Story Room brought down the house last night at Rocky’s. Literally, because the MaGill home next door fell off the edge of town with the vibrations. Thump thump thump thump from 6 to 12. Everyone in Astarte loved it, though. Teebestia actually turned into a black woman for several minutes of “Fire Ants,” much to the surprise of accompanying Hoss. A minute after 12 he asked her out on a date. “Sure,” she said, doused in sweat and still wildly swaying to the music only in her head now. “Malone Central okay? They have a new Starbucks.” And so another couple was created in Olde Lapara Towne, adding to Nancy and Danny, Bettie and Buster, Tronesisia and Peter, Mary and Paul. Another happy ending. But what of Rocky? His piano eliminated from the stage due to lack of space, he sulked in the back. Even Terry had brought a date: Wanesa, the local butcher. He pondered his options while watching lead singer Improvio pretend-spitting into the crowd for the umpteenth time. Stay here in Olde Lapara Towne and go back to his crawlspace in the hotel, or head to Collagesity with Baker Bloch, Wheeler Wilson, and maybe a couple of others. Lamb had left the scene just before the concert began. Peter, Paul and Mary, each loaded down with as much weedy grass as their backpacks could hold, had used the sand dune/sand castle portal located directly beneath Rocky’s to transfer to Melancholy Island, with a change in disposition there surely to follow. They would never return to the town which had displaced pastoral folk music in their hearts with the sturm und drang of punk. Thanks to that cursed ring.
(to be continued)