“I’m not going on tonight unless we play Werewolves of London,” Billy said to no one in particular. Maybe Mickey said it. It was the time of evening, or afternoon, or morning, when very little made sense, except that it was a threat and a challenge and a joke.

It was all a joke this late into the tour.

The last hotel was unacceptable, according to Bobby. The Hostility Suite was dangerously low on underage skank and canapès. The towels were shit. The shower pressure? I’ll rip your lungs out, Jim. I mean, we’re a big-time all-American touring outfit and why don’t we act like one?

The girl at the store asked what I was listening to. “Man, you like your music,” she said. “Loud, huh?” 

She was slow, I guess, but she had a job and didn’t smell, which was more than you can say for your cousins who are completely normal, so…

Yeah, I guess. The Dead.”

“The Dead!? Ooh, scary. Are they a metal band?”

“No. Not metal.”  Outside, the Florida sky shattered and there was lightning spider-veining the heavens.

Deadheads on the floor again. How many times did we have meetings about this? There was no continental breakfast for the foxes, dammit.