John held his breath as he opened the box. The vial was inside. He put it in his pocket and went into the bathroom.

A couple of guys snorted lines off the steel counter, rust framed mirrors above the sink reflecting back their paranoid rush.

The sound of a man begging for a second chance with his wife lay heavy on John’s ears as he went into the last stall and fished out the vial.

It was made of old brown glass and was almost empty. A silvery metallic liquid that made him think of mercury swirled within the tube. It had a faint cinnamon odor.

He took a quick desperate swig from the vial and prayed it would be enough to make him a legend.

On stage, the music of a thousand bursting suns poured out of his saxophone. The audience couldn’t get enough.

And when they carried his stiffening body out of Club Musix that night they said it was a crying shame. He'd played like an angel.

The man from the record company threw his gum wrapper in the gutter as he watched the body shoved into the coroner's van like a side of beef. He smiled, patting his digital recorder. It had all worked out perfectly. It always did.

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