Editor’s note: This edition of Playboy Fiction comes from novelist and sportswriter Alan Goldsher, who also kindly writes from time to time for Playboy.com.

Billy Powell thought the singer looked pretty good for a guy who, 31 hours before, had apparently washed down ten Seconals, 42 Advils, and 15 packets of Aspartame with a bottle of electric melon flavored Mad Dog 2020.

Not just pretty good. Really good.

As opposed to the vibrant photograph on the cover of the March 1993 issue of Rolling Stone, Jeff Dunne’s pallor appeared normal, almost healthy. His brown eyes were clear, and his chest-length dark hair—which was usually greasy and matted, and, as those who got close enough would attest, more often than not smelled like a combination of weed and armpits—was suitable for human consumption.

“Hey, Jeff. Thanks for seeing me,” Billy said.

Jeff gave Billy a chin-nod and grunted, “Derek.”

A writer who dabbled in singing, composing, and guitaring, Billy inwardly sighed. Over the last four years, Billy had conducted 12 interviews with Jeff, the longest one being a seven-hour vodka-a-thon that ended with the two of them yarfing in the gutter right on the corner of Clark and Addison, directly in front of the Cubby Bear, kitty-corner from Wrigley Field.

Despite the fact that Billy had spent a combined total of 28 hours documenting Jeff’s hopes, dreams, goals, loves, and profane jokes—and that’s not including those aforementioned seven hours of vodka-fueled bonding—the frontman of the Zeppos refused to refer to Billy as Billy. Most often it was Derek, and sometimes it was Dominic, while in other instances, it was Dom. Or Darryl. Or Dorian. Or David. Or Dave. Or Dennis. Or Walter. The writer was baffled by Jeff’s seeming obsession with names that began with “D.”

“It’s Billy,” Billy said for what felt like the millionth time. It was pointless, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Pretty sure it’s Derek.”

Billy was this close to repeating, “It’s Billy,” then thought, It’s never worth it. “How’re you feeling, man?”

“Brutal. They pumped my stomach, like, six times.”

As every rock writer in the Western Hemisphere knew, Jeff was a noted myth-maker, somebody who threw the truth overboard on an all-too regular basis. After reading almost every bit of Jeff-centric press he could get his hands on, Billy had long ago concluded that 36% of what came out of the Chicago native’s mouth was utter, total, absolute bullshit. Admittedly, it was entertaining bullshit that made for great copy and even greater magazine sales. But it was, nonetheless, bullshit.

Cocking an eyebrow, Billy monotoned, “Really. Six times. Six stomach pumps.”

“Six pumps, man,” Jeff confirmed. “Maybe seven. I dunno, maybe even eight. I lost track. I was pretty out of it.”

“So what you’re saying is that they didn’t get everything on the first pass?”

Grinning slightly but noticeably, Jeff said, “There was a lot of stuff in there, dude. A lot.” Billy thought Jeff looked almost proud.

Shifting into journalist mode—and not just journalist mode, mind you, but tough journalist mode, the kind of mode that involved posing the hard questions and a persistent insistence on getting the real answers—Billy asked, “Jeff, what’re you smiling about? This isn’t the least bit funny. There’re a dozen crew guys who depend on you for their livelihood. There’s a band that’s had your back for over a decade. You have a wonderful fiancée who, quite possibly, loves you. And taking your life is…Jesus…there’re probably people who’ll look at you and think it’s a good idea to try something like this. So what’s so fucking hilarious?” Glaring, he repeated, “This isn’t the least bit funny.”

Jeff shrugged. “Meh. It’s laugh or cry.” Holding up his index finger, he said, “Whoa. Laugh or cry.” He paused, then repeated, “Whoa.” Pointing at the messenger bag on the chair opposite the hospital bed, he said, “Derek, there’s a journal in there. Grab it.”

“It’s Billy.” Pure reflex. He couldn’t help himself.

“Pretty sure it’s Derek. C’mon, dude, gimme the journal.”

For the next three minutes, Jeff scribbled into his notebook—a spiral notebook that was filled with white paper covered in light blue lines, the kind of notebook in which a fifth grader would write an essay about the United States Constitution—then spiked it onto the floor and gloated, “Platinum record right there, bitch. Double platinum. Triple platinum.”

Billy picked up the journal—the title of which, according to the scrawl on the cover, was “Lyrics & Shit”—then opened it up to a random page. Before he could read beyond the lyric, “Red spider lake / Takes me higher, fake,” he was attacked by a flying pillow.

Glaring at the singer—who had a second pillow locked and loaded—Billy said, “What the hell, man?”

Jeff scolded, “You know better than to look at my unedited genius verbiage, Derek.” He held out his hand. “Gimme.”

“The pillow or the journal?”

“Both, dickhead.”

Billy dying to ask, Jeff, if you wanted to keep the fucking notebook to yourself, why didn’t you keep the fucking notebook to yourself?, but he managed to hold his tongue. He knew it would be impolite to get snarky with a guy who, 31 hours before, had allegedly washed down ten Seconals, 42 Advils, and 15 packets of Aspartame with a bottle of electric melon flavored Mad Dog 2020. More importantly for the sake of his career, Billy was well aware that it wouldn’t be wise to alienate a man who Time magazine called, “The second-most visible American pop culture icon on the planet, just behind Michael Jordan, and just ahead of Michael Jackson.” That was August of 1992. Here, 12 months later, the Jeff and the Zeppos were even hotter than that.

Billy returned the pillow and the notebook, then, tough-journalist style, demanded, “Tell me about last night.”

With the petulant tone of a fifth grader who wrote essays about the United States Constitution in spiral notebooks, Jeff said, “I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I’m ready to discuss it.” Then, with what Billy thought was a B+ sincere look, Jeff added, “But I will tell you this: It was really traumatic.”

“I can’t even imagine.” Billy left it at that, utilizing the tried-and-true journalist’s trick of silence.

After a quiet 45 seconds, Jeff said, “The fact is, it was an accident.”

Billy stayed silent, not because he was using the journalist trick, but rather because, well, how could somebody wash down ten Seconals, 42 Advils, and 15 packets of Aspartame with a bottle of electric melon flavored Mad Dog 2020 by accident?

They stared at each other for a few beats. Billy broke first, flatly saying, “An accident.”

Jeff nodded. “An accident.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Not right now,” Jeff said. “I’m pretty fried. Let’s pick this up in Salt Lake.”

Gaping at the singer, Billy said, “You’re gonna finish the tour?”

With a sudden burst of energy, Jeff raised a fist and, in his unmistakable baritone, sing-songed, “The show must go on, Derek! The! Show! Must! Go! On!”

Once again, Billy marveled at how vibrant Jeff looked and sounded. Unable to stop himself, he said, “It’s Billy.”

“Pretty sure it’s Derek. No, wait, my bad, it’s Dennis. See you in Utah, Dave.”

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