The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion by Chris McCoy Page B

You haven’t written a new song in five years. ”
    â€œIt’s not my fault if I’m still waiting for inspiration’s gentle touch,” said Skark. “It will come, it always does. I wrote my first album in a weekend.”
    â€œYeah, but you were good then,” said Cad. “Your head was clear. And what was that crap about Ferguson?”
    â€œFerguson sent me a letter threatening to sabotage ourshows,” said Skark. “Don’t pretend like I’m being unreasonable with my security concerns.”
    â€œFerguson hasn’t been in the band in nine years , and he’s been sending us threatening letters the entire time ,” said Cad. “He never does anything. ” Cad pointed to the open bottle of Spine Wine in Skark’s hand. “Your habits are making you paranoid, man.”
    Skark grabbed Cad by the neck. Cad might have been in excellent physical condition, but Skark was far taller and built like a powerful, wine-fueled insect. He squeezed Cad’s throat.
    â€œAfter all this time together, it appears you still think this band is a democracy,” he said. “If I say we will have a new set of material by Friday, we will have it. Until then, keep your mouth shut and play your bass.”
    Skark released his grip and Cad fell to the ground, gasping for air. A roadie tried to help him up, but Cad waved him off.
    â€œIf I wanted to play with a washed-up singer, I would have stayed in Atlantic City,” said Cad, wiping spittle away from his mouth with his arm.
    â€œI hate to interrupt you while you’re re-creating your normal scene,” said Driver. “But the bus needs to leave now or we’re going to be late for our next gig, so if you have more fists to throw, I suggest you get it out of your system….”
    â€œLeave without me, I don’t care, I’m out,” said Cad, climbing to his feet and walking away.
    â€œGood Lord, you quit the band every week,” said Skark.
    â€œ And why do you think that is?” said Cad. “Maybe it hassomething to do with me wanting to leave the band. Imagine that.”
    Driver sighed and shrugged and headed back in the direction of the bus, while the roadies put their heads down and tried not to make eye contact with Skark as they packed up gear, placed instruments in cases, and loaded amplifiers onto their trucks.
    When Driver’s drum set rolled past, Skark grabbed a polished cymbal and held it up to his face like a mirror. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his makeup, which was smeared from the confrontation. He looked at me.
    â€œWould you please stop staring?” said Skark. “You’re like a pestiferous canine looking for a handout.”
    â€œI saw my prom date on the All-Universe Nature Channel,” I said. “She’s at the Ecological Center for the Preservation of Lesser Species, and everyone there is chasing her. If I don’t get to her before they do…”
    â€œLet me once again make this clear, because you’re having trouble understanding,” said Skark, placing the handkerchief back in his pocket and staring at me. “Even if Jyfon was on the way to our next gig, we wouldn’t stop this tour to get your prom date. What we are doing now is calculated preparation for the Dondoozle Festival. We can’t afford distractions.”
    â€œYou sure seemed distracted out there tonight,” I said.
    Skark poked his fingernail into my chest and pushed. He could have broken the skin if he wanted.
    â€œMind your mouth or I’ll make sure you find yourselfburning up in some distant atmosphere,” he said. “You wouldn’t be the first stowaway I’ve had to dispose of when he became too conspicuous a presence. I should have seen through your cheeseburger scheme, using me for cheap transportation and a way to the stars.”
    Skark walked back toward the bus, crushing a soda can under