From Crushed Velvet Miasma...
Eugene narrowed his eyes, apparently remembering my life-long lack of a social security card and other identifying documents. "Dude? You got a paycheck?"
"Well, no," I admitted. "Cash bucks. But it was a full time job. Sort of. And I got paid extra whenever groupies stormed the stage and I had to toss them back into the audience." The rock and roll equivalent of combat pay.
"Wow. That's tight. Why'd you quit?"
"I didn't quit. The band broke up. Just when they were breaking through, too."
He gave me his full attention. "Why?"
I flashed on that last Miasma concert, the shouts of rage, the instruments splintering, the sweat, the blood, and the tears. I still had the newspaper clippings stashed somewhere. And I had the obituary page from a few weeks later, the one with Fingers' picture. "Long story."
Author Bio - Mike Nettleton
Author Bio - Carolyn J. Rose
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