Now, Chelle here got a toughie for you, so don’t come back and complain when you hear somethin’ you didn’t wanna. Anyone remember Gene McLean, the dude who made them horrid death metal growls for Forbidden Hope that gave Chelle here nightmares?

Yeah, yeah. We all heard of Forbidden Hope, especially us who ruled the scene in the nineties. We heard about how they broke up in ’98 and how Pluck Remy went on to make that Fermented band happen and get so huge and all. But what none of us heard about was what happened to ol’ Gene. Gene McLean, the meanest dude with the rhymin’ name.

Turns out, no one knows what happened to our boy. That child went and vanished on us as if he’d been spirited away by some underworld demon come to get his voice back. Probably was.

Two months ago, word got out. Pluck went and did what no one thought could ever happen. He dissolved Fermented. Just … up and said to all them members of that hard-workin’ band to go and find themselves new gigs. Told ’em all it’d been fun but there was a door they all gotta walk through and hope it don’t hit ’em on them hineys.

Next thing, we be gettin’ word that Pluck’s found Gene. Brought him back into the fold or whatever it is those two had goin’ on. They be bringin’ back Forbidden Hope and there’s death metal heads all over the place havin’ all sorts of unmentionable sorts-a dreams over this news.

Ever seen a happy death metal head? That is some scary stuff right there, boys and girls. But that’s how you all was. Comin’ up to Chelle at shows and tellin’ her all about how great it was gonna be. Forbidden Hope. Back together. Rulin’ the world the way they should have back in the day.

Now, this is the bad part. Chelle here’s gotta break your hearts.

Word came down tonight that Gene McLean got down with the business end of a shotgun. No one knows why. Word came down from Pluck hisself, along with the request that we not bug the Pluck man for a bit. He be needin’ to grieve.

Chelle don’t blame him. Around these parts, there’s people wonderin’ if bein’ saddled with a girl’s name gone and done Gene in at last. Wonderin’ if the magic between him and Pluck couldn’t hold up over the years. There’s a million reasons why Gene coulda gone and done this.

Chelle ain’t sure why someone would up and off themselves like that. All she knows for sure is that it’s stupid. No matter who you are, there’s people who love you. Or like you. Or need you.

Or all of the above.

You hear me? No matter how bad it gets, when you face that demon who’s gonna take it all away from you, say no. Look for that angel who’s never near enough when you think you need her the most.

That’s the one you wanna say yes to.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Say yes to livin’. Without you, who’s gonna be readin’ Chelle’s columns?

***
This Sunday Scribblings came together because of the real-life story of Joe Ptacek, the singer for a nineties death metal band called Broken Hope. He was 37. I was never a fan of the band, but that doesn’t really matter. His story’s a tragedy.

Extreme

Extreme? Are you shitting me? My first thought was that Extreme would be a kick-ass name for a band. I mean, shit. Look at ShapeShifter. We’re nothing if not extreme.

Thinking’s bad for your fucking health. Which means I wised up fast.

Only the pansies would think to call their band Extreme. Losers who think being extreme means acoustic guitars and love songs and black and white videos featuring half the band and close-ups of those pretty faces so the girls’ll swoon. I mean, shit, if you’ve got to tell people you’re extreme, there’s no fucking way in Hell you are. Even in your Goddamn dreams.

Now Extreme Losers. That’s a band name for ya. A man can have fun with a name like that. Play it ironic. Play it satiric. Play it serious, and play the shows so drunk, they all fall off the stage, into puddles of their own puke. Into clouds of blow.

Of course, with those sorts of habits, they wouldn’t be someone you wanted to listen to.

But I still don’t want to listen to those pansies and their acoustic love songs, either. That’s about as extreme as Rusty is.

And don’t get me started on her.

For some less tongue-in-cheek Sunday Scribblings, you know where to go. I hope.

Before we get to the Roadie Poet, let me point you to one Alex Skolnick. He’s the guitar player for Testament, a band near-and-dear to my heart (among other gigs he does/did). He’s waxing poetic about roadies, himself.

Now, on to the Poet , himself:

Been hearing the production manager talk.
“New leaf coming,” he keeps saying.
He’s nervous.
Pressure must be on.

We’re all clueless.
Like it that way.
Let Stew worry about his shit.
We’ll deal with ours.

We’re grunts,
nothing more.
Like it that way.

Can’t help but notice
the band
avoids one spot on the stage.

We now gaff it out
so they don’t forget
and walk across.

We don’t know why.
Don’t care, either.
We got our jobs.
It’s all we want.
Like it this way.

Until the day
Stew comes around.
“New leaf is here!”

And we’re all sucked in
as we help
replace
part of
the stage.

We do
Not
Like it this way.

Ahh, another Sunday Scribblings. Sometimes, I fear I can’t write a thing without it anymore.

If you missed the lead-in to this, clickie here. You won’t be sorry. Then come back and read on; it’ll make more sense.

Mitchell was the only one not into it.

Daniel was all about his new sticks. Signature models, in fact, although Mitchell didn’t really get how a piece of wood could be something special. Oh, he’d played drums often enough to know that sticks felt different and could be different weights.

But a signature style? It seemed extreme, even if the whole reason was marketing shit. Dans and the band got money to put his name on the sticks. People bought the sticks, wanting to sound like Daniel. Everyone won.

Slightly less stupid was Eric’s new amp. Actually, it was a lot less stupid. The guy had needed something new for awhile now. The whole band was tired of his whining and his clueless attempts at making changes. Even Chuck, his tech, had started refusing to help. “Call the rep,” Chuck would grunt and walk away as Eric stood there, mouth flapping, probably secretly wishing he was Mitchell and had the balls to fire the guy for not helping.

Mitchell didn’t know who had called the rep. Eric sure hadn’t. Chuck wouldn’t without being told by Eric to do it. It wasn’t his business, so Mitchell hadn’t done it, either to be nice or in a desperate move to shut the guy up already.

The best gift, though, had to be Mitchell’s new guitar. If Eric’s amp was suspcious, the guitar was even more so. The only person who’d known he wanted it was Trevor. The only person.

Mitchell didn’t believe in Santa. Not anymore. Not after Amy and Beth had ruined it for him when he’d been nine.

That meant there was no way Santa had been behind all this. No fucking way in Hell.

Of course the alternative was even more mystifying. There was no way Trevor would have done this. The guy refused to be organized, refused to think beyond the here and now, refused to plan. Pulling this together, here in Portland where they’d gotten stuck by a freak snow, and making it appear…

Trevor was watching them play with their new musical presents. “Pretty good of the Old Fat Man to find us here, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded like he was satisfied.

Mitchell eyed him. There was no fucking way Trevor was satisfied. Not with a lump of coal as a present. Something smelled.

“I knew Christmas was the season of miracles,” Eric sighed, brushing at imaginary dirt on the top of his new amp.

“Yep,” Trevor said, picking up his coal and tossing it in the air.

“You got coal,” Mitchell said.

“I’ve never known anyone who got coal before,” Eric said, giving his amp one last lingering pat and coming over to look at Trevor’s gift. “I didn’t think that really happened. Everyone’s got some goodness in them.”

“This has nothing to do with being good or bad,” Trevor said.

Mitchell caught the sly smile and braced himself.

“Then what’s it for?” Daniel asked. He cocked his head, his eyebrows drawn in toward his nose. “And what sort of present is it, anyway? We all got the cool stuff and you got…”

“It’s a good present,” Trevor said. “It’s what I wanted.”

“It’s coal,” Mitchell said.

“Yep,” Trevor said and grinned. He held it up so they could all see it. “Gotta keep the fire lit.”

With a grandiose gesture none of them could misinterpret, Trevor pushed the lump of coal down the front of his pants.

“I dare you,” Trevor said, abandoning the sing-song he’d just been using. That song had never failed him before, but then, this was nothing compared to the sort of thing he usually dared Mitchell to do.

Trevor didn’t think Mitchell was aware he lifted one hand to his left ear and played with the earrings there. Yep, Trevor had dared Mitchell into letting him pierce the big idiot’s ear. And smoke pot in the bathroom at school. Fuck, he’d dared Mitchell into starting to smoke in the first fucking place.

And then there was the band he’d dared Mitchell to start, the girls he’d dared Mitchell into fucking…

Really. The big idiot couldn’t do shit without being dared. Ever.

It wasn’t like this one was such a big deal. One day. No guitar.

Crashing that private party at Moon Shadows had been a bigger deal than this was. Shit, they should have been arrested for that one. Underage, walking into a private party full of naked dancers and picking up one beer per hand… It had been a fuck of an entrance. Maybe that’s what had saved them ’cause Mitchell’s precious Voss family connections wouldn’t have.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Dare me all you want. I’m not taking a day off from the guitar. Gus told me not to.”

“Oh. Gus. Like he’s your god or something.”

“He knows what he’s talking about.”

“He’s some washed up shitty musician who managed to play sessions back in the sixties, when anyone with a fucking work ethic would get hired.”

“He’s been around the greats, Trev. He knows. If he says I shouldn’t take a day off unless I can’t help it, I’m not going to.”

“I’ll give you…” Trevor had to stop and think. He usually didn’t have to bribe people; they did shit for him just because he was Trevor and no one could deny the mighty Trevor Wolff.

“No,” Mitchell said again.

“Is that your favorite word or something?” Trevor asked, wrinkling up his nose and cocking his head. It was a risky move; he’d done it in school once and gotten patted on the head by the teacher he pulled it on.

Mitchell didn’t pat dogs on the head, let alone people.

“Yes,” Mitchell said.

Trevor shook his head and turned away. This sucked. Mitchell never said no. Ever. The guy wasn’t capable of it.

Until you brought the guitar into it. Trevor wanted to kick the thing, but knew that Mitchell would drop kick him if he did. And then the big idiot and his guitar would never be parted, like some of that stupid, sappy shit they’d tried to make him read in school.

The big idiot followed him outside for a smoke, but every time Trevor opened his mouth to try from another angle, the guy said, “No” before Trevor could get sound out. It was all too obvious that Trevor had lost this round.

But he’d find a way to win the war. He fucking would.

Yep, another Sunday Scribbling. You’ve met Gus before, too. Sort of. His legend is beginning to grow.

Mitzvah

That’s a Hebrew word, according to soul-boy Eric. What’s a son of a Presbyterian minister doing knowing all sorts of Hebrew shit beats the hell out of me, but whatthefuckever.

A Mitzvah, Soul-Boy says, is a good deed. He says that’s what we did last night at All Access.

Now, Trevor’s not so sure about that. Aren’t good deeds supposed to be this grandiose shit, like helping old ladies across the road, and carrying groceries for preggos so they can drag their toddling brats by the arm and keep ’em from diving under a car and making the rest of us happy?

There’s nothing grandiose about squishing onto the All Access stage and playin’ a set. That’s what we do. Call us Wolf Whistle, call us fucking ShapeShifter, it doesn’t fucking matter. We’re a band. We make music. There ain’t nothin’ special about that.

The only thing special about what we did last night was that we didn’t pay for shit. Didn’t pay for our crew. Didn’t pay for the stage. Didn’t fucking get paid, either.

Eric says not all Mitzvot are big gestures. That sometimes, the ones that mean the most are actually the littlest ones. Sometimes, he says, they can be something as simple as smiling at someone who’s having a shitty day.

I asked if that was Hebrew for give me a fucking break and Mitchell belted me a good one.

But c’mon. If you’re going to do something, why not do it right and do it big? That’s why I was against this whole stupid-assed cancelling the benefit in the first fucking place. Let the whiners whine. We’re ShapeShifter for fuck’s sake. We’ll rise above.

Now, for three years previous to this one, Chelle here been faithfully tellin’ y’all about what’s going on in Riverview. You know: A city that’s not even ours. But Chelle’s done this, year after year, because those favorite boys of hers in ShapeShifter have been throwin’ themselves a benefit concert. They’ve worked their special ShapeShifter magic and gotten everyone involved to throw in their stuff for free. From the concert hall to the crew to the people who print the tickets, somehow, those cuties have been able to give every single penny to them Music in our Schools charities.

Chelle had even started pricing airfare to get her fat rear up to Riverview. Not that Chelle LaFleur’s ever been on an airplane and probably needs three of them narrow seats just for her fat self.

It won’t be happenin’ this year.

With Hanukkah set to start tonight, Chelle hunted down her favorite ShapeShifter, that deep-voiced Mitchell Voss. You know as well as anyone else that Mitchell’ll give up the goods for Chelle.

“Well, here’s the thing,” he said and sighed. “It got too big, too fast. Last year, with the change to the bigger theater, instead of everyone going, oh, now they can raise more money and let more fans in, it turned into I’m a rock star, too. Why can’t I come? All these stupid accusations went flying around and the next thing I knew, we were the bad guys for trying to make sure that kids can have a school band. We’re talking about those kids who’d think they were cool ’cause they’d play saxophone and it wouldn’t matter they had these faces all full of zits. Nope, they’d be cool ’cause of that sax. Or the trumpet.”

“The oboe is not cool,” bass player Trevor Wolff said into Chelle’s ear. “There has never been a cool oboe player. Not in the history of oboe players. I don’t even know why people play the oboe.”

We won’t repeat what Chelle’s cutie Mitchell said to Trevor. It ain’t fit for print and besides, I wouldn’t do that to you faithful readers of mine. You got delicate ears. Maybe not your mouths so much. I hear you at shows. I do.

Besides, you might not think so high of Mitchell if you’d heard what he’d said to Trevor. And now that he’s cancelled the Musical Hanukkah Celebration this year, that public image is takin’ a hit.

He left me with this, though: “We’re gonna take the year off, regroup, let some of the momentum die out, and then we’ll be back in 2010. The Monday of Hanukkah, we’ll be rocking out with our fans again.”

I’m-a gonna hold him to that. You should, too.

You heard it first and you heard it here: No Musical Hanukkah this year, but it’ll be back next. Go and donate on your own anyway, just in case there is a sexy oboe player out there. Chelle bets Trevor will love her.

I love it when my latest vision matches the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

“Weird.”

Fozzy supposed he should have had something else to say on the matter. After all, he’d woken up to find a fresh drawing sitting on his desk. He’d been drawing a lot since the accident, it was true. Then again, when all a guy could do was lay around and be miserable, drawing at least filled the time. So what if he’d had to learn to draw left-handed? It had been the sort of challenge he’d been up for.

But he didn’t remember drawing this one. It didn’t look like anything he’d been drawing lately. There were no skulls, no demons, no death. No horror, no screaming. No blood, no bones, no gore.

Nope. It was a drawing of a meat cleaver. Handle down, blade pointing to the left. That was it. Nothing more.

That alone was weird. This was the first time Fozzy had ever drawn something he couldn’t remember drawing. Maybe he hadn’t. But if he hadn’t, who had?

And there was no way he would have drawn on last week’s drafting assignment, either. It had taken him three times as long as it should have; he didn’t have that left-hand thing down yet. It had been a kick-ass project, too, one he might have tried making. He’d gotten an A on it, too. Fozzy didn’t get many As on things.

Now it had this weird hatchet thing drawn on it. You couldn’t see the drawing anymore. Just a few arrow ends here and straight lines there. So much for that A he’d earned.

That made two weird things he’d woken up to. Fozzy would have never let himself ruin something he’d worked so hard on. He wanted to get mad and throw things, but what was the point? His drafting assignment would stay ruined. And if he threw shit, something else might break and get ruined, too.

His counselor would tell him he was growing. Changing. Becoming at peace with the world.

His counselor was full of shit. All he was doing was realizing how pointless it was to have nice things, and to care about them when you managed to get your hands on something. It was stupid, all of it. The only thing that mattered in life was getting out of it.

That brought him back to the third weird thing. So he had a drawing he didn’t remember making, of a hatchet or meat cleaver or whatever the hell it was. It had appeared out of nowhere, ruining last week’s drafting homework. At least he’d already been graded on it. One. Two.

Three; the Hatchet was wearing a red Santa’s cap, complete with white fluffy thing at the tip and a white band around the brim.

The Hatchet seemed happy. But somehow, Fozzy knew better. It was like him: biding its time until it could go for the throat and take its revenge on this shitty life that had done this to him.

There is beauty in this world. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my hand and spent days simply staring, drinking it in. I’ve made beauty through my music, music that sounded like an angel’s song and pleased the maker as much as any other angel’s song could.

I was an angel. I made beauty.

And then the adoration started. There was beauty in that, too. Beauty in their faces as they looked at me, worshipping me as they’d worship a real angel. Beauty in their awe, their respect, their need to be around me.

I stopped feeling like an angel and felt like a god, instead.

It came with a price. A bigger price than simply making music had brought. That had been easy. The price was the need to make more music, to sing higher, louder, more and more. To let my guitar say all those things I never could. To forget about food and people and everything but the music.

I had people who took care of me. There was beauty in them, too. Beauty in the way they cared. In the way they did everything so I didn’t have to. “C’mon, Soul, you need a shower,” they’d say, and they’d take the guitar out of my hands.

They were beautiful. I loved them.

They went away, pushed away by the fans. The fans who took my guitar and handed me a bottle. At first, there was beauty there. Beauty in the things I saw, things I’d never see when it was me and the Oracle.

The beauty turned ugly. And here I am, stuck. I set fire to my guitar, to my precious Oracle every night. I can’t bear the noise it makes now, when once it made music. But it comes back, again and again, my Oracle. Looking for more. Looking for me. It wants to sing the songs of angels again.

I try. I try and try. But the song has left me.

And there’s no more beauty in my world.

***
For more beauty, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Kerri paused, struck by the reverence with which Mitchell reached for the guitar. His hands were soft, cupped, his arms strong. As the Oracle was placed into his hands, they swayed slightly, as if allowing it a harsh meeting with his palms would be an insult.

His manner was probably the same as that of a True Believer who was accepting communion, Kerri figured. She immediately began sketching as Adam’s shutter began snapping.

To Mitchell, there probably wasn’t much difference between this guitar and holy communion. The Oracle had once belonged to Soul Bendorff. The Oracle wasn’t the guitar he’d set on fire at the end of every show. Hell, the Oracle hadn’t been allowed on the road. It had been the original prototype for the Soul Bendorff model. It had been Soul’s guitar, the one he’d bent sounds with and broken barriers with.

And now Mitchell held in it his hands, thanks to a private audience with a rock-and-roll memorabilia collector named Jeff. He’d first claimed to be a ShapeShifter fan, but a few sneaky questions had proved that the guy was mostly interested in the publicity the photo op would bring him.

Mitchell carefully set the Oracle on his leg, his hands instinctively finding their spots: one ready to strum, the other to chord.

“Here,” the collector, Jeff said, jumping forward to plug the guitar’s power cord into the solid-wood body. He fiddled with the knobs for Mitchell, who lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, when Jeff stepped away, Mitchell began to play.

Kerri had still been sketching as all that took place, but as Mitchell’s notes turned from tentative to assertive, as he began playing first an old Soul Bendorff classic and then his own song: Behold Me, she got as caught up in the music as Mitchell. She didn’t get lost in it as often as Mitchell did, but right then, she was entranced.

At the end of Behold Me, Mitchell grimaced and shook his head. “I ought to give this back. I don’t want to abuse it.”

“I think it needs to be yours,” Jeff breathed. He wasn’t much older than they were; maybe a year. Maybe. He’d gotten his MBA and ran his father’s development company out here in Omaha. A company that bought foreclosed farmland and built towns on it. Kerri knew how Mitchell felt on the subject, how he’d have ordinarily refused this sort of connection. Too many ShapeShifter fans had been thrown off their land — but just as many had benefitted from the towns that had been built.

But this was the Oracle. It had once been Soul Bendorff’s. And guitar players like Mitchell Voss owed a lot to Soul Bendorff.

“Really, man,” Jeff said. There was more heart to his voice; wherever the music had taken him, he was coming back from it. “This guitar… it needs something. You can feel it, you know? Maybe what it needs is you.”

Mitchell ran his hands over the side of the body facing up. He didn’t say anything.

Kerri realized she was holding her breath.

“I want to give it to you,” Jeff said.

“Give it to me.” It wasn’t a question. Kerri breathed again.

Jeff held his hands out and backed up a step, as if Mitchell was trying to return the guitar and he was refusing it. “Give it to you. No strings attached. Ha-ha. Strings. Get it?”

Mitchell nodded, frowning. “I get it.” He stood up and set the Oracle gently back into the stand Jeff had taken it from. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”
“Dude,” Jeff said, suddenly Mitchell’s best friend. “We don’t need to do that. Here. Take it with you.”

“And have you scream about how I stole it? Maybe not today or next week, but a few years down the road when you’re hard up for cash and you think about what you gave up? No. If you want to give this to me, then fine. We do it right. I’ll have my lawyer call.”

He stood up. Kerri and Adam, the photographer, walked out of the room with him.

“Are you sure?” Kerri asked softly as they left.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “We do it right or we don’t it.”

“You’d kill for that guitar.”

“Yeah,” he said through an exhale. “I would. And that’s the problem.”

Kerri nodded. She understood.

Glass.

If he closed his eyes, that’s what Mitchell visualized. Shards of glass, poking their pointy, broken ends into his throat. His sore, tender throat. The one that needed to be able to sing for two and a half hours.

Last time he’d felt like this, Amy had sent him medicine. It had worked just fine on his throat but fucked with the rest of him. Not in a good way for a guy on the road. Eric hadn’t minded the extended guitar solos the first two nights, but when it dragged on for eight, not to mention how it’d slowed down their travel with Mitchell’s constant need to stop, even the guitarist, the most tolerant of all of them, had had enough.

As if Mitchell hadn’t. After all, it was his body the medicine had fucked up.

He wasn’t calling Amy so fast. Not if she was going to do that to him again.

Still, he had two interviews to give before the show later that night. Sucking on lollipops helped a bit, but not for very long, and it was hard to talk with a sucker in your mouth. That wouldn’t work with the press, even if most of them were dicks. It wouldn’t wash later, during the show, although it might be fun to flick a sucker from your mouth into the crowd, just to see what would happen.

Probably fall in that safety zone between the fans and the stage.

“Dans? Where’s the honey?”

The drummer crossed the room; he’d been primping for an interview of his own and the dressing room felt empty with just the two of them in it. Eric would show in another hour, to give some face time himself, and Trevor would appear… whenever King Trevor felt like it.

“Right there, by your right hand,” Daniel said, surveying the catering table set up in their dressing room.

Mitchell figured that was how it went. He was busy looking at the set-up for the tea, the bags and the sugar and the powdered flavored creamers for coffee, the real milk in the ice tubs with the beer and Gatorade. The honey was… there with the ketchup and shit. Made perfect sense.

It was one of those honey bears. They were fun to fuck around with; Daniel was constantly coming up with new things to do with the stupid things. Mitchell picked this one up, turned it ass-up, and poured a dollop of honey directly onto his tongue.

“Slick,” Daniel said.

Mitchell swallowed and shrugged. And then he closed his eyes and swallowed again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

He set the bear down — near the tea and coffee shit this time — and eyed the back of its head. That same spot he liked to whack Trevor in. He swallowed again, and gave the bear an affectionate pat.

It may have been an old wives’ tale that honey soothed a sore throat, but those old wives sure knew a thing or two.

Whoever the fuck the old wives were.

“Mitchell, ready?” Charlie asked, sticking his head in the dressing room. “I’ve got one reporter on the hook for you, and a quiet spot for you to inflict the torture.”

Mitchell turned to go, then stopped. He twisted and picked up the bear. It could come with him. Maybe he’d have some fun with it and the reporter.

Maybe the reporter would know who the old wives really were.

Honey on glass. He’d take it.

“Springer,” Trinity said, biting back a sob.

He looked up from shelving tissues. “Trinity. Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“I’m a shit, I know,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. She blinked fast a bunch of times and took some deep breaths that made her chest move in big motions.

It was all Springer could to to keep from staring at her tits. Trinity had great tits. Most girls did, come to think of it.

“I need help, Springer. I’m in trouble.”

He paused, looking at her face. Her green eyes were dark. They almost matched the purple under them, stretching from one end of her eyelashes to the other. She chewed her upper lip, something he’d never seen her do before. Not that he’d spent that much time with her. Not nearly as much as he’d wanted to.

“Trouble?” he repeated, feeling stupid.

“Yeah,” she said. “Trouble.” Her eyes slid down until it was impossible for him to miss her meaning. Her belly.

“We’re not talking about something like your appendix, are we?” he asked weakly. He put a hand on the stock cart to steady himself. Stupid thing was on wheels and almost pulled him off his feet as it slipped away, like it was trying to escape this conversation.

It was a good distraction. Regaining his balance helped Springer think again.

“No,” she was saying. “It’s what you think.”

“Well, it’s not mine!”

She smiled. A little bit. Maybe it was funny to her, but Springer couldn’t figure out why else she’d picked him to come to.

“Would you… could you…” She stared up at the ceiling. Springer noticed a faint ring of dirt around her neck.

“How long since you been home?” he asked her.

She looked at him, her eyes flashing like he’d told someone else her secret.

“This is bad,” he said.

She nodded slowly, chewing her upper lip again.

“You can’t go to anyone else?”

She shook her head, teeth still pulling at her lip.

“The dad?”

She shuddered. At least she let go of her lip.

Springer held his arms open and let her fall into his hugs. For a second there, it felt the way he’d been hoping it would: like he was in the arms of an angel. But then he reminded himself that he was the one doing the holding, and she had a huge mess that it was up to him to fix.

Of course, he didn’t have the first idea how.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is Adventure, and Springer’s sure about to embark on one. Carry on Tuesday‘s found its way in here, too. And that’s all. For now.

“Shame it had to end like this,” Kerri said, looking out at the quiet beyond the stage. Usually, this sort of quiet was reserved for late, after the band had showered and was getting ready to move on to the next town.

Mitchell grunted agreement and squeezed her hand.

“Dumbfucks,” Trevor said, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lip. A breeze blew the scent of scorched sod their way.

“Who?” Kerri asked. “The fans, or Hammerhead?”

Mitchell snorted. “Fucking Howard,” he said. “Get a break like this one and fuck it up. What an idiot.”

“Rub it in,” a voice said behind them. The three turned to look, finding Howard the Hammer standing off to one side. “I didn’t think they’d really do it.”

Mitchell glared at him, a rumble deep in his throat.

“Okay,” Howard said, blowing out a breath. He shook his head quickly, a familiar gesture that utterly failed — as usual — at getting his dark wooly hair out of his eyes. “I sorta wondered what they’d do. But I didn’t think… didn’t believe…”

Mitchell let go of Kerri’s hand and crossed the distance to Howard. He stopped in front of him, chest to chest. “Do you fucking know how much shit you’ve caused here? Who do you think is gonna get charged for resodding this entire fucking lawn?”

“I’ll pay you back,” Howard said, shifting from foot to foot.

“Not good enough,” Mitchell said. “We didn’t even get to fucking play tonight, thanks to you.” He gestured widely, meaning Howard to see, Kerri guessed, the fact that Mitchell should have been wearing skin-tight black jeans and a guitar instead of knee-length baggy camo shorts and a black tank top. “Our manager’s going to have to fucking bend over and grab his ankles for months before we’ll be allowed here again. As for you? You might be done, man. This will follow you around. I bet right now, as soon as you get near that production office, you’re going to be handed a list of shows that’ve been cancelled. Assuming JR hasn’t just decided to pitch you off the tour in the hopes that people will get that this wasn’t my band behind this shit. Because every single news source out there is saying this happened at a ShapeShifter show. That’s what this was. A ShapeShifter show. With special guest, Hammerhead. See how that works?”

Howard winced: face, shoulders, arms. Even his legs bowed with his chagrin.

Kerri itched for a pencil and sketchpad.

Trevor strolled across the empty stage, slowly. He turned to Howard. “I had plans tonight. You fucked me up.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“This is only the start of being sorry, man,” Mitchell said. “You might have just effed up your career for life. Even if you fold Hammerhead and start another band, you’ll always be the asshole who told a worked-up crowd to set the field on fire.”

“Not to mention the only other person who’s managed to get a ShapeShifter show cancelled,” Trevor called from center stage. “This band doesn’t cancel.”

“I’m in good company?” Howard offered weakly, then bowed his head when he noticed Mitchell’s face. Kerri knew she’d have to get him away from Howard, and fast. Not that she blamed him in the least. It wasn’t supposed to have gone this way. It should have been a routine show, spiced up by whatever Trevor had planned.

Trevor, who suddenly seemed a lot more middle-of-the-road than he could probably stand being. Whose hijinks always had something behind them, some point he was trying to make, a statement he wanted others to get. Trevor pulled his shit deliberately. He’d never encourage twenty-three thousand people to rip up a lawn and set it on fire — if only because they’d be looking at the flames and not him.

Mitchell took her hand again and they crossed the stage to join Trevor. Kerri bent her knees slightly and kissed Trevor on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said to her, putting his fingertips over the spot her lips had just touched. There was no wiping off, no screaming about cooties. Kerri made note of that.

Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. None of his anger at Howard came through. “Come help me fix this mess, will ya?”

Trevor flicked his unlit cigarette off the edge of the stage, into the security area between where the fans should have been and where the band should have been. “I fucking hate cleaning up after dumbfucks,” he muttered.

As they matched Trevor’s speed off the stage, Kerri looked back for one last glance at Howard the Hammer. Head bowed, shoulders sagging, he looked like someone who knew his dreams had gone up in the same flames as the lawn.

It dawned on me that we haven’t seen Chelle around these parts in eons. The music reporter for the (of course fictional) Trumpet newspaper, she’s always got an opinion that may or may not mirror my own. That’s the fun of fiction, after all!

Now, you all know that Chelle here won’t be spreadin’ no rumors to you. Not through this here Trumpet newspaper. That means what I got to say’s important, so listen up.

Boys and girls, we got us a problem here in our city. A darn big problem, one we all gotta come together and chase out of town.

I’m talkin’ about junk. I’m talkin’ about all that garbage, most of it moldin’ up a storm, that’s been sittin’ out on our sidewalks ever since this city started cleanin’ up after them floods. Yeah, THOSE floods. The ones that saw more’n half the city leave and not come back. The one that saw most’ve the rest of us livin’ in trailers. The only reason Chelle’s still in her home is ’cause she’s on the thirteenth floor of a building on one of the city’s only hills.

Which means Chelle looks out over a lot of junk. Wanna know a secret? Junk ain’t pretty.

Once upon a time in this city we all love so much, we had men drive these ugly brown trucks up and down the street. They’d stop beside every single driveway, or pull into the driveways of the millions of apartments this city used to have. Two men would pop outta those trucks and they’d haul all our junk away. Who knew where, and who cared. The simple point was that our stuff went away.

Now, these days, it sits on the curbs. Some streets’re so cluttered anymore, cars can’t get up and down ’em. And sidewalks? For-get it. If there’s room to walk, the mold on everythin’ll do your lungs in right fast. Who needs the piggy flu when we got mold to take a population down?

That’s why Chelle’s callin’ all her readers to stand up and get busy. Let’s all take November first and clean up. Start with the candy wrappers left from the night before. They won’t mold overnight, Chelle’s hopin’.

Once you got all them, fill a trash bag with some of that there moldy junk in front-a your house. But then don’t wait for some garbage guy who ain’t gonna come. He’s too busy lookin’ for a new job, Chelle hears. Them garbage guys went on strike right before the floods and there ain’t no sign of ’em comin’ back.

So let’s do it ourselves, boys and girls. Pick up one bag of that trash and take it yourself to the dump. Between now and then, Chelle’s gonna find out where that dumpin’ place is, and she’ll let you know.

And come November first, don’t you be surprised if Chelle herself walks up to you and hands you some swag courtesy of some of Chelle’s favorite bands. ‘Cause sometimes, we gotta clean up our city ourselves and show we got some civic pride.

You heard it first and you heard it here: No more junkin’ up our city!

Yep, a Sunday Scribblings for you while I am causing other trouble. Be sure to leave a comment wherever you visit!

Been on the road about three hours now.
Most of us asleep
when it happens.

Crash.
Thud.
Thunk-a Thunk-a
Bang.

Bus sways.
Swerves.
Doesn’t tip.

You can feel people are up
but no one knows what to do
So we stay in our bunks
and wait.

Word comes down:
we’ve got a flat.

Busdriver’s pissed.
He takes care of this thing
like it’s his baby.

Shit happens,
we tell him.
Then duck;
he’s a bit grumpy.

Anyone who didn’t get up yet
Is woken by the still of the bus.

Are we there?
they ask,
rubbing sleep from their
eyes.

No.

Side of the road.
It’s raining.
We wait for help.

It comes.
We’re on our way again.

We’ll be late to load-in.
But at least they’ll all know why.

Something went
Bump
In the night.

If you haven’t met Deadly Metal Hatchet yet, they’re the *other* band around here. Young and hungry, but also incredibly stupid, they’re musically inept but they have a great gimmick. Read on!

“No. I don’t like it. Every single freaking heavy metal band out there has pictures taken in front of a gothic gate like this one,” Scott said.

“Do we have to take pictures?” Fozzy asked.

Scott, Gecko, and Lido turned and glared at their guitarist.

Fozzy wandered off toward the gates. Scott followed, taking in the sight. Heavy dark brick, probably stained with some sort of smog or soot. Maybe it was moss; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t something you’d see at home.

Scott still couldn’t believe the record company had flown them out East just for a stupid photo shoot. They’d claimed the woods behind the gate was the Hatchet’s natural environment. That the sand and brush of the desert had nothing to do with the Hatchet.

Fozzy had tried to explain that the Hatchet was a city dweller, born on a wide asphalt street. No one at the label had cared. They wanted the Hatchet associated with all the usual gothic shit. Iron railings connecting the two tall columns of stone. Yawn.

“How many other bands have taken their group pictures right here?” Scott asked Fozzy, who lit a cigarette and stuffed his lighter into the front pocket of his jeans.

“The Hatchet could like it here,” Fozzy said after a minute. “Lots of hiding places. Lots of victims probably come through here.”

“Yeah,” Scott sniffed. “All our competition.”

“So where do you want to do this photo shoot?” Fozzy asked. He narrowed his eyes like he did when he was expecting something good but stayed ready to brace himself for something less than okay.

Scott turned in a circle, his face tilted up toward the sky as he thought. It was easier to give Fozzy something good than spend the next five hours waiting for him to draw the Hatchet. They had a schedule to keep. This stupid photo shoot. “In a ferris wheel,” he said at last. “A shot from a distance. That’ll go over easier with Mr. camera-shy.” He slid a look at Fozzy, waiting for a reaction. None came. Lido bit back a smile. Gecko lit a cigarette of his own and scuffed at a leaf on the ground. It was damp; it turned his work boot dark brown.

“The Hatchet can be… anywhere,” Scott said. “In a car of its own, digging the ride. Jammed into the electronics and ready to strike the poor suckers stuck at the top. Taking freaking tickets for all I care.”
Fozzy held his cigarette like it was a joint. “That could work.”

“Now we’ve got to get the label to go along with it.”

Fozzy smiled, that ugly, thin smile that was the only one Scott had ever seen. “Let the Hatchet handle that.”

This actually compiles three writing prompts. There’s the Easy Street Prompt from September 25, the Your Photo Story, and this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Links to more Deadly Metal Hatchet (in order!):
Thursday Thirteen — The Hatchet
Anonymous
Chapeau
Thursday Thirteen — Bits about Deadly Metal Hatchet
Fozzy’s Skateboard
Somewhere
Late Invite?
Fozzy’s Accident

ominous

Ominous. Man, that’s a good word. It sounds good. It feels good, like it wants to roll around in your mouth and come out in a great big tube like you find at some playgrounds, the kind of tubes little kids like to crawl through on their hands and knees.

I like to watch the cool moms follow their kids. Like to watch ’em coming and going.

Too bad ominous is one of those words Rusty likes. That right there means it’s a word I can’t use.

Maybe that’s okay. After all, ominous makes me think of bad shit. Life’s too short to spend thinking of bad shit. Or squirming. Or stopping as you walk between the bus and wherever-the-fuck-we’re-headed-now while Nature Boy Eric stops to sniff the air and tell all of us, like we’re too fucking dumb to know better, that a storm’s on the way.

The only storm this boy’s interested in is the sand storm that’ll kick up when Trevor here chases those cool moms through those tubes at the playground. And wins.

Daniel was trying to get away from Stan the Stud when Val ran over to him. She grabbed his forearm and kissed his cheek. “You’ll never believe what I just found out!”

Stan leaned in. “You’re pregnant?”

Val curled her upper lip and drew away from Stan, closer to Daniel.

“Maybe this isn’t something I want to say in front of jerks.”

“Ouch. Color me wounded,” Stan sneered.

Daniel turned away, not caring if he was rude to Stan. He’d be forgiven; after all, he had something Stan wanted. He had a drum set. And there was nothing more that Stan wanted than a band. Stan and His Studs. They’d wear black leather jackets and jeans and play good old-fashioned rock and roll — which to Stan meant songs like Johnny B. Goode.

It was a good song, but Daniel wanted to rock. His drums were a way to…

“Why aren’t you listening to me now?” Val asked, still holding his arm. She’d planted her other fist on her hip and if Val could look angry, she was there.

She was still pretty cute, though.

Daniel bent his knees to kiss her. “Sorry. What did you find out?”

“There’s these vocational classes I can take. They’ll teach me how to be a chef.”

“A chef? Val, I thought you wanted to …” Daniel paused. What was it she’d wanted to do last week? Zoo keeper? Model? He couldn’t keep up anymore, it changed so fast.

Him, he wanted to play drums.

“But think about it,” she was saying. “If I’m a chef, I can feed hungry people.”

He eyed her.

“I can maybe open a restaurant, one where all the people with too much money go. And I can charge a lot of money and use the extra to fund a food pantry or a soup kitchen, and then people like us. It’d be okay. I’d make it okay. I’d make it so it’s not so bad when we have to go there. But of course we won’t have to go there. We’ll be rich from it, only we’ll actually give back and try to help out and–”

“Val, not here,” Daniel said. He glanced around, hoping no one was listening. It probably wouldn’t be news to anyone, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be something worth talking about. The last thing he wanted was to give anyone a reason to talk about him.

She seemed to understand, taking a step back and looking down. “It’s… It’s not just you, Dans. It’s us, too. My family, I mean. There’s been times and … oh, never mind!” She stamped a foot, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and ran off down the hall.

Daniel watched her go. Actually, he thought a chef was the best idea she’d had so far. When his band got big, she could come work for them as their personal chef. And they’d be together forever.

He liked that last part the best.

Day off yesterday.
Hambone went and got a tattoo.

Flaming road case.
Hard to describe.
It fits;
no one loads or unloads a truck like Ham.

Made me look around.
Most of the crew’s got tats.
Lots of tribals.
Cuffs circling ankles
wrists
upper arms.

Nothing meaningful.
At least,
not the way Ham’s is.

Me,
I don’t need a tat.
Not a physical one.
This life,
the road,
the shows,
the travel,
the food,
the people,
That’s my tattoo.
It’s inside me.
Living
breathing
beating

along with

my heart.

If you’ve never been over to Alice’s Restaurant, you want to fix that. You see, Alice and I have decided to team up for some blog fiction fun and send two of her characters to see everyone’s favorite band.

As soon as the red satin bra landed at Mitchell’s feet, a pang of jealousy shot through Trevor. What was that chick thinking? Throwing it at the big idiot, instead of him?

Trevor looked out into the crowd. She wasn’t hard to find there in the crush of people at the stagefront barriers, given the way she was squealing and grabbing the arm of the guy she was with. One of those easy-going types who’re everyone’s friend. Until you piss him off. He wore all black, too, so you knew not to fuck with him too much. Or he was afraid he’d look like a fool and was playing it safe.

Trev watched the two of them for a second. They were both laughing, the woman covering her face with her hands like she couldn’t believe she’d wiggled out of her bra right there, then launched it with all the skill of the girls at Moon Shadows.

Trevor wanted to sidle up to her, to push aside the stupid-assed beads and feathers she’d filled her hair with, and tell her he was glad she had. It had been fun to watch her squirm out of it. She should have fucking thrown it at his feet after that show, but he understood. Blondie was the frontman. Everyone watched the frontman. Even, sad to say, him.

But that was his job, he reasoned, jumping as Mitchell turned and glared at him. Trevor knew that glare; it was the one that said he’d just fucked up beyond usual. Time to think about music, not the chick who’d thrown her bra.

The song was over, anyway. Mitchell picked up the bra by one strap and let it dangle off his index finger. He held it out. “Look!” he told the crowd.

The roar that went up made Trevor stagger back a few steps. Holy fuck, they almost liked the stupid-assed bra better than the band.

Mitchell turned to Eric with the bra, then Daniel. The drummer stood up and reached out with a drumstick, like he was trying to hook it.

Mitchell, who was standing sideways so most of the crowd could see what was going on — as if the vid screens above them weren’t focused on him anyway — pulled it back and cradled it against his chest. His bra.

Trevor snickered, wondering if he’d model it after the show. They’d used to do dumb shit like that, back before they were headliners. Back when they didn’t have to worry so much about unauthorized cameras.

Mitchell cocked his right eyebrow at Trevor, the one hidden from the stage. It was the only invite Trevor was going to get.

He grabbed the bra from Mitchell. Held it up. Sniffed a cup. Deeply.

A quick glance into the crowd told him the woman who’d thrown it was blushing. Good; Trevor liked older women. Let her dude wait his turn.

“A good one,” Mitchell said into his mic, giving Trevor an approving nod. He turned and faced the crowd head-on. “Now, if any of you other girls out there want to share some goodies with us, you feel free.” He paused and let his face crack into one of his biggest, most doggish grins. “We’ve got a Wall of Fame at home, you know.”

Trevor wasn’t sure why the guy was so desirable. He looked like a total dork, grinning like that.

Mitchell motioned to Eric to come over. He lifted his guitar strap over his head and had the other guitarist hold the works while he stripped off his shirt. It wasn’t just sweat soaked, it was all but dripping.

“Who threw this?” Mitchell asked, pointing to the bra Trevor still held.

Trev stepped up and pointed out the girl, all crazy colors in her hair, all Blending Boyfriend holding her at the waist so she didn’t get trampled as the crowd surged toward Mitchell. Each one of them needed Mitchell’s shirt. Not one of them had a doubt it was going to the girl, but they’d go down hoping.

That was what made ShapeShifter fans so fucking cool.

Sure enough, Mitchell motioned to security. Trevor pointed out the girl again.

The Blending Boyfriend accepted the shirt and gave it to his girl.

The four members of ShapeShifter grinned at each other. Yeah, it was about the music. It always was. But damn if this sort of thing didn’t rock every bit as hard.

Got an idea to have some fun with me and the band? Drop me an e-mail; I’m all ears.