The envelope was the opposite of engraved. The letters were raised, and they were shiny. And dark blue. The whole thing was totally out of her league. It was nothing like Lyric had ever seen, and Lyric considered herself pretty worldly at thirteen.

“Is there one for me, too?” Allegra asked, reaching for the rest of the mail.

“No,” Lyric said, staring glassy-eyed at the envelope. It was addressed to Miss Lyric Maker. It looked fancy, classy. And someone had sent it to her.

“Do you think it’s a joke?”

Lyric turned the envelope over. It was heavy in her hand, like the paper was really expensive. Melody had shown them fancy paper like this once. Lyric couldn’t remember why they were in a store that sold it, but they had been, and Melody had picked it up and let the girls touch it. The saleslady had frowned at them like they weren’t good enough to be touching such expensive stuff. Lyric had thrown her a defiant look and really felt the paper. Even under her fingertips, it had been weighty. And smooth, like ice.

The return address on the back was also blue and shiny and raised. It had a name Lyric recognized. Schwartz.

“It’s from Slippy.”

“Oh,” Allegra said. “No wonder I didn’t get one.” She turned away and flipped through the rest of the mail.

Lyric shrugged and tried to slide her finger under the flap, wanting to open it as gracefully and carefully as paper this rich deserved.

“I don’t know why you like her,” Allegra said. “She’s strange.”

“She’s just quiet. Once you get her talking, she’s really funny.” Lyric slid the pages out. There was a reply envelope, in the same lush cream color and with the same raised blue letters. It even had a stamp already on it. Tucked under the envelope’s flap was the reply card. It matched the envelopes, and it invited her to a special dinner dance. There were lines where she could pick if she wanted steak, chicken, or a special vegetarian meal.

“What is this?” Lyric asked, handing the reply card to Allegra. Her twin looked at it and shrugged.

There was a bigger piece of paper, too. One with a piece of tissue paper covering it. Lyric took away the tissue paper and looked at the paper underneath. A silver piece of paper had been glued between two pieces of the cream: one bigger and one smaller. The smaller one had writing on it, inviting Lyric to the Bat Mitzvah of Tziporah Hadassah Schwartz.

“Ooh,” Allegra said. “Religion. Think Mom’ll let you go?”

“Go where, girls?” Melody said, walking through the door. Her purse swung on her wrist and she wore oversized Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. And a plastic rain bonnet over her bottle blonde hair even though it wasn’t raining. It completed the look, so it was necessary.

Allegra snatched the invitation and ran over to Melody with it. “A Bat Mitzvah?” Melody asked, her eyebrows shooting upwards. “They invited someone from our family to a religious event? Are they aware of who we are?”

“Slippy’s been telling me about it,” Lyric said. “She’s been studying for almost a year and she gets to read from this sacred book. She says it’s a big deal. I’m glad she wants me to see it.”

And then it came. The question neither twin had wanted to face. “Why you, honey? They’re not,” Melody paused and turned her head so she could give Lyric a sidelong look, “going to make fun of my princess, are they?”

“I don’t think so, Mom. Slippy and I are … well, we’re not friends. But we talk. And she’s nice. I like her.”

“Do you think they know who you are?”

“Mom,” Allegra said, “how could they address an envelope to Lyric Maker and not know who she is? C’mon. Everyone on the planet knows who we are.”

“I want to go,” Lyric said quietly. “I like Slippy, and maybe this is a chance to show them that the Maker girls aren’t all trashy sex people. That we’re respectable, just like everyone else.”

“To a religious event!” Melody screeched, her hand to her chest and her eyes wide, like this was the most outrageous thing she’d ever heard.

“Why not?” Lyric said, ignoring the show. If she got sucked in, she’d forget what she wanted, and then Mom would win and Lyric wouldn’t get to see Slippy doing this chanting thing she’d been talking about. Lyric had too many questions to miss out on being there. Would Slippy fall into a trance? Would something majestic happen? What did a … what was the sort of place where this was happening?

Lyric took the invitation back and read it again. Temple Beth El. It sounded harmless enough. She even knew where it was.

“You’re sure?” Melody asked.

Lyric nodded. “You’re always saying that if people would take the time to get to know us, they’d realize there’s more here than porn flicks.” She held the invitation up. “Here’s the chance to show them.” She looked at the words again, the fancy, shiny blue letters, the cream paper, the muted silver middle layer. It screamed of taste and class and all those other things that the Maker girls were supposed to be missing. “Maybe Slippy and her mom will take us shopping, Mom. Show us what to wear to Temple Beth El?”

“Temple Beth El?” Allegra said, tilting Lyric’s hand so she could read the invitation upside down. “What’s an El?”

“Who’s Beth?” Melody asked.

“I bet Harmony will wish there’s a Temple Harmony El,” Allegra said.

The three of them looked at each other and started to laugh.

“We’ve got a lot to learn,” Melody said. “Let’s get busy.”

“How?” Lyric asked.

Melody plucked the invitation out of Lyric’s hands. “We start by calling this Tziporah’s mother and explaining that you’d love to come, but we don’t know the customs and would she be kind enough to help out.”

“Her family’s pretty religious, Mom,” Allegra said.

“Not so religious that they are leaving Lyric out. That’s a start,” Melody said.

“They might try to convert you,” Allegra told Lyric, who shrugged. “What’ll you do if they try?”

“Listen and learn,” Melody said. “And come back home and tell us everything!”

Usually, posts involving Melody and her girls have to do with the fact that Melody Maker is not a music magazine but a famous porn star. This week’s Sunday Scribblings Prompt took my thoughts in a different direction. I sort of like it, particularly Temple Harmony El. And Tziporah’s nickname of Slippy.

Follow this link to learn more about Lyric and her family.

There had to be something fucked up about it. Normal people didn’t come off stage and crave ice cream, but then again, Trevor Wolff wasn’t normal people.

Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…

Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.

Methinks there’s more than one twist going on here, but I’m not entirely certain. You decide.If you’re new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone’s favorite fictional band! This short piece was written for a href=”http://velvetverbosity.com”Velvet Verbosity/a’s 100 word challenge. Come join in; it’s a great writing exercise.

It’s not necessary, but it may help if you visit The Time Before Dinner. This is a sequel of sorts. You should be able to catch on to the basic idea if you’re too lazy to go look, though.

When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going — and why. He figured he’d give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.

Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn’t playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.

He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.

Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. “Yeah?” Trevor asked. “So?”

“So what?”

With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn’t know what this was all about. “I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who’s willing to take on your virginal ass and that’s all you can say to me?”

“Uhh… thanks?”

Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell’s mouth.

Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. “Fuckhead!”

“That didn’t hurt, you baby.” He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. “It’s a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why.”

Mitchell turned away and didn’t say anything.

Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.

“So,” he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, “did you last longer than thirty seconds?”

“Fucker.”

Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. “You didn’t, did you! I fucking knew it!”

“I lasted,” Mitchell growled.

“One day. Two miracles. Think Hell’s about to freeze over?”

Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. Trevor just grinned.

“How’d you do it?” he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. “Multiplication tables?”

“Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?”

“It worked, didn’t it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that’s, like, ten minutes!”

“You stupid fuck. You’ve got a girl. Don’t you know what that means?”

“I do now, yeah.”

Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell’s grin into the riverbank. “No! No, no, no!” He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell’s mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.

Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.

He took that as permission to rant. “Girls are soft. They smell good. They’re curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn’t notice any of that, did you?”

“Yeah. Of course!”

“Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?”

“‘Cause if I hadn’t, you’d be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why’d you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can’t be both ways, know that?”

Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.

Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn’t been.

“And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!” Mitchell yelled.

“If I did that, you wouldn’t have one!

He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn’t Hank; he knew when to stop.

Too bad I don’t, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. “You should be thanking me.”

“For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already.” Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.

Trevor went and sat beside him. “Okay, I’m done being a dick now.”

“Good.”

“Was it?” He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.

Trevor wasn’t smart. He was also Mitchell’s best friend. He knew if he waited, he’d get it.

“Yeah, it was good,” the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. “It was good.”

“Where are we?” Scott asked, looking over Fozzy’s shoulder. He pushed up his glasses even though they didn’t need it.

Fozzy shrugged. “Somewhere.”

“Is that somewhere near where we’re supposed to be?”

Fozzy shrugged. “It’s somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?”

Lido handed Scott the map. “Are there mountains in Texas?”

“No,” Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. “We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour.”

“This isn’t Texas,” Fozzy said.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Lido said. “I told you to take that right.”

“We have an hour before we have to load in, and we’re staring at the frickin mountains!” Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, “Go East. Due East. We’re in Arizona, so there’s no way we can miss Texas”? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn’t be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?

“So what do we do?” Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy’s eyes, hear it in his voice.

“Like I know?” Scott shot back. “If you’d followed the stupid map…” He grabbed it out of Lido’s hand and looked at it.

No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.

“I guess,” Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains’ thin air, “we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone’ll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will.”

“There’s no way?” Fozzy asked.

“Dude, we don’t even frickin know where we are!”

“Gimme that map,” Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido’s dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.

Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.

Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.

Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.

Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.

“Good work,” Scott said. “Now how do we get home?”

For every ShapeShifter in the world, there’s more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.

Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?

If you need a Trevor fix, there’s one I posted right below this one… Come on… you know you do!

They’d been on the bus for what felt like weeks. So long that they were way overdue for a day off inside of an actual hotel room — and every single member of ShapeShifter was grossed out by the thought of how excited they were about something as sterile and isolated as a hotel room. But at this point, with only the bus or the inside of the venue to look at, a hotel seemed like the ultimate luxury.

During these stretches, it wasn’t unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you’d done this dance for years.

Mitchell didn’t even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn’t seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn’t be doing it if he’d put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?

He could only take so much of Kerri’s petting and stroking. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t comforting. It was just damn annoying.

He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn’t startle her onto the floor or hurt her. “Woman,” he growled, “my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one.”

With a shrug, Kerri stood up.

“What are you doing?” He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn’t care. She’d been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.

“Getting a guitar,” she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.

Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. “That’ll teach your dumb ass,” the bass player said and lit a cigarette. “You know she can’t resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that.”

“At least it’ll give us something to do,” Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.

She sat down at the other end of Trevor’s couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.

“So. What do I do now?” she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.

Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn’t look away.

“You need a pick,” Eric said.

Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.

“What?” he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself — and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.

Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.

He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they’d had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she’d give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.

She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.

“Okay,” she said to Eric, “now what?”

Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.

Her performance set Mitchell’s teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.

“What about my face?” she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.

“What about it?” Eric asked.

“Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face,” Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn’t need to know about the time he’d tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn’t sure Trevor knew about it.

Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. “I know that,” she said. “But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this,” she said, puckering up like she’d eaten a lemon. “Or this,” she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.

Daniel laughed.

“Oh, you’re not much better, you know,” Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.

Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn’t bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn’t care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn’t paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn’t stand it when she pulled shit like this — because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.

“You know what’s going to happen now?” Daniel asked, picking up Eric’s cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. “We’re going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces.”

That was entirely too true.

Mitchell told himself he shouldn’t care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness — and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.

Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he’d divorce the wench.

But in the meantime, at least he wasn’t bored.

Has it been too long since we’ve had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?

There’s a code out here
On the road.

You do your job.
You hang out.
Laugh.
Joke.
Keep it light as long as you can.

You got here ’cause you’re good.
You know your shit.
No need to ask for instructions.

Like a robot, you do what you gotta do.
Don’t think about how mechanical it gets by tour’s end.
Just do.
Think about what you’re doing.
Pay attention;
One fuck-up can hurt the stars.

They’re worth millions.
You don’t hurt them.
No matter how much you want to
’cause they treat you like you’re
Subhuman.

And whatever you do,
You never
Ever
Stop and ask them

Anything.

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt is ask. Once again, I had too many ideas to choose from, so don’t be surprised if more fiction based around this theme surfaces in the future.

If you’re visiting from Scribblings, please leave a comment so I make sure to visit you in return. Thanks for coming by!

If you’re new to the Roadie Poet, click on the link in his name right there, and it’ll take you to a biography page, and links to his earlier poems.

Dreams generally weren’t welcome in Trevor Wolff’s world. Why bother, when they so rarely came true?

Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell’s refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you’d wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He’d buckled down and spent hours on the band’s logo, the band’s music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.

Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he’d been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.

That was how dreams come true — when you let yourself dream them.

The dream about the Vincent wasn’t likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn’t flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn’t a dream worth letting himself dream about.

Until the phone rang. “Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?”

He almost didn’t answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he’d heard Wrench’s voice. “Yeah,” he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.

“We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?”

Trevor’s heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right — but he’d never known it to feel so good.

“You might want to take a look before you say yes or no,” Hammer said.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can be,” Trevor said. He’d have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn’t be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.

“Think hard, man,” Hammer warned. “It may not be what you want, but if you’ve got the patience, it can be.”

That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.

No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.

Ahh. Trevor’s back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.

Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor‘s name and it’ll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor’s starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!

Sixteen flagpoles stand outside the dining hall in two rows: three and thirteen. Five hundred campers gather by the thirteen, hustling to get there first and earn the honors. The other three, they’re for the staff. Full uniform. Attention, marching, parade rest. Ceremony. You know the drill.

Those flagpoles aren’t merely for flags. They’re the first ceremony for many of the Scouts, and the gathering spot used by all. While not in the center of camp, they are its centerpiece, the pillar from which all else spins out. Find those flagpoles, and you have found your way back to camp.

Funny how the Velvet Verbosity prompt this week is pillars, which works really well with my latest experience at Cub Scout Camp.

Yep, I’m back. Got some sleep after being awakened yesterday morning by a raccoon in my tent and nope, I didn’t get a look at him. I just think it was kinda cool that he was there. #1 comes home with the Tour Manager tomorrow; I can’t wait to hear what happened after I left.

Oh, and I am a left-handed archer. In case you care.

No Thirteen this week, as I’m off to Cub Scout Camp again this summer. As a treat, I thought I’d show you what you guys inspired, based on your responses to this Thirteen I wrote back in May. Hope you like it; there may be more to follow if you do.

Eric didn’t notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He’d just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.

He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That’s when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn’t need to be kept cold or anything.

Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.

Eric wasn’t quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.

“Nice of you to come back,” Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. “I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter.”

“I didn’t really want the guy puking on stage,” Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy’s mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.

“Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?” Mitchell asked. “How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song,” the band leader said.

Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt someone when he noticed it.

… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, “What the fuck is that?”

Eric sat up to look.

Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. “Get someone in here who can explain this,” he said.

Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.

“Just use it for an ashtray,” Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.

Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.

“Well, fuck you, too,” Trevor said.

“Not until we get some fucking answers,” Mitchell growled. He hadn’t taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn’t sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn’t going to move by itself.

Daniel came back. “They’re going to find someone,” he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell’s shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. “At least this one’s not green.”

Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.

A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.

Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.

“There’s a problem?” The mousy man who led Charlie, the band’s tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They’d been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.

Charlie peeked over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Whoa. That’s some bad vibes.” He turned to the mousy guy. “That a key lime pie?”

Mousy guy nodded. “My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies.”

From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn’t about to explode.

“Take it out of here,” Mitchell said. It wasn’t a request.

“But my wife…”

“Take it!”

“What’ll I tell her?” The guy’s eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.

Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy’s chest. “Tell her you hope it doesn’t stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie.”

He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy’s shirt.

“Oh,” the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.

Eric stood up. “Look,” he said, “thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made.”

“But my wife…”

Daniel put a hand on the guy’s shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, “Was wrong, and you got off light. We’re the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don’t do shows with this joker anymore.”

The mousy guy paled. “But…”

Mitchell started to laugh. “You’re the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you’re done. Go fucking sell real estate or something.” He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.

Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.

“The best laid plans…” Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.

Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you’re new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the cast of characters tab at the top of the page. You’ll find links with each character sketch. I know. There are a lot of them.

If you need me for anything, I’ll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I’m gone.

It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Springer knew that. He knew that affording anything more than a new D string was out of the question. But he couldn’t help himself. He had to stop in at Guitars by Gus and see what was new. Even a guy like him was allowed to dream.

Good thing dreaming was free. Since scrambling to put all that money together for the ShapeShifter Musical Hanukkah Celebration last December, Springer had been broke. His car insurance had come due, and since he had a job, Dad had made him cough up the cash for it.

“Son, you don’t pay rent,” Dad had pointed out.

Springer kept his mouth shut and handed over fifty bucks from his pay each week. That left him with just enough to fill his gas tank, although lately that hadn’t been so easy, either. Springer had made his girl do some of the driving, but she hadn’t been happy about it, and she let him know it.

Doing shit with her hadn’t been happening much lately. Springer didn’t want to think too much about that. He didn’t want to think about much — he just wanted to drop into Guitars by Gus and dream a little.

The shop was buzzing when he walked in. No one noticed him come through the door, which wasn’t normal. Usually, you walked in and Gus himself or one of his kids was there to say hi. Today, no one.

That’s because people were packed in. It was like someone was giving a clinic, one everyone else in town had known about, probably because they stopped in more often than once every few months.

Springer craned his neck, trying to see who was the cause of all the excitement.

No go.

He turned around and read the flyers taped to the front door, trying to read signs that weren’t facing him. If there was anything there about a clinic today, he couldn’t see it. Maybe it had been taken down.

Three people came in behind him, pushing Springer into the line to meet whoever it was. He tried eavesdropping on the conversations around him to find out who it was, but all he could hear was, “I brung this so he can sign it!”

As Springer got closer to the front of the line, one of Gus’ sons shoved an oversize cardboard cover of the latest ShapeShifter album in his hands. “Here. You’ll need this.”

Springer stared at it in shock. No way. No fucking way. There was just no fucking way on this planet that he’d chanced into an in-store signing with someone from ShapeShifter. If only it was Eric… if only he could tell him what getting on stage with him at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration had meant. If only…

If only Springer’s luck didn’t suck. Seriously about that no fucking way bit. By the time he’d get up there, it’d turn out to be the other two. Or the drummer. Or Eric would get up and leave right before Springer could make eye contact with him or…

And then it was his turn, and it was Eric and …

Springer’s mouth went dry. He tried swirling his tongue around in his mouth. Nothing.

Eric was looking at him. Hard. “I’ve seen you around somewhere…” the guitar god said.

Springer nodded and tried for words as he set the cover flat down on the table between them. “Musical…”

“Musical? Like South Pacific?”

Springer shook his head and held his hands up in Air Guitar position.

Eric nodded. “You won a jam with us at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration.”

Springer nodded and just like that, the saliva returned to his mouth. So did the words. “That was so fucking cool to do. Man, if I could win it again next year, my life would be set, know that?”

Part of him stared in terror as his mouth kept flapping, spilling the worst case of the runs Springer’d had since the time he ate that bad bean burrito.

Eric was good about it, nodding and signing the cover flat Springer had set down, then flipping it over and writing something else.

Until he handed it back and made a motion with his head that Springer should step aside, the words kept coming. For all Springer knew, he was telling the guy about the time he lost his virginity. Or the stories his mom liked to torture him with, all about his potty training. Or …

Before he knew what had happened, Springer was out on the street, still babbling. That part of his brain that hadn’t turned to mush was screaming at him, as angry as a brain could be.

He’d blown it. He’d been right there with Eric and hadn’t said a single one of those things he’d needed to tell the man.

When he got back to his car and tossed the cover flat on the passenger side, too disgusted with himself to care about it, the words on back caught his eye. “See ya at the next Celebration.”

Springer sat in the car and hugged himself. Maybe he wasn’t such a fuck-up after all.

Haven’t met Springer yet? I created him last winter, for the Second Annual <a href="http://westofmars.com/2006/12/17/byline-chelle-lafleur-musical-hanukkah-celebration/. (This link will take you to the genesis of the idea) Be sure to stop in for this year’s fun. In the meantime, use the cast tab to learn more about Springer and the fictional band who rules his world.

Lots of you come up to me and try to keep me from leavin’ shows when I got to. I try to be nice and all, but boys and girls, Chelle’s got a deadline here. If she don’t hit that deadline over at The Trumpet, her review don’t make the paper. Capiche? And since the whole reason Chelle’s got a job is to review bands for The Trumpet, if she don’t make her deadlines, she don’t get a paycheck.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Let Chelle make like Cinderella and get to the paper on time.

Another attempt at Velvet Verbosity‘s 100 word challenge! This one wrote itself, but I still like the first one better. If you’ve never met Chelle before, click on her name and check out her bio page, which includes links to more of her journalistic endeavors.

It all began the day Mitchell bought the pedals for his guitar.

“You plug it in, right?” he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he’d just used to light a joint.

Trevor shrugged.

Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. “That’s all, right?”

Trevor shrugged.

Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.

“What the fuck?”

Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. “Ask Gus,” the bass player said once he’d exhaled. “He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work.”

Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. “I told him I’d read the manual if I needed help.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own.”

Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. “So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already.”

Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.

Still… it had to have a power switch or something.

Didn’t it?

Ahh, my boys. If you’re new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.

If you’re not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There’s plenty in my archives, you know.

I found this new prompt site, Velvet Verbosity, which challenges you to be inspired by a one-word prompt, but to make your inspiration fit into 100 words. No more, no less. This week’s word: Protection.

Yeah. I thought the same thing.

“It’s time,” ShapeShifter’s manager said. “You need to protect yourselves.”

“Sounds like it’s the girls who need to be protected from us.”

“Either way. You’re at the point in your career where you need to be careful. Paternity suits might be only nine months away.”

No one smiled. Trevor didn’t smirk. It wasn’t funny. This was about contracts and rules and following them, three things Trevor particularly hated. This was about growing up, which was one of those things Trevor had vowed to never do.

“If we have to, we have to,” Mitchell said. He wasn’t happy about it, either.

To learn more about ShapeShifter, Trevor, and Mitchell, follow these links. You’ll be taken to their bio pages, and from there, you can read more of their fictional hijinks.

I had my head down, which had to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I’m supposed to walk at the back of the line and make sure there aren’t any stragglers. I’m supposed to be helping out. That’s part of my job, part of the price that goes with the perks of all these backstage gigs. I’m supposed to be working.

Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It’s been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?

When I looked up, I’d walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band’s dressing room. Only, no one was there.

This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.

Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band’s dressing room. She wasn’t much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn’t bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.

I don’t think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.

I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.

She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn’t even want to try to compare them to mine. “Hmm,” she said. “Looks like you’re lost.”

I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn’t the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.

“Well,” she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, “let’s go. I’ll take you over there.”

There was no sigh that showed she didn’t want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn’t in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn’t one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.

And don’t you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we’re done.

“Hey Charlie,” my guide called when we’d gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. “I found a lost soul for you.”

“I was wondering where you’d gotten to, Jen,” the band’s tour manager said. I touched the girl’s elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.

“Thanks, Val,” the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.

“Val?” I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn’t place it.

“The drummer’s girlfriend?” Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I’d started as a record rep, I’d known everything about every band on our label. I’d probably even met this woman. Hell, I’d probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.

After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I’d dreamed of being when I’d taken this job.

I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band’s appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I’d passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I’d once dreamed of being.

I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.

You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen’s piece. I’m not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she’s not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I’d like to get to know her more, I’m not sure there’s a novel in her. We’ll have to wait and see.

Thirteen snappy comebacks (read on) Leah Braemel had this story to tell, and it’s so perfect, I had to share it. In case you’re too lazy to click the link (shame on you!), in a nutshell, the story goes like this: two guys shopping early morning in a guitar store. No one’s around except this long-haired heathen, playing a guitar hooked up to a monstrous amp. An amp that’s been turned to 11, at least. Maybe 14. In a guitar shop, not a concert hall. For about half an hour, the shoppers do their best to shop, but Mr. Heathen-on-Guitar won’t let up. He’s got a full-on jam going. But then, when he stops, one of Leah’s guys yells, “Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Oops. Turns out that Mr. Heathen-on-Guitar is a Mega Big Rock Star. You Ozzy fans might have heard of him and no, I’m not talking about Randy Rhoads. Think more current. Think who’s playing with him currently. Now, we have no way of knowing what the real Mr. Heathen-on-Guitar said or did, or if this is a story he even retells — if he’s cool, he does, complete with a chuckle at the chowderheads who didn’t recognize him and a second chuckle at himself for not convincing the guys to buy the new guitar he was there to promote. And since I’ve already taken great liberties with the retelling of this story, I think I’ll take a few more. What if Mr. Heathen-on-Guitar (isn’t that a fine British name, sort of like Stratford-on-Avon?) had been ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss? Or ShapeShifter’s lead guitarist, Eric Wallace? Or even our favorite bad boy, Trevor Wolff (who’d never do this sort of thing because it involves playing in public without Mitchell covering his sorry musicianship, but he’d open his mouth and defend his best friend — in typical Trevor style.), and don’t forget our drummer, Daniel Sydor, too. Here’s what they might have said: 1. Eric: Hey, come check out my new guitar. I’ll let you play it. 2. Eric: Oops. Sorry I’m so loud. Here, have some guitar picks. 3. Eric: Got anything you want me to autograph? 4. Mitchell: No. 5. Trevor: If you don’t like the sound of a guitar, go home. 6. Trevor: Who the fuck died and made you the music police? 7. Mitchell: Why? 8. Daniel: Hey, I’m just the drummer. Don’t look at me. 9. Trevor: I can tell them to make it louder. 10. Mitchell: Next you’ll ask me to play fucking Freebird. 11. Trevor: Are you some Bettina Beverly* fan? 12. Mitchell: What? I can’t hear you! 13. Trevor: We were here first. First come, first served doesn’t only apply to me and my girls, you know. * Bettina Beverly? Think Celine Dion, only Riverview style. And now that you’ve had fun with me and the band, go thank Leah for inspiring me so nicely this week, okay? I know she’d appreciate meeting you.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

So you came here, expecting to read about this fictional ShapeShifter band. Nope. Not today. I’ve been playing with this idea for the other band that’s starting to test the waters here, and finally had the time/energy to get it down. If you’re new to Deadly Metal Hatchet, they are a baby band — as compared to ShapeShifter’s world domination — who are more about the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their gimmick, then they are about music. In a word, they suck. But they aren’t letting that stop them.

Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn’t have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He’d almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.

“You for real?” Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.

“Yeah.”

“But… Fozz…” Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive — too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say — about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.

And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.

Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.

He held up his hands. “It’s just not you, man. That’s all.”

Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band’s gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.

“It’s not me,” Fozzy said and laughed again. “Like you’d fucking know.”

Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn’t so ready to hand the control over.

Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.

Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.

“Do that again,” Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.

Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off — and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.

Lido just shrugged. “Guess it takes practice.”

“We’ve got plenty of time for that,” Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn’t. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.

“I know,” Fozzy said. “That’s why I did this.” He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.

Scott touched Lido’s shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn’t want an audience.

It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.

Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There’s not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it’ll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!

So Molly and I are out shopping and all when this girl comes up to me and asks if I work out at that chain gym. The thirty-minute workout place.

“No,” I tell her.

“Oh,” the girl says. She tells me that she’s just started going there and she wants to look like me in a few weeks. That’s what they promised.

I look the girl over. She’s not fat, but she’s soft. And round. Okay, maybe she’s fat, but not a tub. But no way, no how is she going to look like me in a few weeks, no matter who promised.

I take a minute and explain I’m an exercise instructor and I’ve got my certifications and I go to advanced learning and I’m on the cutting edge of exercise. That’s why I look like this and yes, I’m proud of it.

The girl says okay and that she hopes the thirty-minute place will make her look like that, too, even though I pretty much just told her that it won’t.

Which means, I tell Molly when the girl goes, we’ve got to go check out these thirty-minute places and see exactly what they’re selling.

So we do. We go in and the girl at the front desk — who looks good but not great, like the place has paid off for her but she’s not on my level. No way, no how — asks if we usually come at a different time because we don’t look familiar.

I explain to her that I’m an instructor at a few gyms in the area.

“Oh!” she says all perky, but then she gets all sad. “Sorry, but we’re not hiring.”

I try again. I tell her I’ve been hearing good things about this place and I’d like to see what it’s like.

“Oh!” she says, all excited like she was a second ago. “You’ll want to talk to our membership services!”

I explain again. I just want to talk to a fitness professional. You know: pro to pro.

That confuses her. I try to explain it again, but Molly jumps in. “Can you get whoever’s in charge?”

So I get to talk to this Traci chick, who shows me what’s going on. Omigod, I can’t believe some people say this is exercise. All this weight equipment in a circle, and women moving their way around the circle. But they’re not working, not the way the women in my classes work. They’re going fast, which Traci tells me is the way to make it harder. But for people who are working harder, most of them don’t have red faces. A lot of them are sweating, but there’s more than a few who’re chattering away like this is some coffee shop they’re in. If my students did this, I’d ask if this was a social club or a workout. They’d say workout and wait for a break. But here, there’s these women laughing and barely touching their machines for anything but balance. It’s sad. I can see a few who are trying hard to focus and a few more who are in their zone, but the talkers, they’re messing the whole place up. You’d think someone would ask them to get off the equipment while they talk. I do, when I go lift at any of my gyms.

When we leave, Molly asks me what I think of the place. I tell her the truth: it’s great for people who’ve never worked out before and who need to get started. Or for people who want to pretend they’re working out.

Molly says it takes all kinds, and she’s right. I’ll take the kinds who show up to sweat, the ones who put passion into their workouts. The ones who know that getting a body like mine means diet and hard exercise. That’s how you get a body like mine.

When those talkers are ready to figure that out, I’ll be at my gyms, teaching my classes. Just like always. After all, once you’ve got a body like this, you need to take care of it, right?

Ahh, Pam’s quite the character, isn’t she? A lot ditzy, not terribly smart and definitely full of herself. That’s probably why she’s not here more often. If you’d like to catch up on her past adventures as a ShapeShifter groupie, click here. That’ll take you back to her character sketch page, and will link you from there to the fiction that’s been posted here in the past.

Don’t realize it until we get inside.
Been here before.

Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness —
For now.

It’ll get lit up later.

Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we’ve been here with
Tours we’ve done
Crew we went with.

More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can’t wait until she’s got these lists to make
When she’s been around more.

I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.

I’m not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.

If you’re new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you’ve missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That’ll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!

If you missed the start of this, you’d better go read it, or this will be little more than nonsense for ya. The first part’s short, although not as short as this one. It won’t take long. And there’s a link to bring you back here.

As he left the dressing room, Mitchell held up a hand at the roadie who’d been sent to escort him to the meet-and-greet. “I need to make a call,” he said and turned toward the production office.

Lyric answered almost immediately.

“Daniel’s shoulder’s bothering him,” he said, “so have the bills get sent his way. Oh, and Lyric, he’s paying you a thirty-buck per diem.”

She laughed. “Thanks, but you didn’t need to.”

“Hey, I take care of my girls. So go make calls; you might be able to get on Kerri’s flight out in the morning.”

“Does this mean you’ll be paying me a per diem, too, the next time you need me out there?”

“Fuck no.”

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is sore/soar. I was going to play with Eric, whose guitar is often said to soar above the rhythm line that Mitchell, Daniel, and Trevor lay down, but I’ve got a massive migraine and this was hanging around, waiting to be shared. Be sure to check back for the second part.

It was the look on Daniel‘s face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer’s face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy’s teeth were showing. Even though he didn’t have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.

“Need me to call Lyric?”

“Yeah, would you?” Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.

Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.

“Can we talk later and you call her now?” Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.

“I’m not the one paying her.”

“Oh.” The drummer thought a minute. “What’s her usual rate?”

“Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem.”

“Thirty bucks!”

Mitchell shrugged. “She’s gotta eat.”

Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.

Okay, so you’ve got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.