Are They A Fan?

DISCLAIMER: The cantankerous weed-smoking metalhead featured in this story is a fabrication, and in no way based on the real Zane Lowe, who is probably a lovely man.

Zane Lowe frowns as he leaves the studio. "What I need," he thinks, caressing his beard "is a spliff."

It's going to be a pretty crappy show tonight. Zane has just acquired an early copy of the upcoming Eyehategod album, and he's spent the last hour and a half begging the suits to let him play a track off it.

"We've told you before, Zane. No sludge metal."

"It's just one track, you fucks. Four minutes. Nobody will notice, nobody pays any fucking attention to the radio anymore."

"That's not really the kind of attitude we want to see here at Radio 1." Sarcastic bastard.

"So what can I play?" he growls.

"Well, you've got Liam Bailey on tonight, so he'll want to hear his track. And maybe that Chase & Status song too."

"Great. And will there be anything with balls?"

It's not hard to get these stuffed shirt radio bastards flustered.

"You can play some Bullet For My Valentine if you want."

"Brilliant."

Zane takes a long drag on his joint. He prefers his other job. Nobody tells him what music he can or can't listen to when he's working his other job.

Ever since that bout of flu around this time last year, Zane has found that his body doesn't seem to need sleep like other people's bodies do. He can go for a week or more without so much as a power-nap. For some reason he can just keep going.

The radio stuff pays pretty well, and even with two kids he can still afford all sorts of fun for himself. So money is no issue; he doesn't need the extra cash. He just needed something exciting to fill up those extra hours.

So he went into the assassination business. It's pretty easy. Someone, usually someone pale and looking as if they were having second thoughts about it, tells him a name and gives him a fat wad of notes. He drives to their house, Acid Bath screaming from his car stereo, knocks on their door, and silently does away with them.

Sometimes he wears a mask and gets it over with quickly. But whenever he is given a new quarry, he always asks the same question:

"Are they a fan?"

And if they are, well, he gives them a treat before they meet their maker.

"Hi, I'm Zane Lowe."
"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"Are you ________?"
"Yes! Oh wow! How do you know my name?"
A cheeky grin.
"A little bird told me."

And then death. He thinks it's quite a good idea, actually; a lot of people would probably pay good money to be killed by a celebrity. Teenage girls screaming in ecstasy as one of the Jonas Brothers tightens his hands around their neck. Nerdy 30-year-olds who live in a basement clambering over each other to be the first person to actually be slaughtered by Uma Therman (in full Kill Bill outfit, of course).

Hm.

Zane takes one last pull on the joint before letting it fall to the ground. A girl with a harajuku haircut and her one-earringed boyfriend pass by on the other side of the road. They see him, whisper to each other, exchange oh-my-god-is-that-Zane-Lowe grins, and walk on.

Zane checks his watch. Ten to seven. The radio bosses will be waiting for him.

Oh well. Time to go to work.