Corey is Dead.

There is a place I go in my head when I must conjure Corey. As Corey Thunder Dome 2005 approached I went there, dear reader. I went to my special place to bring them forth to celebrate this day that honors them, gives them the respect they long fought for and so deserve. As they are shy, I spoke with tenderness. I called to them in soothing tones. Corey, are you there? Corey, do you hear me? I beckoned them in, gently at first and then with great force. I threatened. I cajoled. I cried out, my voice echoing emptily in the night. I sang a stirring, a cappella rendition of “Dream a Little Dream” ending with a Corey Heart medley, consisting only of “Sunglasses at Night” over and over, a broken fucking record. A golden stud in the wrong lobe. The Coreys, they did not come. The Coreys left me alone in my bed, in my head, wringing my hands and tearing at my clothes. I read through the Thunder Dome archive. I spoke Corey quotes aloud.

Could you take the car out of neutral? We just got passed by a street sweeper.

Silence.

An innocent girl, a harmless drive. What could possibly go wrong?

Silence.

Don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades, oh no.

Silence.

I wept quiet tears. And then out of the darkness, slow and with great bravado came sweet music. A gravelly voice. A drunken slur, underlined with blatant sexual innuendo. “I’m a cop, you’re a crook,” he spat. “Nothin’ worse than a bad cop.” He hissed it, tickling the inside of my ear. Nolte, hair wild. Nolte, in handcuffs. Smoking a cigar. Handling the truth. Issued a restraining order. Accompanied by Eddie Murphy? Nolte in my special place.

Alone no longer, I am free. I am his.

Corey is dead.
But Nolte, so very much alive.