Rock All Night

71




After I got over my bout of mortification, we talked for a little bit.

“What did you think of the mushrooms?” Killian asked.

“Did not care for them,” I answered, and proceeded to list all the messed-up phenomena I’d experienced – from the feelings of unreality, to the obsessively looping thoughts, to the complete inability to distinguish time.

“Oh my,” Killian said sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. That sounds bloody awful.”

“The first hour was good, at least.”

And the last couple were mind-blowing, I thought, though I didn’t say it out loud.

“I had something similar the second time I came here,” Killian said.

Ryan started laughing uproariously.

I stared at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Because he knows what’s comin’ next.”

“I’d forgotten about that story,” Ryan guffawed.

“What story?”

“Well, I decided I wanted to be completely free. Just free of everything. I had this overwhelming urge to unburden myself of all the trappings of the civilized world… so I threw my wallet and my keys out into the desert, and then I took off all my clothes and spent the rest of the day walkin’ around starkers.”

“Naked?!” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Got a bugger of a sunburn,” Killian confirmed. “Especially on my arse.”

I joined in laughing with Ryan.

“Took the better part of the next day to find all my stuff, too,” Killian said.

“But the best part was, he had the outline of the guitar on the front of his body!” Ryan hooted.


“He showed you?!”

“Well, of course,” Killian said. “It’s not every day you get a sunburn in the shape of a guitar.”

“Actually, it was a sunburn everywhere but the shape of the guitar,” Ryan said, wiping tears away from his eyes.

“Either way, it was bloody awful.”

“Why did you throw everything else away but the guitar?” I asked. “Why not the guitar, too?”

Killian looked at me like what I’d just said was outlandish in the extreme. “I’d never do that.”

“It’s like a baby,” Ryan said. “Even stoned out of his gourd, he’d never hurt a baby.”

“But other rock stars smash their guitars as part of their acts,” I pointed out.

By the looks they gave me, you would think I had just advocated actual infanticide.

“What?” I asked, alarmed at their expressions.

“A guitar is a beautiful piece of art,” Killian said quite seriously, like he was an adult imparting a valuable life lesson to an ignorant youngster. “You don’t go around destroying art.”

“But what about those other rock stars?”

“Bloody uncouth bastards.”

I looked over at Ryan, who still looked horrified. “What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“You wouldn’t ever smash a guitar on stage?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“HELL no.”

“Okay, now I know you’re serious, because you said ‘hell,’” I teased him.

“Ha ha,” he said, not laughing at all.

“What about Derek?”

“What about him?”

“Would he do it?”

“Of course he would, because he’s a bloody uncouth bastard,” Killian sniffed.

“And exactly why am I a bloody uncouth bastard?” Derek asked as he suddenly walked in the door, sleepy and disheveled and looking sexy as hell.

“You’d break a guitar onstage as part of the act,” Ryan explained.

“Of course,” he said as he snatched up a muffin and wolfed it down. “The best all did it. Pete Townsend, Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix – but only if he set it on fire first – ”

“Which is why we don’t let Derek near our guitars,” Ryan told me.

“I think we should start smashing lead singers on stage,” Killian said. “But only if we set them on fire first.”

“I’m down,” Derek said with a completely deadpan expression.

“Let’s save it for Bigger’s final performance, though,” Ryan said sardonically.

“Of course. The very last encore, ever.”

“Let me know beforehand, so I can insure you for a couple mil,” Killian said.

“What, for my family?”

“No, for me. Got to fund my retirement somehow.”