“Jeremy, what are all these flyers you’re putting up? You workin’ as a promoter or something?” Nick Collison asked, peering at the advertisement for a rock concert. “Jeremy and the Little Lambs? Dude, you’re in a band?”
Jeremy finished his stapling job, then turned around. “Yeah. We’ve had some lineup turbulence in the past month so we mostly just cover Crüe songs, but we’re still out there playing our hearts out for fans of true hair metal.”
“So, who else is in the Little Lambs?”
Sighing, Jeremy responded, “Well, Ryan Gomes got traded, so we had to find a new drummer. I managed to get Kendrick to fill in on an interim basis, but if we’re being honest with each other, he can’t pull off the required hyperspeed drumming necessary for music of our caliber. And we got the rookie Steven Adams on bass, but he always misses practice so when he gets on stage we just tell the guys at the mixing board to turn the bass way down.”
“Sounds like a pretty rad show,” Nick said enthusiastically. “I’ll be there for sure.”
“Tell your friends, too. Attendance has always sucked for some reason.”
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Jeremy, standing in front of the backstage mirror, adjusted the large, teaseled blond wig on his head. His glittery, sequined bodysuit was pinching him in the nads – he pulled out the offending fabric and looked over to his bandmates.
“Do we really got wear this stuff?” Kendrick asked, looking ridiculous in an orange- and teal-striped bodysuit of similar tightness to Jeremy’s own.
“Kendrick, if we’re going to play glammy hard rock, we have to look the part. Now let’s get out there and rock OKC all night long, baby!”
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The band walked on stage to find a crowd consisting of one person: their teammate Nick Collison.
“I’m not early, am I?” Nick yelled up to the stage.
“Nah, we’re supposed to start right at eight. I double-checked the flyers like, three times. Kendrick, Steven, did you put up those flyers I gave you?”
Both of his bandmates shook their heads. “You got the arena covered pretty good, so we figured, you know, how much advertisement do we really need, anyway?” Steven said. “People love us.”
“Maybe I should have lined up a supporting act. Those guys in Chains of Blasphemy probably would have been down to rock out with us,” Jeremy pondered. “Anyway, the show must go on!”
Kendrick’s stomach growled. “Actually, if it’s cool with you guys, I’m gonna head down the street to that McDonald’s we saw. I need some burgers and fries before I can do any drumming.”
“Fine, just hurry up and we’ll see if anybody else shows up for a night of loud, sleazy rock and roll.”
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“Jeremy, it’s ten o’clock. Kendrick’s not coming back and Nick is passed out at the bar. I think we should just pack up our gear and head home.”
Jeremy put his head in his purple-gloved hands. “This is my dream, man. My vision. Why don’t the people of OKC like glam?”
Putting a reassuring hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, Steven said, “Forget about them, dude. As long as we’re making music together, that’s all that should matter. Now what say we go backstage and snort some lines of cocaine? Just like our idols Whitesnake and Ratt.”
Jeremy looked up at the tall, bodysuit-clad man and smiled. “Yeah. Cocaine. The true rocker way.”