Lead Singer pouts, “We’re stuck, we’re headin’ nowhere except Nowhere Town. Damn, guess that makes me the Mayor of Nowhere Town?! And you fucks? Well, you’re like the City Council members or something.”
Lead Guitarist argues with Lead Singer; personality-wise, he’s Lead Singer-lite: “Then do something about it! And hey, don’t disrespect the office; I’m the Comptroller of Nowhere Town.”
Bassist does not care, he stares at his shoes.
Drummer quietly chimes in, “I have an idea.”
[Nobody listens to the drummer]
Drummer finally screams out above the noise:
“WE STAGE A SATANIC RITUAL IN THE WOODS NEAR THE PARK IN WHICH WE SELL OUR SOULS TO SATAN FOR ROCK ‘N’ ROLL.
WE HAVE ANONYMOUS CALLER DIAL THE POLICE AND REPORT A DISTURBANCE SO THAT WE ARE ARRESTED.
THAT SAME ANONYMOUS CALLER PLACES CALLS TO LOCAL MEDIA OUTLETS SHORTLY THEREAFTER.
SAID LOCAL OUTLET PUBLISHES ARTICLE THAT GOES VIRAL WITH HEADLINE THAT READS: LOCAL BAND LITERALLY SOLD THEIR SOULS TO SATAN FOR ROCK ‘N’ ROLL.
WE BECOME THE MOST BADASS BAND ON THE PLANET RECEIVING INSTA-FAME AND MILLIONS OF SOCIAL MEDIA FOLLOWERS.”
[Awkwardly long hella extended silence]
Lead Singer becomes the first lead singer in music history to endorse somebody else’s idea, “DUDE! That is the best fucking idea I have ever heard of!”
Preparations are made. Drummer (of course) performs all the research necessary to make the ritual viable, to preserve the alibi. They choose a place just outside the park’s boundaries and decide that midnight reasons to be the most optimal time.
The band dons traditional Satanist robes that Drummer procured from Etsy user SatanicClothing.
Black candles are lit. Silver chalice filled with wine.
Drummer begins by invoking the Four Crowned Princes of Hell. Next he recites the following invocation to Satan himself:
“In the name of Satan, Almighty and Impenetrable, Ruler of the Earth, I invite the Forces of Darkness to bestow their scorching power upon us and transform us into the most kick ass rock ‘n’ roll band in all the realms. Open the Gates of Hell, come forth and greet us as your brothers.”
Meanwhile, the band’s merch dude had placed anonymous calls to both the police and the media.
The bandmates each take a drink from the hoary chalice. In unison, they chant, “HAIL SATAN!”
Numerous flashlight beams pierce through the trees. The leaves crackle beneath black combat boots as the police cite the entire band for trespassing.
A single iPhone flashlight soon follows. The leaves crackle beneath a pair of worn out Tevas as a college newspaper reporter interviews the entire band.
The next day the article hits and as predicted, it goes viral. I’m talking like Zika and Ebola fajita meat wrapped up in a The Plague tortilla kind of viral.
At band practice later that evening Lead Singer celebrates, “Can you believe it fellas? We did it! Mostly I did it, but we fucking did it guys! We’re famous!”
Lead Guitarist only slightly disagrees with Lead Singer, “Well actually, the drummer did it, but yes, we are famous as fuck!”
Bassist still does not care; he stares at the Pabst Blue Ribbon-stained rug.
Drummer however, he looks concerned … tremendously concerned.
Lead Singer is put upon at the sight of this particular #drummerface, “What’s up with you bro? You did it! We are the number one trending topic on Twitter. We sold over 300,000 records in one day! What gives?”
“We’re going to Hell.”
“What? We’re Nones, you don’t seriously believe that shit?”
“Yea, I know it worked. That’s what we’re saying!”
“No, YOU listen to what I’M saying. My research, it was TOO good. The ritual, it really worked.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Earlier today I jammed on my electro kit, ya know, just messin’ with the usual warm up stuff for practice. Then, like a flash, I started pulling off all kinds of gnar gnar hand-foot combos and blast beats … WITH dynamics!”
“Say that again but this time in English not dork-a-tron drummer-speak.”
“Fuck it, just listen. Hey Bassist, play that crazy bridge section from track 3.”
Bassist not only crushes that crazy bridge section from track 3, he marches straight passed it moving seamlessly into a 5-minute long bass solo surpassing JPJ-level bass playing brilliance.
[Awkwardly long hella extended silence]
Lead singer gravely concedes, “We’re going to Hell dudes. We’re going to Hell."
about the word writer person:
Prewitt Scott-Jackson writes Dad poetry & short fiction when he's not hyping and typing for Fort Worth Noise. His writing can be found in Ghost City Press (New York), Five 2 One Magazine (Los Angeles), Prairie Schooner (University of Nebraska Press) and Sick Lit Magazine (Texas), among others. He prefers short walks on the beach because – and I quote – “It’s really hard to walk on sand.”