West of Mars

If this is your first time visiting with Trevor and the band, welcome! This short fiction ties in to my novel, Trevor’s Song, and will appear in a future Demo Tapes anthology. You who’ve read the book may be quick enough to catch a reference to it, but don’t feel bad if you don’t. This story contains no obvious spoilers — but is the perfect reason why you’ll want to pick up one of my three books and become a proper Trevor Wolff (or Mitchell Voss) groupie.

Mitchell was, Trevor quickly noticed, too dumb or too naïve or too sheltered or too stupid, or too something to realize what had just landed at his feet. Probably all of the above; the idiot was certainly a work in progress.

Trevor, however, was none of the above. When the song ended, he gave Mitchell the old familiar nod, the one to tell the frontman to stand down for a second.

Mitchell stepped back from his microphone and crossed his arms over his chest. Waiting.

Trevor sniffed. The asshole wasn’t giving him the right sort of invitation. Really. This one deserved an introduction. It was going to be good.

But, of course, the guy was too stupid or too something to realize what those round, red pyramids were. They weren’t fucking streamers, like he was probably thinking, what with the strings hanging down from the middles of them, at the top of the peaks. They were way better.

Trevor hoped there’d still be adhesive on the backs. Usable adhesive.

He shoved his bass onto his back and knelt to pick them up. Sure enough, both were right there, waiting for him. This was too good, too perfect.

And then it got better. They hadn’t been used.

He heard a few giggles when he stood up. “These from you?” he asked, leaning out into the barrier space between the stage and the fans. It wasn’t terribly big; hell, the whole place was on the small side. Two hundred people, tops. And only about half that who’d turned out to see the band. And three girls standing there, giggling, their faces flushing with something other than the energy the band was giving off.

One of them had given him a new toy. Even if no one was stepping up to claim responsibility. Yet.

Fucking figured. Even something as simple as this, and no one had the balls — or, in this case, the tits — to own up to having done the deed. Maybe she’d reveal herself later, come up to him after the show, pull the front of her shirt aside so he could see them in action, properly attached and waiting for the sort of attention only Trevor Wolff could give them…

He straightened, feeling Mitchell watching. Eric was curious, of course, and Daniel had stood so he could see over his drums. Not that there had been anything to watch yet, but it was time…

He peeled the paper backing off the adhesive. With his best snigger, he did the same to the other paper, trying to keep both cradled in the same hand. It wasn’t easy; the tassel kept trying to drip between his fingers. Finally, he let it.

Mitchell started tapping a foot. Never a good sign. If the idiot’s face had started to turn red, Trevor didn’t know. He wasn’t looking.

Trevor turned his back on the crowd. Daniel watched as Trev put his new toys in place.

Mitchell took a step back. His eyes got huge as he realized what Trevor had found. With a shake of his head and an arm wiping across his mouth so no one would see him smile, he turned back to the crowd. “And which of you pussies helped Trevor get all dressed up tonight?”

That introduction was better, Trevor decided and turned around, his bass still slung behind him. He grinned and thrust his chest out as far as he could, then did everything he could to make the tassels spin in circles.

Fuck, Stacia made it look easy. But that’s why she was Riverview’s top stripper. And why Trevor was only a bass player.

The crowd didn’t quite roar, but they didn’t fall quiet, either. Trevor could hear some laughter, and a lot of whoops. He tried to shimmy his shoulders. He took three steps forward and four back. He looked over at where Eric should have been, except the guitarist was in the wings, his face buried in a towel and his shoulders shaking harder than Trevor’s.

Trevor tried a few more of Stacia’s moves, and then the audience let loose, howling, cat-calling, and cheering like mad. Still behind his drums, Daniel encouraged them.

It wasn’t until one of his new toys fell off his t-shirt and he fumbled at it, finally managing to catch it and stick it on his bass like a new knob that he’d had enough. Maybe it had something to do with Mitchell, who’d come over to Trevor and was motioning that he was going to pinch the pastie — and Trevor’s tit under it, too. As if Trevor had tits, being a man and all, but that was another story. If you were gonna play the part, you couldn’t bitch when someone else wanted to join in. It was always better with company.

Whatever. Trevor didn’t fucking care — so long as Mitchell didn’t squeeze too hard. He was getting a moment, thanks to stupid-head beside him here.

Or… maybe not. If the guy’d had a clue, Trevor never would have gotten this chance.

He twirled the tassel on the fallen pastie as ge stuck it to his bass and grinned. Too bad there weren’t more people here; it would take awhile for the word of this to spread.

Trevor looked back at those three girls in the front. He’d bet just about anything on one of them approaching and offering to show him the moves he’d botched so badly. Fuck, he wasn’t a stripper. He was a bass player in a rock band, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t have to know how to twirl a tassel.

Just so long as she did, Trevor figured they’d be set.

I’ve been all over Facebook and Twitter with this one; can’t believe I forgot to tell you guys, as well. (which is why you ought to be following me in both spots!)

Author Thea Atkinson runs a cool site called GonzoInk. One of the fun things she does every month is called Rate Me Some. She posts three book blurbs. No author names. No cover art. Just words. You vote on the one you like and one lucky person who leaves a comment will win a copy of the book that gets the most votes. (e-book only, I’m afraid. Maybe an author will kick in a print copy down the road? Hmm. Not a bad idea!)

Now, I am NOT telling you this because Trevor’s Song is one of the three books being blurbed this month. Or because so far, there’s only one comment, which makes it sort of a slam-dunk for Thea to pick her winner.

Nope. I’m telling you this because I think it is SUCH a cool concept. I hope you’ll all play along each month, whether or not my books are being featured. I hope you’ll help make this a success.

And in the meantime, if you’re in need of an e-book copy of Trevor’s Song, go vote. And leave a comment, too. The chances of you winning it are pretty darn good.

Although, the royalties from your purchase are also pretty darn good. Ya know?

Dude. I am old enough to remember when there was a time before Zakk Wylde. (Which is really effing scary, since he claims to have been around for 25 years now. Yikes. No wonder my neighborhood Mary Kay saleswoman told me she lusts after my face. Here I thought it was a compliment…)

I have decided that makes me too old for the test that is included in his new book, Bringing Metal to the Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination. After all, I may or may not have been doing this before Zakk Wylde. Or maybe I was doing it with him…

Still, you guys know I’m a sucker for this sort of book. It won’t be out until May, which is a long time for me to wait. Anyone know of an advance copy you can send my way???

And remember, keep an eye on Rocks ‘n Reads for all the reviews of my music-oriented books — and anything else that strikes my fancy along the way!

So one of the things I’ve been juggling lately is a presence on a new-ish message board, Bestseller Bound. I’ve found a very talented, smart, savvy group of people to hang with (and they put up with my Tech Idiot issues!), who are gung-ho at helping each other succeed.

Which, if you hang out at Win a Book, you know is an attitude I share.

I’m actually a bit chagrined at not telling you guys about this sooner — those of you who e-mail with me on a regular basis know what’s up in my world, and the rest of you will probably find out later rather than sooner — but one of the cool folk, a dude named Joel Kirkpatrick, took the first chapters from a whole slew of us and put them into THREE different anthologies.

It’s a great way to meet some new authors (hint!). I’m in Volume 2, so of course I suggest you start there. Downloads are, you’ll notice, free. That’s to entice you to download them, get to meet the gang, and then go buy the full version of the featured books.

The anthologies are availble on Scribd and 4Share. The links, of course, take you to pdf formats of Volume 2, featuring me. (Isn’t that a Trevor-like thing to do?) You can get to Volumes 1 and 3 from there, in case you’re sick of looking at that hot dude on the cover of Trevor’s Song.

Versions for the Kindle are in the works, and … I don’t know about Smashwords. Drop Mark Coker a note and tell him you’re upset he wouldn’t let Joel list the anthology there, even though almost all of us have the featured books listed there. (And that may be the only complaint I’ve ever had about Smashwords. I hope that remains the case.)

C’mon. Go meet some new authors and check out my friends while you’re at it.

My friend Darcia Helle put together a better page all about the anthologies. Go check it out. She’s got a link to the awesome trailer, to all the different sites where you can download the anthologies, the various formats… the whole shebang. Check it out; you’ll see why Darcia’s so cool.

I’ve had this tab open in Firefox for awhile now. It’s news from Blabbermouth that Tim “Ripper” Owens, he who inspired Jennifer Aniston and Mark Wahlberg movies, has re-opened what was called Tap House and is now Ripper Owens Tap House.

This is one of those rare times when I can actually do more than dream about going to this place. You see, it’s in Akron, which is only a couple of hours’ drive from Chez West of Mars. They are boasting about a family-friendly menu (darn it. Guess there goes any shot I had of going without the kids) and being able to handle high-volume times of day. They also book national and local acts, as well.

My kind of place. Despite not being able to dump my kids for a few hours. I mean, I LIKE my kids and all and they’re at cool ages. But… being without them for a bit is always a good thing. Otherwise, when they leave the nest, will I know how to act?

Anyone who’s up for a weekend road trip to Akron, let me know and we’ll see what we can work out. That’d be a WAY cool meeting place, no?

Rock bands of all sizes and statures are faced with the spectacle of bad reviews. The men who make up mega-band ShapeShifter are no different. They’ve weathered more than their fair share of poor opinions. So when they heard the story of Nestor Maronski and his abduction, they wanted to show their support for the authors and people whose lives and careers Maronski poisoned. They asked me, the ever-intrepid Kermit Ladd, to help facilitate the process.

maronski headline

ShapeShifter guitarist Eric Wallace and bass player Trevor Wolff sat down with Isabelle Forbes, the long-time maid of the Maronski family.

Eric: So, Isabelle, I’d offer you my condolences on the loss of Nestor, but I don’t want to be premature. Are you sure he’s dead?

Isabelle: Er… Thank you. I don’t know for sure that he is dead. All I know for sure is that he is missing. Police are interviewing people to try to find out where he is and whether he is still alive. A lot of people wanted him dead; writers mainly. Indie writers.

Trevor: Some fucks are too mean to die. Maybe Nestor wasn’t really human. Maybe he’s some evil fucking demon who’s immortal and … what?

[Trevor cuts off as Eric gives him an odd look. Speaking for myself, Kermit Ladd, I must say I've never heard the usually practical Trevor speak of demons and other immortals, and I have spent a non-inconsiderable amount of time with this band and these men who make it up.]

Eric: You were called in to view a lineup of potential murder suspects. Some people think you let the killer walk. I’m the son of a minister. I get that sort of charity. But for the people who don’t quite get it

[Here Eric eyes Trevor, who feigns innocence, ignorance, or both], can you explain?

Isabelle: I was called in to view a line up, yes. I didn’t recognise any of the suspects. [At this point Isabelle seems unable to maintain eye contact with Eric. It's almost as if she is hiding something]

Trevor: You sure about that, there, gorgeous Isabelle? You’re not hiding anything now, are you? Like how you didn’t want to put someone away for having the balls to do something that should’ve gotten done awhile ago?

Isabelle: It was dark in the hospital room, I couldn’t see anything clearly. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to identify anyone who was there.

[Isabelle reddens]

Trevor: Yeah, yeah, sure. Like we buy that. Know what we do buy? Maid’s outfits. Want to wear yours when you come over later?

[Isabelle appears shocked and does not reply]

Eric: Can you save it for later, Trev? Isabelle, what’s next? Who inherits the Maronski estate? What will you do for work?

Trevor: I could use a maid. In a maid’s outfit. I bet you’re a better maid than that girl Mitchell and Rusty use. She won’t even fucking talk to me. Me! Trevor Fucking Wolff. And I’m way easier to take care of. I don’t leave whirlpools of blonde hair in the shower when I’m done.

Isabella: Um… [she coughs] I’m not sure about inheritance. As I said, Nestor may still be alive. If he died, I know that he has made quite a detailed Will, and I’m not at liberty to disclose the content of the document, but let’s just say the beneficiary would be someone unrelated to Nestor.

Trevor: It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one set to inherit it all.

Eric: Trev, what makes you say that?

Trevor: Why else would she hang around, waiting to see what happens to old Pissyface? Unless the cash is going to something like screech owls. That’s what I’d thought about doing, you know. Giving it all to the screech owls.

Eric: There might be hope for you yet, Trev. Charity. Isabelle, I don’t guess there’s any way…? I thought I heard Nestor did some good in the world.

Isabelle: I’m not sure where you read that, but I can safely say he did not.

Eric: Nestor was unconscionable to the writers whose books he reviewed. Was he that way to you, too?

Red Barn review

Isabelle: I’m not sure how much I can tell you.

Trevor: Hey, we’re ShapeShifter. You can trust us. Besides, Mitchell’s not here. He can’t put anything into a song if he doesn’t hear it.

Isabelle: What I say won’t go any further? I’m just worried in case he’s still alive.

Trevor: Why? Think he’ll come after you? I told you, Isabelle, you’re going to come work for me. I’ll protect you — and your maid’s outfit. So c’mon. Spill it. You can trust us.

Isabelle: Well, he used to have very strict rules, about when his breakfast was delivered, how much milk went into his coffee, that sort of thing, and he got very angry if everything wasn’t just so. He threw some coffee on me once.

Trevor: That’s it? Coffee? You think that was bad? You fucking think I was born with this schnozz? And this is after some magic-hands plastic surgeon tried his best to make it right, too. I’m fucking lucky I can breathe and you’re going on about coffee?

Eric: Trev, c’mon. For Isabelle, it was traumatic. The best way to deal with this sort of trauma is to talk about it.

Trevor: For you, maybe. But c’mon, Isabelle. Let’s hear it, so I can make sure I’m the better boss. Shit, I’ve got the cooler name. That ought to count for something.

Isabelle: [ignoring Trevor's remark] Nestor was a hard man to work for. Many of the house staff were fired or left of their own accord because of the way he treated us. He was very rude. Always putting people down. He didn’t pay me much.

Trevor: Think he was hoping you’d offer some other services for a bonus? I promise you won’t have to worry about that with me. Give it time, babe. You’ll be begging for some of the Wolff magic.

[Eric rolls his eyes. Your intrepid journalist, Kermit Ladd, keeps expecting Trevor to put his hand over the bulge in his pants, but Trevor's hands continue to alternate play with a cigarette and a lighter.]

Eric: Was there anything redeeming about Nestor? Even as a kid?

Trevor: Jerks like that? No fucking way. They’re rotten from the get-go. Trust me. I know these things. Grew up with a few of ‘em. Nestor was missing something essential, you know what I’m saying? Probably didn’t know what to do with a girl, not if he thought he could treat those writers the way he did. Hell, I bet he wasn’t even friends with his left hand. I bet his left hand wanted nothing to do with that fucked-up personality. I bet it wished it could get sliced off and run away and get transplanted onto someone better…

Eric: TREV! Cool it, man. Show Isabelle some respect.

Trevor: What does it look like I’m doing? Have I sniffed that apron she’s got on?

Isabelle: Nestor was, as you say, rotten—to the core. He was always having tantrums. I started work at the mansion when he was a teenager, and he was impossible to deal with. I was only a few years older than him and he used to treat me terribly. He often told me I was incompetent, made me feel so small. But his parents were such wonderful people. They treated me well, so I stayed.

Trevor: Yeah, that loyalty thing. Gets a guy every time.

Eric: You did what you thought best.

Isabelle: Yes, I did.

Trevor: Are you a music fan?

Isabelle: Yes, but Nestor would never allow music to be played. Even at his parties. His parties were just full of chatter. He once had a relationship with a musician and it turned sour. Since that time I have never heard him play music in the house. He doesn’t even own a TV.

Trevor: A musician? Do we know her?

Isabelle: Er… you might know him.

Trevor: Him.

Isabelle: I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.

Trevor: Go for broke. Spill it.

Isabelle: I’m not at liberty to say.

Trevor: Who asked Liberty? And who the fuck is Liberty anyway? Eric, you know any chicks named Liberty?

Eric: Nope, Trev. Sorry. Let’s keep focusing on Isabelle. We’re almost out of time. Could Nestor appreciate any of the arts? The ballet? The symphony? West Side Story? Surely someone who grew up with the money and privilege afforded him was exposed to this world.

Trevor: Yeah, like you were, Soul Boy.

Eric: I was!

[Before this can degenerate into an age-old argument between the two men, your intrepid reporter clears his throat. Silence falls.]

Isabelle: He sometimes went to the cinema or the theatre on his own, I believe. He has a vast collection of paintings and antiques.

Trevor: There you go. Sell those paintings and antiques. Since you’re quitting that place and coming to me instead, if Nestie-baby shows up, you can tell him you sold ‘em so no one would have to worry that the new help stole ‘em all. And you kept the cash ’cause he owed you hazard pay. With interest.

Isabelle: Are you serious about a job? After putting up with Nestor for so many years, I’m sure I could handle you. [She flutters her eyelashes at him] And, I am looking for work… ever since Nestor was murdered… Er… I mean, ever since he disappeared.

Eric: Well, hopefully this means a new start for you, Isabelle. You put up with an awful lot from Nestor, and no person deserves to be treated like that–

Trevor: I’ll say. I really do need a maid, you know. Even if you save the outfit for special occasions. I promise I’ll pay you better.

Isabelle: Well. I’ll definitely consider the offer. And I might take your advice and sell some of those antiques and paintings, but don’t mention that in the published interview [she laughs]; the old dog didn’t deserve to own them anyway. What was that you called it, ‘hazard pay’? I like that… yes, working with Nestor was definitely hazardous. I think I might like working for you. [The eyelashes flutter again]

Eric: I can vouch for him. He’ll pay you better. He might chase you around the kitchen table a few times —

Trevor: Hey! I don’t fucking chase girls and you know it. That’s your job. Girls come to me.

Isabelle: I’ll be sure to do that, Trevor. Thanks. And thank you, Eric, for the lovely talk.

At this point, the actual journalist in the room takes over. Hands are shaken, except by Trevor, who takes Isabelle’s hand and kisses her knuckles as gently as any gentleman ever could hope to. The maid flushes and leaves the room quickly. Eric leans close to Trevor and says something meant to stay entirely between the two of them, but the unflappable bassist merely laughs. And so it goes.

Need more of the Nestor Maronski story? Try here. Or here. Yes, this is quite the sensation!

Not sure who these Trevor and Eric dudes are? Then it must be your first time here. Check out the books they star in here — and feel free to use those buy links!

“Moist,” Hambone proclaims.
“Moist and meaty.”

He digs back into
his steak.
Poor thing.
Dead.
Harmless.
Doesn’t deserve the treatment
Ham’s giving it.

I don’t know who said
steak deserves anything.
‘Cept getting eat.

You don’t get
steak
on a roadie’s contract.

That means
we’re in a restaurant.
Me and Hambone.

I almost forgot
my restaurant manners.
Ham
never
had any.

“Moist and meaty!”
he yelps.

I try not to slide
under the table
to hide.

There might be
someone’s
steak
under there.

One that wasn’t
moist and meaty.

Believe it or not, this is a Three Word Wednesday post!

Ever wondered how real my fictional world is?

Me, too, sometimes. After all, I (thankfully) didn’t marry a rock star. My creation of Mitchell, Kerri, and Trevor was mostly my attempt to humanize people we put up on a pedestal.

Now, the E! Entertainment Network is showing us a glimpse of the real thing. It’s called Married to Rock, and it follows four very svelte women. Three are married to their stars. One is MERELY a girlfriend. I hope she sticks to her guns; from the first episode I saw, I could see danger signs in the relationship. Like I’m some expert… but that’s my point. If *I* can see danger, you know it’s there.

Anyway, the first episode I saw was the one where Susan Holmes McKagan (Hey, nice first name!) went out with the other women and got a bit toasty. And lost her house keys. ‘Cause, you know, she’s toasty.

She’s concerned Duff is asleep, and she doesn’t want to wake him. Which, really, is quite considerate. She decides to see if any windows are open. She’ll get in that way.

Sure enough, the bathroom windows are open. Susan begins to climb through.

This is where I paused my TiVo and let myself envision the scene as *I* would write it. (and we’ll ignore the fact that Mitchell and Kerri’s house is laid out much differently and has no bathroom window to crawl through.) I’d have Kerri crawl through that window and look up, only to find Mitchell leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a tolerant look that plainly said she was busted — and would need a few years to live this one down.

I pushed play.

And what happens? Duff comes into the bathroom, very awake, a questioning but amused look on his face, and helps his wife climb through the window.

That alone was enough to hook me on the show, but I have to admit to being somewhat fascinated with Etty Farrell. I think there’s a worldliness to her, a wisdom, that’s going to allow her to really be the star of this show. As the show unfolds, we’ll be able to see if I’m right or wrong.

In the meantime, I’ll keep watching and checking to see how much more of my fictional world comes true on the small screen…

In the past, when I’ve done a Musical Hanukkah wrap-up post, I’ve let Chelle handle it. Since I took the fun into the real world, I figured Chelle had no business reporting on how well (or poorly, depending on your point of view) we all chipped in to do.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m disappointed. I was hoping to do better. Now, I have to keep in mind that November and December turned into a couple of rough months for me. Most of you know I lost my cat, Chanterelle, in mid-November. One post can’t sum up the brain freeze THAT saga inspired. And now that I have an only cat, things on the feline front are getting more frustrating — I’d like to be a foster parent for awhile, but while the shelter I’d like to work with has a great woman heading up the fostering program, the head of volunteering hasn’t been quite so friendly. In fact, he’s been downright hostile, refusing to reassure me I’m in the system and will get the e-mail telling me when and how to sign up for the first of the volunteer orientations I must take. Needless to say, I’m frustrated. So’s Cooper. He’s lonely, and guess who has become his replacement family member?

It ain’t the stuffed grizzly bear the kids gave him.

The cat NEEDS a feline friend. I am not a feline. Period.

There were some other things holding me back, as well. Personal stuff. It really ought to stay that way.

This means I didn’t get to promote the Musical Hanukkah Celebration nearly as much as I’d intended to. And… it shows.

In the two months I was counting royalties for my charity donation, I sold a total of 44 books, spread out over the three titles. There were no sales reported for the Apple bookstore, B&N, Sony, or Kobo or Diesel. Thus, these numbers are restricted to Smashwords, Lulu, and Kindle.

We have to immediately erase the 7 books I sold at my local temple, during a signing. I told the temple I’d donate part of my royalties from that back to them, since they are a charitable organization.

Now we’re down to 37 books. Which isn’t bad, given how little promotion I wound up doing (oddly, most of my previous promotional jaunt happened in October!). Nice, big, fat donation, here I come!

But… 24 of those books came from Smashwords. And of them, 20 were freebies — copies of Trevor’s Song I handed out for reviews, downloads from the Troops as part of Operation e-Book Drop.

So I am making a donation based on the royalties for 13 books. Ouch. That’s not much more than I sold in the Kindle store in the entire month of December.

All told, the royalties I brought in came to $34.35. I’d pledged at least 50% — the more money I brought in and the more of my year’s expenses that were covered was going to up that percentage — and that leaves me with a donation of $17.25. About the same as I raised in three weeks in January for the Red Cross.

Yeah, I wish it had been more. Hopefully the momentum ball will roll faster in 2011. I’m aiming to give you TWO books and hopefully some 99c shorts (Anyone want to do me a cover or two?). And I’ve finished three interviews this week alone — and a fourth popped into my inbox this morning.

Now, before I sign off with pleas for you to post reviews of my books (good OR bad) and tell others to buy them, let me remind you that the page for direct donations is still up, if you’ve got some extra change you’d like to throw toward the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. Tomorrow’s Band Geek or Orchestra Dweeb thanks you. And so do I.

Since only one of you took me up on my offer to win a free book if you made a direct donation, Shaunie gets a copy of Thomma Lyn Grindstaff‘s Mirror Blue.

Why that one, and not one of the others? Well, because Thomma Lyn, being optimistic that there would be a million and one donations, sent me a copy. It’s here at my right elbow, so as much as it pains me to not read it, I’ll be sending that one on.

Now. I’m off to write a book. Or edit a book. Or something book related so that when next year comes and we do it again, we can donate a bigger chunk of change.

Daniel had been with Mitchell when the call had come in. It hadn’t taken a lot of discussion for the veto, but Daniel thought Eric and Trevor ought to know what had been suggested.

And then he’d run off to an interview, leaving Mitchell to do the dirty work. Or, as the case — of course — was, hear about it.

“It’s just not plausible,” Eric said, like he had to apologize for his opinion.

Trevor stared at him. “What the fuck? Plausible? Who cares about shit like plausible? It’s a stupid idea and you and Dans were right to say no.”

Mitchell wondered if Trevor even knew what the word meant. He’d be surprised if he didn’t; Trev was smarter than he liked to let on. But over the years, Mitchell had learned that Trev threw tantrums like this, he usually had no fucking clue what he was actually talking about. Especially because in this case, if he could understand Eric, he’d realize he agreed.

“We should absolutely care,” Eric said. “If our fans can’t trust us to be authentic–”

“Wait right there,” Trevor said, holding up a hand. He hadn’t had time to stick his cigarette into the corner of his mouth; he still held it between his thumb and index finger, like a roach. “What the fuck does authentic have to do with plausible?”

Bingo, Mitchell thought, trying to keep his face blank.

“Because,” Eric said, then stopped himself.

“That’s a fucktard of a reason,” Trevor said. He finally perched the cigarette in its place and shoved some hair out of his way. “Why not say something like it’ll taint the pool of samples, or Trev, are you going to do this willingly, or do we have to outvote you again?”

“Want us to?” Mitchell asked. It was getting harder to hold back a smile, but if he wasn’t able to, Trevor would go absolutely ballistic. Trevor’s life, after all, was all about the guy’s pride.

“No!” Trevor got up and started pacing. “I want… I want…” He froze, jerked his head up, and narrowed his eyes. “Do you fucks even care what I want?”

“Always have,” Mitchell said as Eric murmured something along the same lines.

“I want you to fucking use words I get! Is that too much to fucking ask for?”

Mitchell pretended to scrub at his face, the way he did when he got frustrated. He figured that this way, Trevor couldn’t see his surprise. Trevor had just owned up to something on his own.

That could very well mean the world was ending.

“Plausible means it’s believable. So if we’re doing something not plausible, we’re also not being authentic, which means real,” Eric said.

“Damn straight that shit’s not believable. Us, doing one of those New Year’s Eve TV shows?”

Mitchell pulled his hands away. “Unless we’re onstage that night and they cut to a live shot of us for a full song. I can see us getting away with that.”

“But not standing on some stage in the middle of fucking Times Square,” Trevor said before Mitchell could.

“I know people who’ve spent their lives dreaming of being there,” Eric said. “We’ve toured with some of them.”

“Which is why we’re on top of the world and they’re down there, still staring up at us,” Trevor said.

“You’d be surprised,” Eric said. “A lot of us grew up watching Dick Clark. It makes sense to dream about. Dick’s launched an awful lot of careers.”

“Launched? We fucking launched years ago,” Trevor sneered.

“Well,” Eric said, “try this. He can launch us into more homes faster than we may get there on our own.”

“Tell me this, Soul Boy,” Trevor said, bending down into Eric’s face. The guitarist leaned back.

Mitchell watched carefully. Trevor being this aggressive must be another sign of the Apocalypse. As if being invited to be on Dick Clark hadn’t been the first. They were adding up, fast.

“Why do we want to be in more homes, faster?” Trevor was asking.

Mitchell breathed again. So that was all Trevor wanted to know.

“So we can rule the Earth?” Eric asked, his gentle voice weak, as if Trevor being in his face was scaring him. “Remember? Doing that was your idea.”

“Yeah, but I never said we should get there this way.”

Eric shrugged. Trevor stood up and looked over at Mitchell. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I already did. If we’re doing a show and they cut in, fine. Otherwise, forget it.”

Trevor stopped cold, as if he hadn’t heard Mitchell say that the first time. He nodded as he thought that over. “So you’re telling me you’re willing to compromise?”

Mitchell sighed. “It’s not such a dirty word, Trev. Try it every now and then.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen them do cut-ins over the years,” Eric said. “It’s not selling out, Trev. It’s letting people join us. Think how many people have turned into ShapeShifter fans because they’ve seen us live.”

Trevor looked from Mitchell to Eric and back again. “Maybe.”

Mitchell gave Eric a quick wink. “That means okay but it kills my pride to admit it.”

Trevor snorted.

Mitchell stared in fascination. Part of him wondered if he looked like that when he snorted, nostrils flared and drops of snot flying, face totally constipated. The other part couldn’t believe Trevor Fucking Wolff had just fucking snorted. That was about as beneath him as compromise.

Of course, he’d just done that, too.

Maybe, Mitchell figured, it was the final sign of the Apocalypse. If so, there was no way in Hell he was doing Dick Clark. Fuck that. He was going to be at home, in bed with Kerri.

Just in case.

Have you missed the fiction around here? I have. I’ve got some other goodies coming up, as well, so stay tuned. This is my #FridayFlash, #SundaySnippet, and Three Word Wednesday post. I may stop writing to the prompts; I don’t know yet. I feel like they’re not as good as when I just let my brain fly on its own.