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In April 2021, about a year after Landvogt’s death, a friend of Marquer’s called to tell him about an article in The Cheyenne Post. All the while, a suffocating cloud of depression stopped him from glimpsing any way forward. He paid his bills with temp jobs, stripping insulation from abandoned buildings and helping people navigate the Affordable Care Act. He went through the motions of looking for a job in Dota 2, but with in-person tournaments suspended due to Covid, hiring was at a standstill. He managed to complete his thesis and get his degree, but it all felt hollow. Marquer spent the next two months at his parents’ house in Cheyenne in a haze of grief. An autopsy would reveal that her blood alcohol level was above 0.4, more than five times the legal limit for driving acute and chronic alcoholism were listed as the causes of death. On April 8, 2020, as the coronavirus pandemic’s first wave was battering the US, Marquer got a call from the police in Haltom City, Texas: Landvogt had been found dead in her boyfriend’s trailer.
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Marquer was left in Laramie to complete a degree that had lost a great deal of its purpose. “I couldn’t do it.” Landvogt moved to Texas to live with a man she’d met while playing Dota 2. “I ended up divorcing her that summer,” he says. As he later sat by her bedside at Ivinson Memorial Hospital, Marquer realized he’d lost the will to keep serving as Landvogt’s rock. Not for the first time, Marquer called an ambulance. A bedridden Landvogt yelled out for Marquer to come give her a hug, and he found her too feeble to move. There was mold in the coffee pot, and the cats were on the brink of starving. When Marquer got back, the apartment was beyond filthy. But as soon as Marquer left for the Denver airport, Landvogt went to a liquor store-the start of a harrowing bender. Landvogt had been mostly sober for a few months, so Marquer felt comfortable leaving her alone for a week. In the spring of 2019, he received a research grant to attend a Dota 2 event in Birmingham, England. Marquer thought she was cute, with her curly black hair and off-kilter wit, and he hated that no one was giving her a chance.įor a while, Marquer’s plan seemed to be working. She was dying to join a band, but none of the acts in Denver’s macho punk scene would give her a shot because she didn’t look the part.
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Landvogt was a guitarist, too, though she was earning her living as a house cleaner. After the set, she went up to Marquer (pronounced “Mar-care”), and they eventually got to talking about music. In the crowd was Katherine Landvogt, a petite and pale-skinned 20-year-old who wore cat-eye glasses. That night he was on guitar for a band called Medicine Bow, earning his reputation as a magnetic performer-a blur of flailing limbs and sweaty, close-cropped hair as he tore through songs about SpongeBob SquarePants and ecological collapse. It was 2014 and Marquer was a junior at the University of Wyoming, a baby-faced Eagle Scout from Cheyenne who’d become a fixture in Laramie’s college-town punk scene. Madison Marquer was playing a show in a converted garage in Denver when he met her.