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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Trevor stood in front of the machines, a cigarette dangling off his lip. If he’d ever needed to look cool, right now was it. Adults weren’t supposed to chew gum, let alone buy it out of gumball machines. And that was assuming there were gumballs in all these machines. There wasn’t.

If anyone had been handed adult status and tried harder than Trevor Wolff to give it back, Trevor would like to meet that person and shake their hand.

He rubbed the quarter in his hand. Only one, and four things to choose from. Gum, one of those sticky hands that they loved to smack each other with, a rubber ball, and some unknown, unidentified other sort of toy.

There was no sense taking the chance on the unknown thing. Not with only one quarter. Maybe he’d be able to plant it in Daniel or Eric’s bunk, but sooner or later they’d remember they hadn’t bought it.

Mitchell had torn the fingers off the last sticky hand. He’d plastered them to the front of the microwave, trying to make the thing give them the bird, although he was the only one who’d been able to see it. Four of the fingers were still there, looking like … sticky little lines.

It was kinda cool and definitely something that got people talking, but it made the rest of the hand hard to drag across a guy’s beard when he fell asleep in the front lounge. What made it fun — and why Mitchell had done it — was the way the fingers would suddenly pull off a whisker or three. Not even the big idiot could sleep through that.

Trevor drew on the cigarette. Gumballs were fun, but it was hard to chew and smoke at the same time. Now that the band got a per diem that could stretch to cover cigarettes, chewing gum instead of smoking wasn’t as necessary as it used to be.

As for the rubber balls, the bus driver had banned them, at least on the bus. Which was where they were headed as soon as everyone finished whizzing and Trevor decided what to do with his quarter. Saving the ball for later was stupid, too. Mitchell and Daniel would grab it and play some form of tackle handball until either the ball got lost or Charlie pulled them off each other and sent them to opposite corners — and took the ball for himself.

There was no way Trevor was wasting this quarter on those two. Or the stupid-assed tour manager.

Eric came out of the rest stop and stood beside Trevor, looking at the choices. “Slim pickings,” the guitarist said, his hands jammed in the back pockets of his jeans so his elbows stuck out.

“Tell me about it.” Trevor moved slightly so he wouldn’t get touched by one of the elbows.

Eric bobbed his head and for a second there, Trevor was afraid the guy would tell him all about it. He’d done that sort of shit before.

“Maybe we should wait for the another one,” Eric said. “There’s bound to be something better out there.”

“What’s better than Mitchell’s face when he sticks his foot in a shoe and finds a sticky hand waiting for him?”

“Mitchell’s face when he’s gone a week without finding a sticky hand,” Eric said. “We’ve done that one so much, we’re all checking our shoes before we put them on.”

Trevor couldn’t argue with that. He exhaled hard, watching the smoke float past Eric’s face. It was sort of fun to see how relieved everyone looked when they didn’t see anything waiting for them. “I’m bored,” Trevor said.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. “We need to come up with something different.”

Trevor nodded his agreement, the end of his cigarette flapping along.

“When the time is right, we’ll know what to do,” Eric said.

Trevor closed his eyes, willing Eric’s spirituality lecture to stop right there. He wanted to have fun, not listen to a bunch of bullshit.

“No,” Mitchell said.

Trevor didn’t open his eyes yet. Clearly, the big idiot thought he was raiding the sticky hands.

Eric coughed. A fake, hollow cough. The kind that said someone had detected the sort of fun that was needed.

Trevor opened his eyes and used his tongue to flick his cigarette off his lip and onto the ground. “Too late,” he told Mitchell in a sing-song.

“Trevor–” Mitchell growled.

Daniel came out and looked at Mitchell, then at Trevor. And finally at the gumball machines. He groaned. “You didn’t.”

Trevor slid the quarter into his back pocket, trying to be casual about it. “I did,” he said and shrugged.

“Me, too,” Eric said. He was smiling, like this was great fun. For him, who never did this sort of shit, it probably was.

Mitchell opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not even hot air. He turned and walked off to the bus. Daniel did the same thing: opened his mouth. No sound, no hot air.

The drummer turned away and jogged to catch up to Mitchell.

Eric and Trevor looked at each other. “This could be fun,” Soul-boy said.

“Could be,” Trevor agreed. “At least until they dump all the shit out of our bunks, looking for whatever they think we just bought.”

“It’ll break up the boredom,” Eric said.

Again, Trevor couldn’t argue. He felt the quarter in his back pocket. The guy was right. Sometimes, it was best to wait, even a little bit. There would be better gumball machines up ahead. Better pranks.

Although, this one was off to a good start.

This bit of fun was inspired by another Easystreet Prompt. You can read a bit of the thoughts that went into this outtake at my RedRoom.com blog. If I can get it to post correctly.

It was the sound of Mitchell walking back and forth that alerted Sonya. Either the boy was sick, which she doubted, or he was up to something — probably with Trevor.

He’d left his bedroom door open slightly, so before announcing herself, she peeked inside.

“Ow! You fuckhead, let me do it myself!” Trevor’s anger was familiar, but his voice was funny. Off, somehow.

“So here,” Mitchell said. “Do it yourself and then don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Fuckhead.”

Sonya took a step closer to the door before announcing herself. She could see the edge of Trevor in Mitchell’s mirror, and what she saw made her choke on her breath.

“Who’s that?” Mitchell asked as she coughed.

“It’s your mother, Mitchell. May I come in?”

“Uhh…”

“I think she knows,” Trevor said. He sounded stuffed up, nasal, and definitely defensive, yet at the same time, resigned. “Better let her in.”

“C’mon in, Ma,” Mitchell sighed.

Trevor didn’t move from in front of the mirror. He dabbed at a cut on the corner of his eye with a washcloth. A matching cut stretched from the corner of his mouth, heading back toward his cheek. His face was badly swollen, his eyes already blackening.

Sonya wished Patterson were home to help with this. They’d known this moment was coming when they’d have to confront Trevor about the constant bruises the boy sported, the frequent cuts, the perpetual black eyes. They’d agreed on how to handle things, but that didn’t mean Sonya wanted to do it herself. This was Patterson’s strength.

She sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and folded her hands in her lap.

“What?” Mitchell muttered at her, sullen again.

Sonya shook her head and waited.

“Ma…”

“Relax, M. She’s waiting for the right time,” Trevor said. It sounded like it was supposed to be a sneer, but it also sounded like Trevor had a few teeth knocked loose. Not to mention that stuffed-up nose aspect; between that and the eyes, Sonya was willing to bet that nose was out-and-out broken.

“I’m evaluating how you are. Is there more?”

Trevor glared at her but didn’t say anything. He turned like he was going to walk out of the room, maybe to hang the washcloth up in the bathroom, but he didn’t leave. “How long before you call the cops?”

“Did Mitchell do this to you?”

The cut side of Trevor’s mouth curled up in a pained smile as Mitchell began to protest. “Chill,” Trevor told him. “Your mom’s actually got a sense of humor.”

“Well?” Sonya asked. “Did he?”

“Ma!”

“No,” Trevor said.

“Then there’s no need for me to call the police, is there?”

“You’d turn your own kid in?” Mitchell’s yelp conveyed his sense of betrayal, but Sonya ignored him. He should have known better than to believe she’d turn something like that over to the police. Patterson would never stand for it.

“Good,” Trevor said and gave a satisfied nod. “Cops’re a waste of time.”

“Sometimes,” Sonya said.

Trevor eyed her, expecting more, but she continued waiting.

“Protective services, then? You know, someone tried that once already. They came out, talked to Jenny, and decided to leave as soon as Hank came home. Left us four there, but Jeremy snuck out somehow and got away, the loser.”

“What made him such a loser?” Sonya asked.

“He should have stuck up for us. He’s the oldest. Instead, it was all on me. Eliza said it was okay, but HJ let me know it wasn’t.” He looked out the window for a long minute. “I suck as bad as Jeremy. I should be there now, cleaning up.”

“At least you’re trying,” Sonya said. “You don’t suck for trying.”

“No? I only suck for letting it happen? For not being able to protect them? Why the fuck is it my job anyway? I thought I was just a kid. I thought I was supposed to ride the bus to school and eat cafeteria lunches and do my fucking homework. Why the fuck am I the bad guy because I can’t stand being there? Because I don’t fucking want to be part of it anymore? I’ve had enough. Why can’t someone make it stop already?”

Sonya closed her eyes. Patterson had been right; the boy’s behavior and attitudes were all tied into a need to escape. To be part of a family.

She opened her eyes and tried to sort through what to say, but Trevor was giving her that uneasy look again. “So what’re you going to do?” he asked. “You can’t keep quiet about something like this. Fine, upstanding people like you–” his sneer returned — “you’ve got to get involved, don’tcha? Can’t sleep at night with that bleeding heart of yours, but your idea of getting involved means meddling, not fixing shit. So let’s hear it. Who you gonna go squeal to?”

Mitchell shifted his weight.

“No one,” Sonya said gently. “You forget who this bleeding heart is married to. You’ve got a safe haven here — a very safe haven — as long as you need it. Perhaps a measure of protection, too, but that is between you and Patterson. I suggest you don’t insult him — or me again.”

Trevor kept watching Sonya as he began to fidget, picking at folds of the washcloth as it sat on Mitchell’s dresser. “This smells,” he said at last.

“Trev…” Mitchell said.

“At some point in your life, Trevor, you will have to trust someone who wants to help you. I know you’re only fifteen, but Patterson and I believe you’re capable of making that sort of choice now if you’d like.”

Sonya didn’t expect Trevor to do much more than nod, but instead, he caught and held her eye, then slowly lifted his t-shirt and turned around so she could see the bruises there, too.

Trevor Wolff doesn’t do reruns. And this Thursday Thirteen thing, all this dying and resurrection drama, it smells of reruns.

But Susan’s insisting. All ’cause of Robin. And Robin… Now there is a woman for you. Strong. Devoted. I bet she could teach Rusty a few things about being cool, too. Even though it was Susan who she said was cool, not me. I’ll have you know, Robin, I’m cooler than Susan can ever hope to be. Got that?

Robin got handed some blog award where she was supposed to tell ten things about herself. She wanted Susan or me to do it.  Susan thought that it’d be fun to get to know this new Thirteen crowd. Maybe remind the old crowd what they’ve been missing.

That means old Trevor gets to do the honors. Ten things about himself, not about Susan. Only, since I’m Trevor Fucking Wolff, I get to forget how to count again and turn ten into thirteen. Which is still better than Mitchell, who’d turn ten into twelve. Idiot’s got his head so far into his music, everything with him’s all about fours.

1. My name’s Trevor Fucking Wolff. Yeah, it’ll be on the quiz. Take notes.

2. I play bass in this band I founded. ShapeShifter. You shoulda heard of us; we fucking thunder. Not rock. Rocking’s for sissies. We thunder. Get the dif?

3. That dork I mentioned, Mitchell. He’s my best friend. Like a brother to me. I lived with his family for two years until I quit high school two days before graduation and Mitchell’s parents told me it was time to move out on my own.

4. I got this rinky-dink apartment over Decade. Still live there.

5.  I have a Vincent. That’s a motorcyle, for you who don’t know better. I rebuilt it mostly by myself. Hammer, Wrench, and Torque helped.

6. I star in Susan’s first book, The Demo Tapes.  You need a copy, if you don’t already have one.

7. It’s chock full of 20 of my favorite adventures. Well, favorite until Susan puts out The Demo Tapes: Year 2.  She’s working on it.

8. Before Mitchell fell in love with this redheaded artist type, he and I tore up the city of Riverview, where we live. Now that he was dumb enough to commit an act of monogamy with Rusty, I rule the city myself. It’s not as much fun as watching Mitchell be a dork.

9. If there’s a willing girl, I’m there. A woman’s body is best appreciated up close. All those curves and soft places; it’s a guy’s fantasy come true. Every single time.

10. One thing no one told us was that the groupies you meet on the way up are the ones you’ll remember the longest. That’s ’cause they do more than spend ten minutes making you happy, ifyouknowwhatTrevormeans. They give you a place to crash when you’re on tour and too broke for a hotel. They feed you after-show dinners and keep the beer flowing and give you Advil in the morning when you had too many beers.

11. Not me, though. My idea of beer’s root beer. I get to laugh at the hungover asses of those three.

12. Susan wrote a book. A novel. When you read it, you’ll get the root beer. And meatball subs. The more copies of The Demo Tapes that you buy, the sooner you’ll get to read the novel. She’s not the only one who promises. I do, too. There’s shit in that book that I’m sick of not being able to tell you about.

13.  How many of you Thirteeners missed old Trevor? ‘Cause Trevor sure missed a lot of you…

Pop quiz: What’s Trevor’s name again?

Patterson didn’t mind that they’d left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.

Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor’s lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.

Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn’t much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn’t discuss.

He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.

Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn’t a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn’t been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn’t helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson’s mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn’t.

Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn’t wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.

“Did you ever wonder,” he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.

“I wondered what’s bothering you tonight.”

Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he’d consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.

Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.

Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. “Do you have any fucking clue what it’s like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?”

“Yes,” Patterson said. “And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either.”

Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.

“Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?” Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. “Do you know what we’d have for dinner?”

“No,” Patterson said. “Tell me.”

Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn’t come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.

Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. “Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she’d brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later.” He snorted. “And don’t forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn’t get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank ’em both.”

Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He’d been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn’t matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he’d been able to make a difference in this young man’s life couldn’t even begin to make up for the families he hadn’t been able to help so directly.

“Happy fucking birthday, Trevor,” Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. “They usually forgot. And there’s the Voss family,” he said, gesturing expansively, “with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late.”

Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He’d managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor’s stories; this couldn’t be easy.

Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.

Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.

“And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat,” Trevor said.

“We didn’t forget,” Mitchell said. “No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves ’em on the table because we’re supposed to have cranberries. She’s probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she’ll throw it in the freezer until next year. They’ll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants ’em.”

“Think that’s funny?” Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.

“I think cranberries are okay,” Mitchell said.

Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

Trevor cocked his head, considering.

Mitchell started pulling at the grass.

“So you’re saying I’m a cranberry?” Trevor asked at last.

Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor’s indignant snorts. “No,” the boy said. “You’re an ass who’s keeping me from my guitar. C’mon. Let’s go make music.”

Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn’t likely.

So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn’t doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn’t so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn’t sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.

At least the door to Rusty’s place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.

The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he’d seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.

A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty’s bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.

Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.

He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student’s digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn’t on easy street. If this wasn’t Rusty’s place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.

“Hey, you’re here,” she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn’t understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.

“Yep,” Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.

Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime — assuming Mitchell didn’t make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn’t hit him; it couldn’t be Mitchell. That meant…

He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn’t deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.

That she was barefoot didn’t surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.

“Hi, Trev,” she said like he hadn’t just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that’s what he ought to call her. Maybe he would — except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.

Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn’t get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.

Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.

“Let’s get rolling,” Mitchell said.

“I need to change,” Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.

“You can’t change enough,” Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.

“How did I know you’d say that?” she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn’t see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn’t there at all.

“Maybe you’re a fucking clairvoyant or something.”

“Maybe I’m just smart,” she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. “We ready?” She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.

Trevor tried not to gag. “I’m readier than you’ll ever know,” he said.
“Good thing,” she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. It wasn’t hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he’d do anything else here in Rusty’s lair. If she’d used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she’d do to him.

So you’ve met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

I don’t know about this one. For those of you who’re regulars, I’m going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor’s Song. Sorry, but it’s true.

Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There’s a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you’ll like it all.

There have been a number of new faces around these parts lately. In an attempt to bring you up to speed and help you understand all the fuss and hoopla, here are some fast facts about the (fictional) man known to many as Trevor Wolff.

1. He stands five foot ten. Really. Truly.

2. He weighs about 120. Soaking Wet.
Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but not by much. Trevor’s one of those skinny guys, almost scrawny, with the flat, hollowed-out chest and a little tuft of chest hair dead-center over the breast bone.

3. His nose has been broken more times than he can count. It’s ugly, misshapen, and has a hook in it. But it works and he’ll take it.

4. When it comes to being a member of ShapeShifter, his value isn’t in his bass playing. Far from it, in fact. In some circles, Trevor is known as the luckiest no-talent on the planet. Some say even hard work can’t save him. But the band is Trevor’s vision of Mitchell’s dream, and no one can imagine a Trevor-less ShapeShifter.

5. Here at the Meet and Greet, Trevor often rules the roost — no small feat for a fictional character. As we get closer to the annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration that ShapeShifter throws every year, you’ll be seeing more of him again.

I know you groupies will be pleased.

Want to know more? Want to see Trevor in action? Use this link to be taken to his bio page. At the bottom of the page — well, taking up most of it these days — are a bunch of links. Click yourself into Trevor nirvana.

Trevor stifled his smile and handed the list to Mr. Bautista. The English teacher gave it a quick glance and handed it back. “I know you hate me, but trying to get me fired is pushing it. Even for you.”

“No one’s gonna fire your ass. These are just books.”

“Books which I’m forbidden to teach to my students.”

“You said the whole point of this was for us to teach you something. So I’m gonna teach you why it’s stupid to want to ban all these books.”

Mr. Bautista stood up, looking down at his desk. He pursed his lips.

Trevor waited, curious. He’d either wind up in detention again or else he’d be doing a book report on Huck Finn. Either option was fine with him.

“I hate it when you put me in these positions,” the English teacher said heavily. He looked up, and for a second there, Trevor identified with the look on the guy’s face. “But I have to uphold the school’s ban. Why not Tom Sawyer? It and Huck go together like best friends.”

“Tom Sawyer doesn’t put people’s panties in a bunch.”

Mr. Bautista held up a hand. “Language, Trevor. Restate that, please.”

“It doesn’t piss people off?”

He got one of those looks that told him he was trying to kid a kidder and it wasn’t welcome.

“People don’t object to it,” he said in his most dramatic, sullen way. He even scuffed at the floor. No one seemed to care. Times like this, he really hated the English teacher. The guy almost never played along the way he was supposed to.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” Mr. Bautista said. “You want to stir your classmates up and try to rally them to make a stand. You’re right to want to do so. In some parts of the country, you’d be brave to be trying this because some parents would call to have you expelled for even showing me this list.”

“This isn’t some parts of the country,” Trevor said. “This is Riverview, the city that tolerates everything and everyone. So what’s so wrong with a stupid book?”

“Some people feel that books give students the wrong ideas.”

“I’m not some people,” Trevor said.

“Then you need to stand up and be heard. All of you,” Mr. Bautista said, leaning to the side so he could see the class lined up behind Trevor. “Why are you letting nameless, faceless people dictate what you can and can’t read? Who said those people are the morality police? Why are you willing to let them define which ideas are right and which are wrong?”

Trevor’s classmates squirmed uncomfortably. It was up to Trevor, of course, to answer.

“You know, we all show up for the Gay Parade and love it. But we can’t read a book with a guy named Nigger Jim in it? That’s his name. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t make the rules, Trevor. In this case, I don’t even agree with them, but if I want to pay off my car, I’ve got to follow them.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of being a sheep?”

“Of course I do. When I was your age,” Mr. Bautista gestured again at the class, “I wanted to read every banned book, too. So I did — outside of the classroom, where no one could stop me. And you’re right, Trevor. Once I read them, I realized they were no big deal. Except for one thing.”

He held up a finger and every kid in the classroom, including Trevor, leaned forward to hear what their teacher had to say. “Those books were what made me fall in love with literature. They’re what made me want to be a teacher. If you want to read these books outside of school and put together a discussion group at someone’s house, please do! Expand your worlds, your brains. Read the books that were banned and the ones that weren’t. Learn all you can about literature and then come back and tell me if you’ve learned to agree about the pointlessness of banning books. All it does is make every single last one of you want to read them!”

Trevor squirmed. No wonder he didn’t like this guy; he got to all Trevor’s great rants before he could do it himself.

“Look,” Mr. Bautista said, “I’ll make you a deal, Trevor. You do the report on Tom Sawyer. Focus on Tom and Becky and their relationship–”

“I’m not reading some sappy love story!”

“Read the book and see for yourself what I’m talking about.” Mr. Bautista leaned forward and dropped his voice so no one else in line behind Trevor could hear. “If you do that, I’ll share a book of my own with you. It’s one I could get fired for even telling you the title of, the school board is that uptight about it.”

Trevor’s eyes sparkled. If it was that forbidden, it was for him, all right.

“Deal?” Mr. Bautista said, leaning back and nodding at the next few kids in line.

“Deal,” Trevor said, nodding firmly.

Mr. Bautista pointed at the door. Trevor gave him a wild look. “What’d I do now?”

“It’s not what you did, Trevor. It’s what you’re about to do. Go down to the library and get yourself a copy of Tom Sawyer while I okay everyone else’s picks.”

He hoped the nerdy kids all wanted Tom Sawyer. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when he got up and made his report. That meant he had to put them to shame.

Those losers? It shouldn’t be hard, he decided and headed off to the library, letting short little Carolyn take that final step up to Mr. Bautista’s desk, her list trembling.

Trevor wondered if that was because she wanted to read Lady Chatterly’s Lover. The quiet girls like Carolyn, they liked that racy stuff. She’d probably get to do it, too. That one hadn’t been banned.

Trevor knew that. Trevor knew every last book that had been banned; he’d memorized the lists.

He could hardly wait to see which one Mr. Bautista was going to slip him. It better be good.

I know you want to know more about the mystery book. While I don’t answer the question directly, here’s a response that ought to satisfy anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what?”

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

“Uhh… thanks?”

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

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

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

Mitchell turned away and didn’t say anything.

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

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

“Fucker.”

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

“I lasted,” Mitchell growled.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

“I do now, yeah.”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Of course!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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