Truth be told, Trevor had better things to do than keep Amy company when she busted Mitchell’s balls. The Vincent needed a tune-up and some time on the road. There were girls out there who needed him. The world to dominate.

Cliches like truth be told aside, Trevor knew better than to believe in Truth, Justice, and the American Way. It was nothing more than some loser’s idealistic dream of the way things ought to be. It had nothing to do with real life.

Still, busting on Mitchell was one of the best ways to eat up some time now that the band was officially on break. For two-months, but a break was a break. After the past year and a half of non-stop touring, two months was paradise.

It was also time he had no fucking idea how to fill.

Good thing Amy brought him, they realized fast. She didn’t have the key to Mitchell’s place. The big idiot had locked her out, probably knowing the master ball-buster was jonesing for some action. The druggie’s kid wouldn’t let them in, even if he could. The kid had long ago decided he was the guardian of the apartment building — and Mitchell’s place, in particular. Which meant no one got past this little twit of a kid unless Mitchell okayed it.

Mitchell usually okayed Trevor. He really must have needed some peace.

There was only one way in: Trevor had to pick the lock. No problem.

Blondie was sitting in front of the TV, eating cold pizza, when the door opened. “Hey, Trev,” he said, “Want so–” He put the pizza down on the coffee table in front of the couch and stood up when he saw Amy. “What the fuck?”

She walked right up to him and did that chin-grab thing she always did. And just like always, Mitchell looked annoyed and batted her hand away. “What do you want?”

“Mom sent me to unpack you. You’ve been home three days, she’s finished with all Trev’s laundry–”

Trevor beamed at Mitchell, for once fine with being Mommy’s Little Pet. The Good One.

The truth was, he’d run out of clean socks. Okay, he’d done that a long time ago, but they’d started to get crusty, he’d worn them so many times. He was afraid to look at his feet, in case something had started growing there.

“So where is it?” Amy was asking when Trevor stopped thinking and wiggling his toes, sighing at the softness of the cotton. He’d never take clean socks for granted again.

Mitchell waved his arm at the bedroom.

“Well, come on,” Amy said.

“Just take the whole fucking thing,” Mitchell said. “You’re going to, anyway.”

“You have clean clothes?” Trevor asked him.

“Enough,” Mitchell said with a shrug.

“Last time,” Amy said, her voice hard. So was the corner of her jaw, the spot where Mitchell would start throbbing when he got pissed. “Last time, you made Mom go through all the magazines and stuff you’d bought before she got to the clothes. She only wants the clothes this time.”

Mitchell shrugged again. Even though Trevor knew it was Mitchell’s default comment when Amy was around, it still pissed him off. He wanted to grab the guitar player and scream, “Speak!” in his face.

Amy seemed every bit as frustrated. Not that Trevor blamed her. So far, no balls had been busted. If anything, Mitchell had the upper hand so far, what with the mystery of the door and now… His eyes grew huge as he followed Amy into Mitchell’s bedroom.

The suitcase sat on the floor beside the dresser, open. Clothes spilled out of it like they had exploded out in their haste to escape the tour-induced funk. And sure enough, peeking out from the jeans and underwear, Trevor could see guitar magazines and all the other shit Mitchell lugged around with him.

Amy sighed, pulled a laundry bag out of Mitchell’s closet, and sat down on the floor to sort through it.

“One dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt,” she said as she stuffed each thing into the laundry bag.

“See a theme?” Mitchell asked. He grinned like he was proud. Probably was, the big idiot.

Trevor sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and lit a cigarette. Mitchell helped himself to a light and sat down beside his bass player.

“Aren’t you sick of me?” Trevor asked.

Mitchell just shrugged.

Amy had gotten to the socks. She turned to Mitchell. “You know, this thing you have with the color white is scary. Where do you find this many black socks?”

He shrugged again. “Ask Ma.”

Amy shook her head and moved a few magazines into a stack in front of the bottom drawer of Mitchell’s dresser.

It went that way, with Amy saying very little and Mitchell saying even less. Trevor was considering curling up for a nap in Mitchell’s bed when Amy got to the bottom of the suitcase. “Is this really all of it? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Mitchell, of course, shrugged. Trevor didn’t offer the explanation that girls had helped themselves to most of the Big M’s clothes, wanting their very own precious souvenir of their quick five minutes with the wanna-be stud.

Amy patted a pocket in the side of the inside of the case. It made a strange sound.

Trevor leaned closer. Maybe this would be the thing that saved this whole stupid-assed excursion. So far, it had been a major bust. The Vincent was calling him; he could feel it.

“What’dja find?” he sing-songed.

Amy got up on her knees and pulled at the elastic holding the pocket shut. She peered in, then gasped. “Mitchell!”

“What?”

Trevor had to give the big idiot credit. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. If there was any way of calling Amy’s bluff, he was ready.

“C’mon, Aim,” Trevor said. “Let’s see it.”

“It’s no big deal,” Mitchell said.

Trevor figured it had to be a deal — a very big one. That was the longest sentence the big idiot had said in almost an hour.

Amy reached into the pocket in question and pulled out a handful of hotel room keys. The plastic kind, with the stupid-assed strip that usually worked only one out of three times. Which was about how often Trevor managed to get them in the door the right way.

One at a time, Amy tossed them on the bed.

By the time she’d finished emptying out the pocket, there were over one hundred room keys sitting on the bed.

“I should make you mail these all back,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged — only one shoulder this time. Amy was bitch enough to make him do it, and they all knew it. “They tell you to just throw ’em out,” he said. “They’re no good after you leave. So, I figured, what the fuck. I’ll be old-school. Chi-Check says you can tell a musician’s road doggedness by how many hotel keys he’s got.”

“He meant the actual keys. The metal ones. On those plastic tags. Like the ones they gave us way back when we went to …” Trevor looked at Amy. “Umm. Nevermind.”

She let him off the hook. “Mitchell, you’ve got every flyer from every show you’ve done so far. You’ve got t-shirts with the cities listed on the back. What do you need room keys for?”

“To remember the girls?” Trevor suggested as he lit another cigarette.

Mitchell just shrugged. Which was fine with Trevor; the one thing Amy didn’t need to know was that most of those keys had been his at one point. A few had been Daniel’s. Even fewer were goody-goody Eric’s, who most often stood at the front desk and handed the key into a warm hand.

This was more than a collection showing how road-worthy ShapeShifter was. It was a band bonding thing.

Trevor wondered if maybe he ought to stick up for Mitchell a little bit. But Amy was standing up, Mitchell wasn’t helping with his own dirty laundry, and it was clear the adventure was over.

Somehow, he felt like the only balls that had been busted were his.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is the key. When we were a the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last April, I was — as always — struck by the suitcase overflowing with hotel room keys. Put it together and … it’s like a ready-made outtake.

Extinct:

Yeah, yeah, you’re all ready to start gushing over some stupid furry animal with a brain the size of a pea but who fucking cares because it’s sooooo cuuuuuute, Trevor. Don’t you just want to pet it?

No, I fucking don’t. And keep acting this way and I won’t want to pet you, either.

Shit.

Yeah, the word of the moment’s extinct. Now, go put an iron on those panties you just put in a bunch. It’s just a fucking word. Doesn’t mean the Word of the Moment’s going away. Far from it; you’re stuck with this stupid thing through the newest Demo Tapes launch and through both the novels. If you’d start buying what’s out there already. C’mon. Even the fucking recession’s extinct.

Extinct’s got nothing to do with cute fuzzy animals. It’s about those bands that ought to hang it up. The ones who should’ve hung it up awhile ago. You know, like Walter Cichewski and Jim Shields and Terry Fantillo. And all those losers in Rat Catcher, aka Mitchell’s favorite band.

He’s got this love thing going with Chi-Check, too. Chi-Check, whose knuckles are so fucking swollen with arthritis that when he puts his hand down on a newspaper with those knuckles touching, you can see fucking words between the other parts of his fingers, the places where the arthritis isn’t. I’ve been right there with the legend. That guy needs his fucking drugs just to breathe, I fucking swear it. Every single fucking joint’s got it; the guy fucking creaks when he moves. You sit in the first few rows of one of his shows, you’ll hear it. That’s not the music, boys and girls. That’s Walter.

One more thing to think about before old Trevor here says goodbye. And that’s the fact that no one’s forgotten the blue-footed booby and all those other fun, fuzzy things we can’t even see in zoos anymore. It just means we can’t see you. That you’re not clogging up the stage instead of letting some young, hungry kid get his turn. And yeah, yeah. I probably won’t get off when it’s my turn either. It’s addictive, being up there.

Time’s up for all of us sooner or later, youknowwhatI’msaying? Let the fucking stage go dark. Better yet, let me get up there. I’ll show your fans a thing or two.

Okay, you need the set-up for this one. I was Twittering with Carrie Lofty and one thing led to another and I promised her I’d have one of my characters speak the penultimate line here. Now, the dude who speaks it isn’t a regular character; he’s just passing through — no matter HOW much you like him. So… I still owe her that. It’ll come around Halloween. Yep, I’m planning early this year. In the meantime, blame ALL this on Carrie. And then go out and buy her book.

Look. I own what’s essentially a porn store. I mean, I sell plenty of other things, like my signature massage oils and candles, and there are days when my wigs and outerwear sell more than the sex toys in the back room. Not many, but they happen. It’s the bath salts and the silk stockings. Once you start using them, you’re hooked forever.

So what I’m trying to say is that I get plenty of shady characters in my store. Over the years, I’ve come to know most of them, if not by name then by sight. Most usually by preference in brand of rubbers. Not all of them are as shady as they look. In fact, the metal heads are usually the ones who’ll turn the shoplifters in.

Having a band like ShapeShifter come from this city’s been good for us in a lot of ways.

Mom and I were alone in the front lounge when he walked in. We didn’t know what to call him other than Robin Hood. I mean, he was wearing green, even down to the tights. He sorta looked like that cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin was played by a fox. A cartoon fox.

It wasn’t Halloween. It wasn’t a night when the drag queens would be flooding the Rocket Theater. And even if they had been, no one dressed up like Robin Hood. Maid Marion, definitely. I’ve had to order those fancy dresses for some of my regulars.

I slid around the counter and followed Robin Hood into the toy room. Allegra was taking inventory of the movies; talk about shady characters. This one guy had been in last week, wearing a trench coat, of course, and pumping Mom for everything she’d give him about making flicks. It wouldn’t surprise any of us if he’d lifted a few DVDs; we’d found a bunch out of place after he’d left. Nothing had turned up missing that day, but one thing you learn in a business like mine is that these guys like to case the joint and come back later.

I studied Robin himself more than the way he moved through the store — how a person takes my store, with its rooms that get increasingly sexually explicit tells me a lot about the kind of customer I’m dealing with. I was hoping I’d pick up a clue about who he was, but I couldn’t help it. I kept staring at his legs, right above where they disappeared into the green suede ankle boots.

No help there; I rarely if ever see a guy’s legs below the middle of his thighs. If I even seen that much; I’m not really a leg girl.

His ass, his back, his arms, his jawline… nothing. As far as I could tell, this guy had just walked into town.

Allegra looked up at Robin Hood and licked her lips before giving him one of Mom’s special welcome smiles.

Robin looked from Allegra to me and back again. Right then, I knew I was right: he wasn’t from here. Everyone in Riverview knows Allegra and I are twins. We’re as legendary as Mom. Mom made sure of that, and now with the store, the legend continues. Not that I mind so much; if it gets people to come into the store and spend money, I’m all for it.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did Allegra. At this point in our lives, we’re over the whole twin thing.

“Need some help?” Allegra asked.

I leaned against a wall and watched the guy shake his head. He had shaggy red hair, reminding me again of the cartoon Robin Hood. I don’t know why; I haven’t seen the movie in years.

He got busy with our harnesses, pointing to them and waiting for Allegra to take them out of the case. He even tried a few on over his hose, measured the opening with his fingers.

Allegra shot me one of those looks. The WTF look.

I shrugged. By this point, I didn’t think the guy was shady. Just one of the harmless weirdos we get from time to time.

He proved me right when he picked his harness and carried it carefully up to the counter. I followed him again, slipping behind the counter and ringing him up. He paid cash, of course; I do a huge cash business when it comes to the stuff in the toy room.

And then, he finally spoke. He had this amazing English accent and he said, “Thank you. I doth rock out with my cock out.”

Mom and I managed to not laugh until the door had shut behind him and we couldn’t see his cute little green hat anymore.

If you don’t remember Lyric, click on her category over to the right. You’ll be seeing a LOT more of her at some point in the future. What that point is, exactly, I’m not sure. But the pieces are lining up on my hard drive, waiting for the perfect time.

Nincompoop

It’s too easy to say that Mitchell’s a nincompoop and that’s all there is to it. Trevor Wolff does not take the easy way out. Ever. So that means I gotta say more about nincompoops.

We meet fans who are nincompoops all the fucking time, youknowwhatI’msayinghere? Fans who gotta brag to us about how great they are. Fans who tell us we suck or other stupid shit like that. If you think we suck, why the fuck are you listening to us? Why the fuck did you buy a ticket and a t-shirt and the CD and probably the official ShapeShifter stuffed dragon? You do know, asshole, that we made those dragons for the girls who dream of fucking Mitchell, right? Put a dragon in your bed and it’s the next best thing. It’ll let you spend the night, too, which Mitchell never would, even in the days before Rusty.

And then there’s the people we meet on the road. The fucking nincompoops who gotta make a big deal of our hair. Yeah, so it’s long. That doesn’t mean we want to be girls, you loser jackass. It means the girls dig our hair. They dig running their hands through it. They get off when we let the ends of it tickle their bare bellies.

Assholes like that are probably too stuck on themselves to know what it means to give a girl some pleasure. Real pleasure. Not the kind those losers see in porn flicks and think happens in real life.

Real life is way better, losers.

Look, the world is packed chock full of nincompoops. Surviving this shit we call life turns into Nincompoop Avoidance. And if that doesn’t work, go for Nincompoop Humiliation.

Just so long as Trevor comes out on top, it’s all good.

Kerri had just gotten comfortable holding up a new section of the wall when she heard the fan say it.

“Admit it, dude. Your voice’s weak.”

She wasn’t the only person to stare, open-mouthed, at the kid. He was Mitchell’s height, but with one of those beefy, burly builds and short dark hair that made him look almost menacing. The ugly tattoos on his arms didn’t help, either. Kerri wasn’t sure, but she thought he actually had a mermaid on the left forearm. Clearly, the guy’s brains had migrated to his muscles.

“Weak?” Mitchell growled. “As in you can tell I’ve been on tour for nine months, or weak as in–”

“As in,” the guy said, nodding. Like this was a happy conversation he was having and he totally wasn’t insulting the singer of ShapeShifter. The notoriously asshole singer of ShapeShifter. The one who’d think nothing of removing the guy’s head from his shoulders.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” the guy next to the rabid fan asked. Kerri looked him over, taking an immediate liking to him: short brown hair the same color as Trevor’s, wire-rimmed glasses that made him look almost nerdy. A black ShapeShifter t-shirt and in his hand, a silver Sharpie that he’d respectfully asked Mitchell to return.

“I think the guy’s got a weak voice.” Rabid fan turned to almost-nerd. “Got a problem with that?”

Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and looked back at Kerri. He cocked an eyebrow at her, as if to say, “Get a load of this.”

“Yeah,” almost-nerd shot back, taking a step forward.

Tony, the band’s head of security, appeared out of nowhere and hovered over Mitchell’s shoulder. Kerri frowned; he was blocking her view. She wanted to ask him to move but knew he’d go ballistic if she did. He was, after all, only there to make sure Mitchell stayed safe.

“You see,” almost-nerd said. Kerri could see one of his long-fingered hands come up, index finger extended and poking in Rabid fan’s shoulder. “It’s harder than Hell to get a backstage pass to meet this band–”

“You’re telling me?” Rabid fan asked. “Know how long I’ve been waiting for this? To look him in the eye and tell him he’s not the god everyone makes him out to be?”

“Wow,” Mitchell said, stroking his chin. “Thanks a fucking lot.”

Kerri caught the edge behind the friendliness in his voice. She braced herself and noticed that Charlie did as well.

Almost-nerd was shaking his head. “Thousands of real ShapeShifter fans out there and this asshole has to win the backstage pass. Where’s the fucking justice in that?”

Mitchell snorted. “I’ll say.”

Kerri bit her lip; laughing right now would be bad. But Mitchell’s performance was stellar. Almost Trevor-like.

“You know,” Mitchell said in his most innocent way, “maybe we ought to start giving out a quiz to anyone who wants to win a pass. We can weed out the assholes.”

“I am a ShapeShifter fan!” Rabid fan yelped. He took a step toward Mitchell, his own hand held up the way Almost-nerd’s had been, but Tony stepped in the way and pushed the guy’s hand down. Rabid fan didn’t seem to notice. “This band would be so much better with another singer. I’m allowed to be a fan and not like the way certain things get done, you know!”

“Oh?” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest. “Another singer, huh? Like… say, you?”

“Yeah!”

Kerri didn’t bother to hide her grin. Rabid fan was about to be very sorry.

Mitchell took a step back, bumping into Tony. He tossed a confused look at the security guy as if he hadn’t been aware of him until just then, but didn’t let that stop his fun. He held his hands up and yelled, “Hey!”

The entire hallway they were standing in went still. Even Trevor, Daniel and Eric looked up, startled, as if they were expecting to be told they needed to evacuate immediately. A few crew members stopped walking and stared, questioning looks on their faces.

“This guy thinks he’s a better singer than me,” Mitchell said. “Let’s give him an audition, should we?”

“I’m not warmed up!”

“So? Neither am I,” he said and launched into a few lines of Behold Me. “Shut the fuck up and sing!”

Kerri wanted to laugh at the panic that flashed across the guy’s face. The rest of the fans broke out of their carefully ordered line and began to gather around. More ShapeShifter staff appeared and Kerri helped them form a barrier between fans and the band.

“Well?” Mitchell asked. “We’re waiting, you know. Some of us have shit to do tonight.”

The guy glanced at his audience. Almost-nerd was softly suggesting ShapeShifter song titles that Rabid fan could sing.

“Oh, fuck it!”

“That’s some good singing,” Trevor told him. “I’d hire you over M, any day.” He nodded.

In one of those casual, easy movements that Kerri loved, Mitchell swatted the back of Trevor’s head.

Rabid fan turned red and opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Go on,” Mitchell urged. “It’s not like we’re gonna fucking judge your ass or anything.”

Rabid fan opened his mouth again. This time, a small, trembling tenor emerged — straight from the guy’s nose.

People laughed and went back to their spots on the wall, some people trying to slide down a bit so they’d get another shot at chatting with the band. Others called them on it and made them go back to where they’d been. Tony jumped and suggested that he’d be glad to escort anyone back into the venue’s public areas. Ducking his head, Rabid fan took him up on it.

Mitchell winked at Kerri and turned to Almost-nerd. “Thanks for the backup, man. Charlie? Do we have anything we can give this guy? He probably saved that dude’s life.”

“I’m sure we can find something,” the band’s tour manager said as Almost-nerd sputtered a thank you. His face turned red with the shock and pleasure of being singled out.

With things returning to normal, Kerri went back to holding up her wall. Mitchell could sing for her later on; if anyone knew how to best appreciate the Great Mitchell Voss, it was his wife. She’d make sure he forgot all about Rabid Fan — at least until he saw the sketches she was already busily drawing in her mind.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is toys. I was flummoxed by this prompt, as I’d had my heart set on posting this. And then I realized I could: Kerri and Trevor toy with each other. Is it a stretch? You tell me.

One more thing before we get to the fiction, and that’s the subtext here. There’s a lot being alluded to but not said. How much can you pick up on, including a reference to our latest friend, Soul Bendorff?

Rusty and Mitchell stood side by side, not touching. That fact alone was enough to make Trevor stop and stare at them. Then he noticed what was on the TV.

Jackson Alcott had died. He’d been fifty-four.

Trevor lit a cigarette and came to stand beside Mitchell. He nodded at the TV. “What’s up?”

“They’re saying massive heart attack. I can believe it.”

“Did he sniff too hard?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Mighta swallowed wrong.” He grabbed Trevor’s cigarette and tossed it on the floor. The sound of his stomp broke up the hypnotic chatter from the tube. It also broke the trance Rusty had fallen into.

“He was supposed to do some shows next month.”

Trevor groaned. Rusty couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d tried to be.

“We’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t say it.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“You think with Amy hovering over us like some fucking worried mother, we’re not okay? You’re fucking stupid if you think she’s not watching every last move we make.”

“She called me about ten minutes ago. As soon as we get home, she’s sending me to a cardiologist for a stress test,” Mitchell said. He snorted. “Like I need it. Onstage two hours a night. In the pool a couple days a week. I’m in good shape.”

“You smoke,” Trevor pointed out, holding his thumb and index finger to his mouth.

“Not as much as I used to,” Mitchell said. “I used to smoke a lot more than that.”

“Score one for me,” Kerri said.

Mitchell pulled her into his arms.

Trevor fought the need to gag. Of course these two could turn death into something sappy. Of fucking course.

“Oh, honey,” he said in his best fake-woman voice. “I couldn’t live without you.”

“But you won’t need to,” he said, switching over to a male voice. “Even if I die, I’ll be here. With you. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his head as if he was swooning.

To his surprise, Rusty broke away from Mitchell and kissed his cheek. “Whether or not you mean it, Trev, you will be there. I couldn’t get rid of you if I hired an exterminator.”

“Tried, huh?”

“Everything but,” she said.

He wandered off, not thinking about Jackson Alcott nearly as much as he was thinking about the fact that no matter what happened to him now, Rusty was stuck with him for life.

Alive or dead. He’d never leave her alone. There was something perfectly delicious about that.

You’ll see why this is part of Only the Good Friday as you read on. Trust me. And yes, this time, you’ll want to trust Trevor, too.

kindle

Now here’s a good one for you. Kindle. Like kindle a fire. I get that. It’s not always the easiest thing on the face of the fucking planet to get a good fire started. Eric can do it. Eric likes to go camping and do all that outdoorsy shit. So when Eric tells yours truly that it takes some work to get a fire started, it takes a special kind of wood he calls kindling, that you have to nurse a fire and urge her along like some shy fan, I get that. I’ve had to nurse my fair share of girls. It’s not always worth the effort, believe me. Girls. They’re a crapshoot.

Eric says fires usually are worth it.

Fire’s some cool shit.

So why the fuck don’t we kindle cigarettes? Or candles?

And what’s with this kindle shit and books? That makes no fucking sense. It’s a stupid piece of plastic that shows the words in a book. No special firewood needed. Hell, no fucking fire involved. It doesn’t even look like a piece of kindling. Not that I really know the difference between kindling and any other stick in the fucking forest. Forests give me hives. No wonder Mitchell likes to hang out in ’em. He knows I won’t follow him there. Wanker.

But I gotta talk up this stupid-assed thing called the Kindle ’cause you can now make my book zing through thin fucking air and read it on your thingie named after a stupid stick. That means Susan gets money, and she’s worth money. She lets me take this place over like I’m doing now. And she’s got a small enough ego to know I’m the one you all stop in to see.

And while we’re talking about the stupid stick, did you know you can make it show this blog? You bet your titties.

I still don’t get why a book’s named after a stick. I hear it’s all black-and-white and it doesn’t have the pretty colors a fire’s got. I’ve got a band to stir shit up for, you know? What the fuck do I care about books?

Except I star in one. So you gotta read it. You know you love me and need more of me.

Those of you who remember my recent introduction of Soul Bendorff have been wondering just why I felt the need to create him. Here’s your answer. This was inspired by a true story.

Lately, new people been contactin’ Chelle. Seems there’s more goin’ on in the music world that has nothin’ to do with shows and new CDs and all the musical goodness we be used to.

Chelle’s thinkin’ this is some good stuff that’s happenin’, even if it’s got to do with someone Chelle wouldn’ta thunk of. That’s probably good, too. Even Chelle needs her eyes opened every once in awhile.

It’s them schools up in Riverview that’re behind this. The same schools that educated our four favorite boys in ShapeShifter. Seems they’re smart enough to understand that people’re pouring into Riverview right about now, and all because they want to get close to where the latest music revolution began.

Them educators in Riverview know this. They thought they’d praise one of the influences of ShapeShifter. They want to remind their teachers to get off their duffs and open their eyes. Try new things that’ll benefit not just their kids, but every last body in the world.

They put pictures of Soul Bendorff all over the schools. The administration offices, their mission statements, even the stuff to hang in the schools. They want the teachers and the students to think beyond.

That’s a good idea. Chelle thinks everyone oughta think beyond.

Of course, not everyone be seein’ things the way Chelle does. There’s been some people who think that a drunk like Soul Bendorff ain’t the best role model for the kids of Riverview. They been openin’ their mouths and soundin’ off.

The school answered them by sayin’ that Soul was brave enough to be a revolutionary. That if he was a kid today, maybe the way things is right this second, with everyone so uptight about every last thing, Soul woulda turned out different. Maybe sober. Maybe with a minimum wage job and a lot of regrets.

By usin’ Soul as an example, they say, they’re pushin’ kids to be different. To think big and reach for something great. To think about the tragedy that Soul turned into, drinkin’ himself to death and all the way he did. Greatness takes discipline, they say. The school ought to be teachin’ their kids both greatness and discipline.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Them schools in Riverview are aimin’ to be every bit as revolutionary as Soul himself was. Chelle’s so into it, she’s thinkin’ of movin’ out there and goin’ back to high school, herself.

Party on the bus
After the show.

Too many beers
And cookies.

The kind with the
Great
Big
Blob
Of icing
On top.

Beer and cookies
Don’t mix.

Or beer and icing.
Who knows.
Doesn’t really matter
Except that
Whoever brought those cookies
Ought
To be
Shot.

For something I’m working on behind the scenes, I needed to create a new character. Here he is, about 13 paragraphs or so. Let me know what you think.

Soul Bendorff

Born Saul Bendorff, Soul’s name was changed for him by the kids at school. No real reason other than it was an easy way to try to get under the guy’s skin.

It didn’t work.

Soul’s got dark, dark hair. Almost black. It’s straight. Pretty thin. He wears it chin-length, lets it hang. It can’t cover up the massive acne scarring on both cheeks that leaves him pitted and almost disfigured, but it also sets off his very high cheekbones. Think Eastern European aristocracy. He’s got very dark, dark blue eyes, too.

Soul picked up a guitar in the sixties. Started bending strings and doing things with reverb that no one had thought about doing, let alone had tested to see if it was possible. For a lot of the wanna-bes, it wasn’t possible. But that was Soul. He had a gift.

He was also grouchy as hell when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He discovered fast that if he set his guitar on fire at the end of the show, that meant he didn’t have to play an encore.

Soul went through a lot of guitars that way.

Fortunately for him, the company who made his favorite guitar liked the way he stretched its boundaries. They made him custom guitars. Kept him well stocked for his bonfires.

Those bonfires and that noise-called-music he made fueled him into the public eye at a time when rockers were truly bad boys. (we’re talking late sixties, hippie revolution, Woodstock, Altamont… you get the idea). He became the poster boy for the rock revolution. And Soul embraced it. Lived the life. Never appeared in public without his dark glasses, bottle of bourbon, and a pretty, lithe blonde draped on him. He wore dark blue suede fringe vests, jeans with bell bottoms and custom embroidery. All the flies buttoned; he wouldn’t wear pants with zippers. Skin-tight pull-ons (the precursors to spandex?) in polyester were his favorites.

And tennis shoes. Everyone else wore mod boots. Soul wore tennis shoes. Grungy dark blue Chuck Taylors.

Dark blue was Soul’s color. It matched his eyes. Or so people said; with those dark glasses, no one could get close enough to see his eyes.

Not even his blondes. Apparently, Soul kept the glasses on at all times.
He was wearing a pair when he was found dead. Alcohol poisoning. Or maybe his heart gave out while busy with a blonde. Maybe she poisoned him. The authorities found traces of her. They knew she’d been there when he died.

No one ever knew who she was. No one ever found her. She’s the only one who knows what happened to Soul Bendorff.

Dead at 25.

***
Be sure to visit the other Thursday Thirteeners and see what’s going on in their worlds.

Welcome to a new semi-regular feature here at The Meet and Greet! Trevor’s Word of the Moment is just that: a word that Trevor likes, that someone (like you) suggested, or that Susan and/or Trevor stumbled across and decided had to be defined as only the indomitable Trevor Fucking Wolff can do. Read on, and be sure to check back often for new words.

Covert

What a fucked-up word. Why not just say sneaky and be done with it, huh? Noooo. Gotta get that oh-so-spooky government feel in there, that sense of being a spy or some shit like that. Want to throw in some aliens, Area 51, and Roswell, too, while we’re at it?

Speaking of Roswell, I tried to go out there once when we were on tour. Eric was gonna come along, but we couldn’t find anyone to drive us, and Mitchell said he’d kill us if we hitchhiked. Maybe one day I’ll get there.

Well, okay, I gotta use this covert thing in a sentence. So I guess covert is what Mitchell and I do when we put on baseball hats and boring-assed clothes and sneak out for ice cream and hope no one’ll notice we’re us. ‘Cause, you know, we’re aliens and shit.

Check in with the other Sunday Scribblers to see how many aliens they’ve got in their interpretation of this week’s word…

I’d like to remind everyone that this Sunday Scribblings prompt does not necessarily reflect the views of Susan. Only of Trevor, since this is in his point of view.

They’d been summoned to dinner. Trevor fucking hated being summoned, even if Sonya had tried to soften the blow by making pot roast. She’d made sure Trevor knew that was on the menu. After all, no one summoned Trevor Fucking Wolff. Not if they actually wanted to see his ugly mug.

Bribery with pot roast, however, was completely acceptable.

“Boys,” Patterson said after dinner but before dessert.

Mitchell burped, turned red, and immediately said all the polite shit that Sonya liked so much.

Patterson ignored him.

Trevor waited.

“You’re both eighteen now,” the elder Voss said. “You know what that means.”

“You said we didn’t have to move out until we’d graduated, Dad!”

Patterson chuckled. “This is a lot less painful than moving. Unless the country goes to war.”

Mitchell drew back in his seat. Trevor reached for his cigarettes, then reminded himself he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house. Even though he had the feeling he was about to need to. Maybe even something stronger, more soothing.

“You need to register for selective service,” Patterson said. He put the forms on the table. Where he’d just pulled them from, Trevor didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. If he wanted anything, it was for those stupid pieces of paper to go away.

“No can do, powerful legal guardian,” he said. He shook his head slowly from side to side, exaggerating the motion as much as possible. “I am what you’d call one of those conscientious objector people, ready to bolt for Canada.”

“What do you object to?” Patterson asked. Trevor admired his patience; if he’d said that to Hank, it would have been a quick left followed by two rights. And another shirt with too much blood to bother trying to wash. Not to mention what would happen to his nose. Again.

“All of it. Cutting my hair. Saying yessir to an asshole. And guns. I object to guns.”

“Maybe what you need is to be taught to use a gun properly.”

“Why? Planning on sending me back so I have to use one again?”

Mitchell cleared his throat. “Dad?”

Trevor looked at Mitchell. Blondie had turned a new shade of white; now, he looked like something fresh out of Sonya’s washing machine.

“Do you… do you really think…” Mitchell swallowed so loud, Sonya turned and looked at them.

Or maybe, given her proud smile, it was just coincidence. But it gave Mitchell enough gumption for some of that color to come back into the guy’s face.

“Thinking’s bad for your health,” Trevor said. “That’s the only good thing about the military. They don’t let you think. They turn you into mindless automatons who can’t do a damn thing for themselves except maybe, maybe wipe their asses when they take a dump.”

Patterson leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

Mitchell mirrored him.

“Trevor, I spent many years in the military, and I can promise you that’s not true. In fact, if I weren’t doing my present job, I’d still be a military man. Our military’s important. It’s part of what makes this country so great.”

“I don’t care. I still object. They come after me, I’m outta here. Canada, get ready. Trevor Wolff’s on his way. I’m not killing for anyone, hear me? And fuck anyone who says I’ve got to.”

“What if you could serve without killing?”

“Yeah, right. Like they let you do that. Like they’d let me do that. Fuck, no. They’d take one look at me and tell me I’m the unit’s crazy SOB who lives and breathes just to kill and I’d better suck it all up and be a good little soldier boy and do it. Who fucking cares what Trevor wants or thinks? It’s for a greater good than one fucked up, beat up kid.”

“Mitchell?” Patterson asked as Trevor stopped for a breath.

That was, of course, Trevor’s cue to stuff it and shut the hell up.

In response to dear old dad, Mitchell the idiot uncrossed his arms and pushed at his hair. It was starting to be long enough to sit on his shoulders; at last, he looked sort of cool when he shoved it out of the way. “You know, Dad, I want to see the world one day. I just…” He looked at the piece of paper on the table and, again, swallowed loud enough for them all to hear it. “I just thought I’d do it with a band.”

Patterson patted Mitchell’s hand.

Trevor stared at their hands. Some stupid photographer somewhere probably totally dug that picture they made. Family love. Ahh, how sweet it was.

Trevor wanted to gag.

“Son,” Patterson said, “the chances of this country needing to use a draft are very slim. Registering is the law, and it’s one I’d like to see you both not break.”

Trevor peered at the form. If Mitchell was…

No, he told himself. Doing things only because someone else was? That had to be the world’s stupidest reason for doing anything. A man should stand up for what he believed in.

He’d come scarily close to killing a man once. He’d come scarily close to being killed. More than once.

There was no way anyone was handing him a gun and inviting him back to that Hell. No fucking way. He’d sooner be a Canuck.

It used to be that if you wanted tickets to a show at All Access, you either stopped by Guitars by Gus or at All Access. You handed over the ticket price and walked away with a ticket. An actual, honest-to-God, printed up ticket. All professional and shit.

Springer knew he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the way All Access had signed on with TRA. He’d heard from damn good sources, folk who’d stop in after they finally kicked the last drunks out, that they hadn’t wanted to use TRA at all. Problem was, they didn’t have much choice. No one did anymore. Not if you wanted to sell tickets to things.

He guessed he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten the early word about tickets going on sale a day early. He’d sat down at nine-thirty, getting up at nine so he could be awake after another all-night shift filled with plenty of coffee and not nearly enough pick-me-ups of the illegal variety. He’d made his TRA account, gotten his brand-new credit card approved and on file. He hadn’t wanted to get a card; Springer preferred cash. He’d seen too many people come into the store and hand over credit card after credit card, hoping one of them would be approved so they could buy their groceries. Credit cards got people into trouble. Springer didn’t want to be one of them. This card was for a twenty-dollar ticket. Nothing more.

Credit was the only way to get tickets, and dammit, he was going to be there. Everyone was talking about Deadly Metal Hatchet. About how cool The Hatchet was. About how they were doing this show here in Riverview, their first time this far North, as a thank-you to ShapeShifter. Rumor had it they’d be opening for ShapeShifter on their next tour. Given that the guys in ShapeShifter turned out for shows all the time, it was certain they’d be there.

Springer knew it was stupid, but he wished he’d be able to hand Eric a demo of his own one day. First he needed a band, then the cash to make a demo. Not to mention the music. But he could dream. And besides, musicians needed to go out and hear other musicians. They needed to sit and dream about when it’d be his turn up there.

Right now, there was no dreaming. Just a lot of pushing the F5 key, waiting for the screen that he’d use to buy the tickets.

And then, it happened. The dreaded white page with the little box near the top. Connection Interrupted.

He’d been disconnected from the TRA site.

He couldn’t buy the tickets.

For half an hour, he clicked on the button, getting more and more frantic.

And then he got through. One ticket, twenty bucks. It was his. They were charging his credit card … Two hundred eighty bucks? What the hell?

He looked more closely. Somehow, all those F5s had loaded seven tickets into his cart. For a second, he thought about buying them and scalping them. With his luck, he’d probably get caught and thrown in jail. Besides, what if he got stuck with them? He wouldn’t have two hundred eighty bucks for months.

Springer logged out and logged back in. Ten more minutes of Connection Interrupted. And finally, one ticket in his shopping cart. He hated the whole shopping cart idea; cool people didn’t use carts. They loaded up their arms and dumped everything on the belt.

The ticket price caught his eye just before he pressed the confirm button. Forty bucks?

He logged out and back in, getting frantic. It was well after the time the tickets had gone on sale. They’d be gone fast. But forty bucks for one ticket? No way in hell was that right.

He fumbled for his cell phone. Trinity was going to get her own ticket. Long story why.

“Forty bucks?” Trinity asked. “Do you believe this shit? TRA, man. I fucking hate them.”

“I get why.”

“Let me try two… see if it’s cheaper… Holy fuck, it’s more!”

“You can get through? I keep getting disconnected.”

Just then, Dad yelled up the stairs for him. “Your grandmother needs you. Stat!”

Springer curled his upper lip. Dad cleaned bed pans. He had no reason to use words like stat. But he did; he thought they made him sound smarter.

“Let me finish this, Dad,” he called through the closed door. “One second and I’m Grandma’s all day long.” Grandma napped every day after lunch. She liked it when Springer stretched out on her couch while she laid down in her bed; she said it made her feel safe. She’d made noises about Springer coming to live with her because we all knew that those home invasions never happened where there were young kids in the house. Not that a young kid who worked the late shift would be around when most home invasions happened.

“Now!” Dad thundered up the steps.

Springer told the computer to charge his credit card.

Connection interrupted.

He screamed and dropped the cell phone, Trinity still on the line, into his coffee cup. Dad came running.

It wasn’t just TRA that Springer was disconnected from.

Time for some Sunday Scribblings! Be sure to see what the DISCONNECTED prompt inspired in others. And gang? Leave a comment. Let them know you were by.

DMH, for those of you who haven’t met the other band around this joint, stands for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’ve had lots of adventures, but this… this is essentially (although no one knows it yet) the origins of the Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Sheila paced circles in the vast waiting room. Really, a person could get lost in here. A smart person wanted to get lost in here. There were nooks, there were crannies, there were areas with TVs and areas without. Through it all, Sheila clasped her hands together and tried not to think. Only to keep moving, as if keeping moving would affect the outcome.

In her wake, a trail of tissue crumbs landed, barely visible even against the dark carpet. The tissue was in her knotted-together hands; she’d forgotten it was there.

The accident was the day’s worst so far. The boy was lucky to have his leg still attached and maybe he’d have been luckier if it had just ripped free.

That thought alone made Sheila gag. But there was more.

Broken ribs, collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. Road rash galore. Definitely a concussion, hopefully no brain bleeding, hopefully no internal bleeding or organ damage.

Scans, surgery – and no real way to pay for it.

When she next passed the volunteer desk on her endless rounds, the brunette waved her over. “This is Mr. Bergen, from billing. He needs to speak to you.”

The brunette volunteer showed them to another cranny, one Sheila hadn’t noticed yet. It was actually a room, but it was dark. Or it felt dark. It didn’t matter. Sheila knew what was coming. Knew she didn’t have insurance. Knew that asshole deadbeat who’d done this to her didn’t have any business being on a motorcycle in the first place, let alone would take even the slightest little bit of responsibility or involvement after this.

Sheila wanted to grab those paramedics, the ones who’d saved her oldest boy’s life, and shake them until they explained why the hell they hadn’t let that asshole bleed to death right there, on the spot where he’d tried to kill his kid.

She was afraid the answer would be that the asshole had gotten up and walked away. Just that easy. Just like that wasn’t his flesh and blood there on the pavement, his son’s blood spurting everywhere, his son’s leg… oh, Fozzy’s leg…

As the billing man droned on, Sheila hugged herself around the middle and bent in half, fighting that sudden wooziness that smacked her in the face the way the road had smacked her son. The way it had reached for Fozzy’s leg, trying to claim it like an unpaid bill.

The hospital’s finance man — what had the brunette said his name was? Mr. Bill or something? — touched her back. He looked concerned, but Sheila straightened her shoulders and unballed the tissue from her hand.

There was nothing left. Nothing to wipe her watering eyes with, nothing to dab at the wet corner of her mouth with.

“Mr…” she started.

“Bergen,” he said. “And if you can’t pay it all at once, I understand. Healing your boy takes precedence over payment. We can work something out.”

Sheila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll find a way. I’ll come work here and empty trash cans if I have to, but if you people save my son, I’ll pay every last penny back.”

Mr. Bergen cleared his throat.

Sheila removed her hand. Little white crumbs clung to his arm hair, remnants of Sheila’s tissue.

He pretended to ignore the crumbs, rolled his shirtsleeve down. As he fumbled with the buttons at the wrists, Sheila licked her lips and knotted her hands together again. She tried to remain sitting, but couldn’t.

“We’ll be in touch,” Mr. Bergen said.

Sheila licked her lips again and nodded. “I’ll make good on this. I will,” she said. Add the hospital and the cost of it to the list of things she’d have to face. She’d have to call her lawyer and see if he could help. Last time she’d had money problems, he’d told her to call. Maybe he knew of a way to lean on the asshole, too. Maybe he’d be able to shut off these stupid visits. Maybe he’d be able to squeeze blood from a stone and pay off the hospital fast. No matter how reasonable they said they’d be, they never were. They didn’t care if a family ate or not. They just wanted their money.

Sheila was already working two jobs. She didn’t know where more money could possibly come from. Fozzy couldn’t work, not for awhile. Not after this. And Curt wasn’t old enough yet.

All that had to wait. First, she needed to know Fozzy was okay.

Sheila left the little cranny of a room and resumed pacing the vast waiting room. When she passed the front desk, the brunette offered her a new tissue.

This was inspired, if that’s the right word, by this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Healing.

Last week, for whatever reason, I thought it would be fun to write about Trevor’s favorite foods. You guys seemed to have fun with it, too, so when my good friend Wylie asked me to list Mitchell’s favorite foods this week, it seemed like a great idea.

1. Potato chips. Notice how often he’s eating them? Sheesh. The man loves his chips. Don’t try to steal them, though.

2. Tomatoes, charred on his grill.

3. Pan-seared fish, such as snapper or swordfish (thanks, Ann!). Best when prepared with a fruit salsa of some sort, heavy on the lime juice.

4. Anything grilled. Anything. Even things you thought couldn’t be grilled. He’ll try it.

5. Fruits and vegetables. Yep, Mitchell loves ’em. He’ll gladly sit down to a meal and find it’s a heaping salad. (Meat optional.)

6. He’s always the first to devour the backstage veggie tray, especially when it’s got cauliflower and red pepper on it. He’ll munch the pepper slices like they’re potato chips.

7. From the healthy to the barbecue… Big Buck’s Best Barbecue and Big Buck’s Bodacious Sauce hold a special place for him. He’s been all over the world, eaten all sorts of barbecue, and still says Big Buck’s is the best. And yes, he’s a suck-the-rib-clean kinda guy.

8. Ice Cream, of course. While he’s not as avidly sexual about it as Trevor is, there’s something about a good vanilla cone — despite the old taunts from big sister Amy about how, with his silvery-blonde hair, he looked like a vanilla ice cream cone when he wore khaki pants as a kid. (And now you know why he never wears white. ANYWHERE.)

9. Pizza. In moderation.

10. Veal. Who cares if the cow’s raised in a box, it tastes good when it’s dead and sitting on his plate, cooked to perfection.

11. French fries, especially when they’re shoestring cut. Thin and crispy, they accompany a heaping salad well. (this outtake is still in the half-finished stage. Stay tuned!)

12. Whipped cream. That’s all I’m saying.

13. Orange juice. Mitchell’s drink of choice.

Mitchell didn’t bother opening his eyes when he staggered out of bed. He’d had no intentions of getting up yet, but Kerri wasn’t in bed anymore and since she’d ridden her bike over, it was possible she’d taken off already — without saying goodbye.

Possible, but not probable. More likely, she was as hungover as he was. Maybe worse. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing their trail of empties.

He paused when he stepped on something on the carpet just inside his bedroom. Cracking one eye open as little as possible, he looked down at it. Kerri’s bra.

He tried to grin, but settled for letting the action happen in his head; moving his face hurt too much. She hadn’t left if that was still there. So what the fuck was she doing?

“Hi,” she said when he made it to the couch and flopped down. “Ooh,” she added; he guessed she’d come near enough to get a good look at him. “You’re hurting.”

He grunted.

“I can at least open my eyes,” she said, as if he’d actually spoken.

He smirked but didn’t take the bait. His eyes were staying closed, and that was all there was to that.

“Hungry?” she asked. “Or just thirsty?”

Both, he realized, which was a surprise. Usually, when he felt like this, all he wanted was sleep.

“Here,” she said.

Eyes still shut, he reached up.

And jumped when he realized he wasn’t closing his hand around one of his many plastic convenience store cups, but was grasping the handle of a glass beer mug instead. That got his eyes open. “Where the fuck’d you find this?”

“In the cabinet,” Kerri said, gesturing over her shoulder at his small galley kitchen. “I think Hell froze over and all the plastic’s dirty.”

He took a long drink, ignoring the uncertain look she was giving him. If he hadn’t wanted her to find the collection, he’d have thrown it away. Probably should have, but it was too late now.

“Am I a spectator sport?” he asked when he’d drained the mug. Damn, it tasted better out of a glass mug instead of a plastic cup.

“Why does that look like one of the mugs that All Access uses?”

“A bunch of places use these,” he said, staring wistfully at the now-empty mug.

She held out her hand for it. “Doesn’t matter how hard you wish, it won’t refill itself.”

Sheepishly, he handed it over. She’d make him pay up later for all this waiting on him, but it’d be worth it. She was a creative debt collector, which made him a willing debtor. Even when he was hungover.

Kerri brought two mugs back with her, handing his over and folding hers in two hands like it was coffee.

“So tell me,” she said, sitting down, that leg tucked under her again. “How is it that you’ve got thirteen more of these, eight of another kind, and an odd assortment of others?”

He tried to shrug.

“They just followed you home?” She raised both eyebrows; her sign that she knew the truth. As always. He bought time with another mouthful of juice, but she kept waiting.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you’re talking, you drift out from the bar to the bus and you don’t realize it’s in your hand until you’re a hundred miles down the road.”

“Security doesn’t stop you?”

“I think they’re supposed to, when we go through the stage doors, but some of those guys they hire, they’re too afraid to say hello to the band. Girls, yeah. But not the band.”

Kerri nodded thoughtfully. “And the plates? You can’t tell me those just find their way into your hands.”

“Trev,” he said. Like she’d needed to ask?

“And you’re totally innocent in this thievery?”

“About the dirty plates that show up in my bag and ruin my stuff? Yeah. I wouldn’t put dirty plates in my own bag.”

“Do dirty plates ever show up in his bag?” The corners of her mouth were twitching. He wanted to tell her she was a bitch for making him come clean like this. Really, it was no big deal.

“Course.” Big deal or no, he could feel his own mouth twitching along with hers. He smiled, pleased it wasn’t so painful this time. “The best was the fork down his boot. Took him two days to step on it. Or maybe the spoon in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, although the day he woke up and we’d shoved two mugs on his feet while he slept was pretty good. Almost had to break them to get them off, which sort of defeated the purpose.”

“Why is this suddenly about the things Trevor’s discovered?”

“Believe me, it’s a lot more fun to give than to receive.”

She cocked her head and thought. Mitchell held his breath, waiting for her to hand down judgment.

All she did was lick her lips. “Can’t wait until you teach me the tricks.”

If he hadn’t been so hungover, Mitchell would have thrown his head back and laughed. He’d found himself one hell of a woman, all right. She’d do just fine when the band hit the road.

While this was picked to fulfill this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, if you’d like to learn more about why I thought this fit the subject at hand, you might want to head over to my RedRoom blog, where I wax poetic about things.

I honestly can’t say what inspired me to think of Trevor’s favorite foods, but here you go… In no order, until the last one, which truly is Trevor’s #1.

13. bacon (see Trev wax vaguely poetic about bacon here)

12. Pickles, the sour kind that make your mouth pucker. Best when given to Mitchell right before he takes the stage. Or maybe in the middle of the set, but you’d better be ready to run really fast afterward.

11. M&Ms. Fun to pop in your mouth. Gives an idea of what it might be like to be a stereotypic rock star who pops drugs like they’re candy.

10. Pot roast. Whenever Mitchell’s mom says she’s making this for dinner, Trevor shows up. He even showers first.

9. cookies. Sonya sends the guys care packages from time to time, but every now and then, a store-bought cookie hits the spot.

8. Bananas. This is Trevor we’re talking about, after all. Same thing with uncut cucumbers and zucchini. Hey, no one ever said the boy WAS original. Just that he IS an original.

7. Which explains why he’ll occasionally suck a lemon. Trevor likes the lemony fresh smell (so much better than the fake smell in all those cleaners promoters like to use in their dressing rooms) and besides, the rest of the guys shudder when he does it. He’s been known to chase it with a spoonful of sugar and a big drink of water. Dissected Lemonade, he calls it.

6. Corn on the cob. Unless some idiot promoter has hired a caterer who’s turned it into mush. Corn on the cob should be firm. You should be able to sink your teeth into it, slobber all over it, lick the salt and butter off your hands, and wind up with a naked cob at the end.

The sexual innuendo you’re seeing in all that is entirely your own. This is about food, people. Not rock stars and their sex and drugs. (Well, except for the M&Ms)

5. Pancakes. A favored breakfast of the entire band. Trevor used to thoroughly douse them in store-bought syrup until Eric one day made him try the real stuff. For once, Eric was right.

4. Pizza’s always good, but free pizza? Even better. (Beware if you use this link; it’ll put you smack in the middle of Green Hair Week. You may feel lost. If so, read the entire sequence.)

3. Ice Cream — before the band gets too big (and even a little bit after), before the fans find out (and even sometimes after), Trevor likes to talk the tour bus driver into stopping at an ice cream store for a cone before they hit the road. He waxes poetic about it here. One day, I’ll write the scene where he and Mitchell dress up in trench coats and convince Kerri to be their Bond girl…

2. Root beer. Way better than the stuff the rest of the band drinks. AND it doesn’t make Trevor turn into Hank.

And the granddaddy of Trevor’s diet:
1. Meatball subs from Harry’s Hoagies. ‘Nuff said.

Now, you all just follow along with old Chelle here and no one’s gonna get hurt. Hear me on this?

‘Cause, in case you’re livin’ under a rock or some such, followin’s the big trend these days. Follow me here, there, everywhere. You be a good person and you follow along. You’re even better a person if you got lots of followers.

Follow, follow, follow.

Where are the freaky-cool trend-setters? What happened to the people who’re worthy of being followed because there’s something there that pulled you to them? Why do we gotta follow someone simply ’cause it’s cool to do so? Is this now a world where we’re all valuable just ’cause we get people followin’ us? Where we’re better people ’cause we got lots of followers?

Mr. Rogers would be so proud of us.

You gotta stop and think, boys and girls, about what all this followin’ means. Does it mean steppin’ away from your precious computer for a few hours and goin’ to see that band who’s in town special, just to play for all their local followers, the people declarin’ eternal love and devotion in a sentence or less? Does it mean downloadin’ that new song, buyin’ that new t-shirt, and braggin’ about your love for those music-makers on your chest?

It sure used to.

And because of that, bands, they did well. They made a buck or two, could afford their practice spaces and gas for tourin’ and maybe if they’d made it to a major record label, there’d be videos and other goodies like that.

But now, an indie band plays their music for free over a website or two that ain’t even theirs; it belongs to some big corporation that takes all the money while the band gets squat. Fans follow what the dudes and chicks who make the music gotta say, but they ain’t ponying up for tickets so fast. Not unless that band we be talkin’ about is a big band. Been around for years band. One-a them bands that’ll do okay just ’cause of who they are. Heck, even Deadly Metal Hatchet t-shirts are still sellin’ like hotcakes. Chelle knows. She bought two last week, all by her lonesome.

It’s the new guys, bands like Temple of the Book (read more about them here), who need yourself, in person, in front of their stage. Buy their EP. Wear their shirts. Talk about ’em to your followers. Spread the gospel; I know the readers of this here Trumpet newspaper are smart enough to know what to do.

You heard it first, and you heard it here: If you gonna follow, do it right. Do it so it makes a difference. ‘Cause if we don’t change, all we gonna get to hear is Golden Oldies. And it scares Chelle to think of ShapeShifter as a Golden Oldie. Not in this lifetime.

A Sunday Scribblings for you, more directly related to the prompt than usual for me.

New guy came on last night.
Must be someone’s boy toy
Or something.

Ironed t-shirts.
Not a pair of work gloves in sight.
Over-eager.
Desperate to be one of the gang.

And like all newbies,
Doesn’t get the language,
The code
The speak.

The road’s its own beast
You gotta learn it from the ground up
This kid,
He’s got a long way to go
Just to get started.

Everyone laughs,
Snickers
Sneers

Don’t know why I do it,
There ain’t glory in it for me,
Just a lot of ribbing for being a softie.
But

I take the new kid under my wing.
Hand over a spare pair of gloves;
I’ve got three more.

Start with a shadow.
Hand him a broom.
Point.
Use the right language.

He may not make it
But it’s not him people are watching.

It’s me.

Ahh, it’s nice when both the Sunday Scribblings and the Monday Poetry Train overlap. I’d like to do some commentary about this over at my Red Room page, but don’t know if I’ll get the time. We shall see… and of course, if I make the time, you’ll hear about it.

… and that was fast! Go read it…

The first thing Trevor saw when he and Mitchell walked into the shop was Melody, of course. She had that stupid chair of hers positioned perfectly, so that when you walked into Lyrical Pleasures, the first thing you saw wasn’t Lyric. It was Mama Melody, holding court on that stupid velvet lounge chair.

Mitchell, of course, bent over and gave her a kiss.

“Trevor,” Melody purred, raising an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to follow the big idiot and pay proper homage.

Trevor bent down and, instead of kissing her, touched the spot beside her eye as gently as he could. “You should tell Lyric to start carrying skin shit. Your wrinkles are showing.”

Mitchell grabbed his upper arm and dragged him out into the street as Melody gasped in outrage, but Trevor didn’t care. He couldn’t stand Melody. Didn’t much like Lyric, but at least she didn’t expect groveling from him because he’d decided to spend money in her store.

“The fuck!” Mitchell was too pissed to bother growling. It just came out as a roar, and an ugly one at that. It didn’t help that they’d just been at Harry’s Hoagies and the guy had the breath of the dragon he was fast turning into.

Trevor shrugged and turned his back on Mitchell, bracing his hands against the storefront’s outside wall. Mitchell would beat him into a pulp for what he’d said and frankly, he deserved it. Right here, in full view of everyone.

“You just fucking wait here, all right?” Mitchell said. “And next time, if you don’t want to come with, just fucking say so.”

Trevor took a deep breath. Mitchell wasn’t going to hit him? Why the fuck not?

He glanced around. Nope, no cops in sight. So what was Mitchell’s problem? Maybe he needed to be pushed farther. “Not my fault you give all your rubbers away so you’re out when you actually need one.”

“That’s not what I’m doing here, dickhead. Now don’t fucking move.”

Trevor turned his head. “You mean you want me to stand here like this?” He jerked his head at the building, his hands still planted on its side. He looked like he was waiting to be frisked by that cop. The one not around.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “No. On second thought, go close that dumpster and sit on it.”

That, Trevor was all too happy to do.

Maybe he’d come back in a day or two and beg Melody’s forgiveness. She didn’t look that old. Hell, she didn’t even look washed up. In fact, she looked pretty damn good for a woman who had a set of adult twins. She wasn’t just any woman with twins, either; she was still the reigning porn queen, even if she’d retired after she’d had daughter number three. No one had shocked people the way Melody had. No one had made the point about sex being good any better than Melody Maker. Oh, there were new stars, of course, nubile young things who explained the meaning of words like nubile with just one glance. But no one had made other women actually like having sex. Not the way Melody had.

Maybe, Trevor thought as he closed the dumpster and jumped up, letting his legs swing over the metal lip, she did deserve some respect.

But he still wasn’t bending over her like she was some queen. Or if he did, it’d be because they were both naked and willing.

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt was aging. I was going to focus on Melody originally, but when I sat down to write, Trevor seized control. Go figure.

If you need a timeline placement for this, it happens before Mitchell meets Kerri (that’s the Trevor’s Song era), but after they’ve established themselves pretty well. Probably right before the Massive album; that’s the album that established them as bona-fide stars.