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by Earl Carrender

What becomes a legend most?

Crowns and jewels and leather pants. A new name, a stage presence and rumors of indiscretion. An
operatic style and a four octave range.One man with a future and another with a past.

There were many as becomes a legend. Countless without names. Some without faces. They were dirges in the dark. 

But there was one. His name was Marc, or Mike, or something like that. The man with the backstage pass and the strange eyes—one blue, one green. An image of his icon sewn onto the back of his jacket. He said he was an actor—community theatre—but was really a sales clerk at a local bookstore.

“I don’t read,” the Icon said, “What a bloody waste of time.” He walked to the window and stared out. He recalled the Five Hills and the streets of Bombay and his first crush (he never told her or anyone else). He remembered Barcelona and the first time he kissed another man.

“Are you all right,” Marc or Mike or something like that asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” the Icon answered. Another man, another room. There had to be more to life than life. “Champagne?” he asked.

Champagne and cocaine and a game of Scrabble. Then a confession when all was said and done. A death sentence and an autograph.

“Love, Freddie,” it read.

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