Rock On (Bad Boy Bandmates & Babies)

“You okay?” Thom asked, rushing over.

“Yeah, just waiting to wake up.”

“Whew, I know the feeling. You should have seen me before our first big show. Wore shades on stage so I could keep my eyes closed. They called me Corey for years after.”

“Corey?”

“Like Corey Hart, the ironic genius behind ‘Sunglasses at Night’? Well, never mind. That was probably before your time.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll link you to the video. There’s no better cure for a bad mood.”

“Cool.”

Pulling myself back together, I focused on making the most of the massive opportunity, which had been handed to me out of the blue. Slow and steady, I meditated while sitting up. It was a trick my mom had taught me years ago and one that I had been perfecting since.

Luckily, this trick calmed my nerves and helped me be able to kick my stage freight down within the recesses of my body.

I was the only one sitting while we played, but we made it work. Derek, Jim and Hank moved around enough for all of us. Even so, I eventually developed a sort of bow-based chair dance that I has happy with.

Everything went off without a hitch and the crowd went nuts. Standing carefully, I went to join the others at the front of the stage to bask in the adulation.

“And now I’d like to introduce the newest member of Dante Street Massacre,” Jim said into the microphone, pointing my way, “Pauline Guthrie!”

The crowd went absolutely bananas. Everyone got to their feet at once for my first standing ovation. Not even my recitals had gone so well.

I barely noticed as the smile started to spread and the truth dawned on me. I had managed to play through my stage freight, and I was a hit.

A flock of black roses flew my way like tiny dark arrows, landing at my feet. I couldn’t see him through the gloom of the house or the bright of the stage lights, but the act had Professor Hernandez written all over it.

Chapter Nine – Derek

I lay down, looking like I was waiting for death. I’d been working hard with no rest whatsoever. There was no rest for the weary when there was work to be done, as the saying went.

I scrolled back down the screen to be sure everything had come out right, the crude layout making beautiful sense in my head. I had tried three more times, with results not quick but unequivocal. Three more songs had come into being, in basic form, anyway, and now all that was left was to convert them.

Once my printer was chugging like a train, I prepared to face the day. I threw my gear in the trunk and then wound the beast down to the heart of the city, dawn rising up to meet me. Before long I was at my familiar stomping grounds.

“Coffee, please,” I requested from Gustavo, leaning on the counter for support.

“Any particular kind?”

“Big. Otherwise, surprise me.”

It wasn’t my usual order, but it was an unusual day, and for all I knew, it was about to get weirder. I liked to be prepared for every contingency.

The dark liquid sloshed like a raging sea, the ‘cup’ more like a bowl with a handle, making the trip from counter to tables all the more interesting. I hadn’t planned on staying but I needed to.

Now that I was properly fueled, I felt that the city held no terror, and I resumed my post down at the record store, finding the merchandise and scaring the ne’er to wells.

I’d heard most of the ones who had attacked Ana could no longer walk, at least not in a straight line, but some small part of me hoped the firebugs, or others like them, would try something when I was there. See how they managed with someone their own size.

My head perked up, as the sound of boots came down. It was a tell-tale sign that worked better than a bell when it came to alerting people that someone was approaching.

“Hello,” I said, to the woman who had walked in.

“Hi,” she said dreamily, looking about like everything amazed her.

“Can I help you find something?”

“I think so.”

Before I could inquire after the logic of her reply, she unzipped the top of her purse, which looked like a knit hacky sack with a strap and took out a slip of paper.

“Electriclarryland,” she read, followed by a giggle. “That is funny.”

“You forgot?”

“I thought I might.”

“What was so funny?”

“The title.”

“Oh. Should be an alternative under ‘B’ for The Butthole Surfers.”

“Shouldn’t it be under ‘T’?”

“That’s what I keep saying.”

She giggled again and wandered off in search of it.

The fates, and gravity, brought many more interesting characters down the stairs that fine fall day. Each had their own sort of weird that, if anything, made them interesting.

I was beginning to understand why Ana did what she did. It wasn’t quite feeding kids in Africa, but she was still doing good by giving a sort of shelter to those whom most would dismiss or even fear. If you looked past the strange hair and corpse paint, you’d see that they put on their leather pants one leg at a time.