It is an angry DJ that never comes out to take a bow, or have champagne with fans wearing tiny dresses and fake, fat and lacquered lips.

He is an unreachable musician, wearing a cochlear cape of bone with one small, pink, nerve-lined pocket to keep his demented setlist handy. The concerts are tireless, but familiar. Horrible mixes of banging, clanging, buzzing, whirring and squealing. Ceaseless tracks that wobble on an endless loop. Night and day. Day and night. Not even a bathroom, shower, or coffee break. Ever. The inner ear musician is a soulless monster who feeds on the madness and tears his demonic and senseless talents provoke from his audience of one. He lives in the inner ear rent free, for all of time, all the time. He doesn’t give a fuck how crazy-making his noise making might be. Always shredding hardest and proudest when a peaceful moment of quiet is suddenly bestowed. Replaced immediately by a haggard heavy metal band that could only be paid for by the heinous crimes I committed in a former lifetime.

When the inner ear noises slow their bloody drumsticks a smidge, he sends out the head-filler-upper clowns. They will blow their death breath deep into the middle ear, heading straight to the VIP area of the inner ear. There they giggle among themselves, clacking their big shoes together to the rhythm of the screeches and clangs, until they are certain you are starting to feel the black gift of the horizontal tilt on the inside. On the outside, the floors seem to recede, the fullness becomes a slap of deafness over the piercing hum. The Maniacal Ménière’s Band are not happy with their performance until their favorite closing act arrives for a solo finale. A performance so vile, it is best observed behind closed lids and a stable surface to lie upon. Close your eyes and get ready for a very long performance you have to fully endure to survive.

The clowns push you to the lip of the stage so you can curl your fingers around it for support. They know you will need it. Even in the dark, as the black velvet curtain rises, you can feel it’s evil breeze as it ascends to a cold place you could not look up to, even if your eyes were open. You brace hard waiting for the first few bars to hit your diminished senses and useless piñata ear. The cochlear DJ turns up the volume for the finale song and stands aside to allow the clear passage of his favorite performer. He takes a deep bow while stepping on my clinging fingers at the edge of the stage. I can feel the draft of his rotting arms spreading wide over the roar, buzz and pitching tilt of my bad ear. I allocate all my survival instincts to my good ear to help guide me through the second concert I’m about to attend.

He crouches down near my closed eyes and hisses into my good ear. “Good evening, my dear. Hang on tight. This show’s gonna be unforgettable… For I am the great, Vertigo.