to it than his ability to change form...and I'm here to check them out

. "I'm so glad Rolling Stone sent you to cover the concert," Jacko says.

"Glad to be here, Mr. Jackson--"

"Call me Michael."

"--uh, Michael. Call me Doc." I hope lie detection wasn't one of the things he got from the Linkers--ostensibly, I'm here to report on the global broadcast Jackson is delivering tonight. Not that the event isn't newsworthy--any time one of the Stars performs the whole world pays attention. Anything can happen. At the height of U2's last gig, Bono declared peace in Ireland, and backed it up by defusing every explosive device on the island. Bombs won't work there any more, nor will guns fire. These days, machete slayings seem to be the order of the day...it's still messy & brutal, but you can walk through downtown Belfast without worrying about shrapnel. And unless you own a bicycle, horse or electric car, walking is probably what you'll be doing. Seems Bono forgot the internal combustion engine needs explosions to work...or maybe he figured the trade-off was worth it.

There are children everywhere in Neverland, hordes of them, of every size & nationality--but there are more dark-skinned or Asian faces than white. Not that Michael discriminates--he seems to be on a first-name basis with all of them, regardless of race--it's just that most of these kids are from the third world, refugees from the streets of Calcutta or Bangkok or Sao Paulo. Michael is their savior, their family, their god, and no one can deny that the life they have now is better than the life they had. They wave & laugh & holler at him, and he waves & laughs & hollers right back.

STING: "I tell you, history is, in part, a series of madmen deluding people into parting with their children for loathsome and tragic schemes."

What Michael has planned is anybody's guess, but my money is on some kind of hormonal ray that freezes everyone's internal clock at ten years old...or maybe a biological time-bomb that causes spontaneous combustion at puberty. The world will become a huge playground presided over by Jacko himself, with an army of trained chimpanzees ready to slap around any juvenile delinquent who challenges his authority. It will be like an endless dream of Disneyland, whimsical & happy & utterly devoid of sex. The pecking order will be decided by marathon games of Parcheesi, and the streets will run red with Kool-Aid....

Sorry. The methedrine is doing things to my cerebral cortex. Visions of manaical apes in army fatigues dance in my brain. Bad craziness... I need something to take the edge off. I try to dial up some Valium but my finger slips and I get a jolt of something that reminds me of fermented skunk weed with a bitter alkaloid aftertaste.

"Tonight is a night all the children of the world will remember," says Michael. He isn't walking beside me any more but floating, about three feet off the ground. Just like Peter Pan.

"And why is that?"

"You'll see," he says, and giggles.

Great.

Our destination has been obvious from the moment we set out: a giant tree, rising from the center of Neverland. We're almost at its base now, and the scale of the thing is becoming clear. Its trunk is as thick as a skyscraper, and it rises a good twenty stories. There are windows inset into it at various points along the trunk, and in some of the larger branches that start about fifty feet up. The foliage spreads out for several hundred feet in every direction, and nestled in the heart of this aerial jungle is Michael's home, a baroque structure that looks exactly like what it is: the biggest treehouse in existence. Rough wooden planking & old tires lashed together with rope & everything nailed to everything else--and everything is the operative word here, because old whitewalls & boards are only the beginning. Some of the raw building materials used look as if they were scavenged from the world's most fabulous junkyard: from here I can see what looks like the prow of a Spanish Galleon welded to the fuselage of a Space Shuttle, perched on a bough as if ready to launch; huge bubbles of blue & white & pink connected to the main structure by see-through tubes; and the bulk of the central building itself, which looks like a haunted house from the planet Mongo. Garrets, turrets & the occasional chimney stick out at odd angles, and the whole place swarms with kids.

STEVEN SPIELBERG: "If ET hadn't come to Eliot, he would have come to Michael Jackson's house."

I almost expect Michael to fly me up, but we climb into a kind of chairlift instead. It seems to be made of vines and bamboo and powered by wishful thinking--and I can't help noticing just how far away the ground gets, or how nonexistent safety precautions seem to be.

Then a child falls past my nose.

His shriek scares the hell out of me, but Michael doesn't even seem to notice. After a second's shocked hesitation I look down, expecting a horrific impact--and the kid hits the ground and bounces, straight up about twenty feet. He shrieks again, but now it's apparent he's screaming in glee, not fear.

"Nice trick," I manage.

"No child will come to harm here," Michael says, and just for a second, I wish I was nine again. But a wave of chemical intensity washes that desire away, replacing it with nervousness & a sudden craving for action. I lean close and ask him, "When does the concert start?"

"Seven. That's about five minutes from now." He won't answer any of my other questions about the event--he just smiles & giggles softly, like a psych ward patient on too much thorazine.

GEORGE CARLIN: "I went straight from shenanigans to crimes against humanity."

Turns out the stage is on the roof of the treehouse itself--which is just as jumbled & bizarre as the rest of the place. A rather conventional camera crew from ABC is setting up on a little raised patio off to the side, and they seem jarringly out-of-place, like hungover longshoremen on the good ship Lollipop. I walk over and introduce myself, and get a few nods & a few strange looks. My reputation has always been extreme, and with good reason... I'm still feeling twitchy, and I hope Jacko starts singing soon. It wouldn't do to have a raving, hallucinatory fit just before ABC began broadcasting to a world-wide audience...I know the predatory instincts of those in the media all too well, and the camera would swing from Michael performing a soulful rendition of "Billy Jean" to me, wild-eyed & drenched in sweat, shouting incoherent curses above the music and trying to throttle an eleven-year-old refugee from Guatemala who'd offered me a soft drink. Public outrage would demand my execution, and I would have to go into hiding as a goat-herder in a remote Pakistani village...but none of this would come to pass if I could just stay in control.

Control is the key in any endeavor, of course. Control means power, and what Jacko controls is youth, in more ways than one. Of all the Stars, he may prove to be the most influential; children eventually become adults--usually--and they never quite lose allegiance to the gods they were introduced to in childhood. Ask any Catholic.

MADONNA: "When I was growing up I was religious in a passionate, adolescent way. Christ was like a movie star, my favourite idol of all."

And now, it seems, the concert is about to begin. Children are perched on every branch & bough around, thousands of them, and Jacko seems to have disappeared--but the entire tree is suddenly plunged into darkness at the same moment a single soft chord sounds.

The only illumination comes from fireflies, flickering among the leaves...and then they begin to drift towards the stage. They swarm, stage center, coalesce into the outline of a man with outstretched arms...and then, with a flare of light, Michael stands on stage.

He's wearing a long-sleeved robe of silver with white trim, making him look like Christ touring Vegas. He smiles, and begins to speak.

"Hello. Tonight's concert is being seen everywhere in the world--and I mean everywhere. My friends the Linkers have provided me with projection screens that will make this visible from every spot on Earth--and with the ability to translate it into every language, as well.

"I'd like to welcome all the children--they are our future, as well as our innocence and our hope. This concert is for them--and by the time that it's over, all their lives will be a little safer than they were before.

"This song is for all of them."

And, very softly, Michael begins to sing "We are the World."

Which is when I leave.

Not that I have anything against the song, or the sentiment behind it, or even Michael's singing...it's just that I have things to do while Michael's occupied. And I know that while he's performing, the rest of the world only exists for Michael in its capacity as an audience. . .which means that it's on his side. No one would dream of breaking into his innermost sanctum at such a time... certainly not a drug-crazed journalist specifically invited to cover Michael's performance. It would take some sort of kamikaze weasel devoid of all human decency to use a global benefit for children as a smokescreen to violate the privacy of said benefactor...not to mention risking the ire of someone with the power to change himself into a rabid wolverine.

No sane human being would attempt such a thing...not without serious pharmaceutical encouragement. Crystal meth & Seconal seem appropriate to such a venture, the speed for flat-out ballsiness and the reds to keep the speed in line. The Skullbuster delivers both in liquid form, leaving a bitterness washed away with a shot of Jamiesons. Alcohol is a good chaser for amphetamines or barbituates; it amplifies the effects of both...and eases the disorientation that comes with teleporting.

JOHN LENNON: "I've always needed a drug in order to survive."

Yes, boys & girls, I too am blessed with the Stars' version of mass transit... no vehicle is required, though, and the mass transported is your own. It seems to be the only trick all the New Gods have in common, along with the force-field--although the force field is an option not available for Demigods such as myself. The only invulnerability Doc Gonzo can boast is to recreational substance abuse...and that is a relative thing, at best.

While all the Stars, myself included, can "bop" from one side of the globe to the other, there are certain places we can't go without an invitation--like the tunnels the Linkers have that come up here & there, or Neverland, or the entire State of Maine. I figured that once I was actually in Neverland I could bop around as freely as Michael himself could--as long as he thought I couldn't. I could have easily 'ported away from those tigers, but by running I convinced Jacko I was at his mercy...and therefore no threat.

And now I was inside his treehouse.

Most people think bopping works like the transporter on "Star Trek".

The air shimmers, there's a weird humming noise, & then the outline of a figure appears made of energy. No. There's no shimmer, no energy, no hum--and the noise depends on whether you're arriving or leaving. An arrival makes a faint popping sound, as air is pushed out of the way to make room for your mass, but a departure sounds more than anything like a giant gasp, as the air is sucked into a suddenly empty space.

ELVIS: "It takes more effort to get goin' again than it does to go without stoppin'."

Also contrary to public opinion, there's no danger of 'porting into a solid object, even when bopping blind. It's smart technology--like a car, you don't have to understand how it works to use it. Unlike a car, it has safeguards built into it to prevent you from driving off a cliff. In this case all I have--and hopefully all I'll need--is a direction and a basic guess as to distance.

I appear in a room full of people. Every one of them freezes, staring at me, and my heart decides now is a good time to retire.

But then I notice that not all of them are staring at me--they're just staring straight ahead, completely motionless. The methedrine's playing my spine like a xylophone and I have one of those strange, flat moments where nothing seems real & everybody's face looks as if it were molded from cheap plastic.

(continued)