pillow fight, chains, missed connections
“ … And the chains of the sea will have busted in the night and be buried at the bottom of the ocean …” the band was struggling through a punk cover of that old Dylan song, When the ship comes in.
It was loud. Punk is the aural equivalent of pretzels; promotes drinking. Add a mud pit and a pillow fighting ring and you’d need a bouncer to keep the joint from exceeding the Fire Marshall Capacity.
“ … And the sands will roll out a carpet of gold for your weary toes to be a’touching …” The drummer hit the beat so hard he hit it twice and to cover for it the lead guitar leaned into the Peavy for feedback.
I checked my watch. I checked the door. I checked the moon phase app on my smart phone. The song ended with a cacophony of feedback and lawless drum sticks.
“Thanks,” the front man barked into the mike, “I’m Joe shit heels, Fuckwit on drums, that’s the artist previously known as fuckwit on bass, and I don’t know the guy on lead guitar but y’all better take his keys. Back in fifteen, fuck all y’all”
There was a smattering of applause and a snarl or two. I checked my watch. I checked the door. I checked the moon phase app. She was an hour late. I had the chains in the trunk. Fifteen more minutes and I’d read about it in the papers.
The phone rang. I stepped outside and lit a smoke.
“Mile marker fifteen, if you make it before the tow truck … if you don’t put the body in the truck and dump it in the river.”
“Yeah, Hi, how’re you?”
“Don’t be cute, full moon on horizon, few minutes it’s going to be the horizon. Go high or go home.”
“On my way.”
Waitress found me on the sidewalk, “Fifteen bucks.”
I fished a twenty out of my front pocket. “Sorry, my mind is like a steel trap, all it’s got is a leg and a ragged end where something gnawed it off at the joint. Keep the change.”
She smiled, cold as the tail end of the Iditarod.
Prompts;
Butt-end, Taper, a flash with Van Goughs sunflowers in mind
Loading comments...