Frain Sings the Blues
“It’s my instrument of death,” Crash screamed from stage. “And it’ll cause your wrath,” he finished, unable to find a suitable rhyme for his dark song.
Backstage, disturbed by the crowd leaving instead of begging for an encore, Crash went on a rage when I asked about his songwriting skills.
“Meth would work,” I suggested.
“Yaaasss,” Crash screamed. “Gimme some now.”
“No, no, I don’t have any meth. I meant it’s a good rhyme for death.”
His angry eyes grew three sizes. He hoisted his Fender. Twirled it above his head like a cowboy with a lasso. Flung it at me like I was a calf.
His G-string snapped. And then my neck.
* * *
Not exactly Roberta Flack killing me softly with her song, but thank goodness the weekend finally showed up. I’m gonna need Sunday to recuperate. This daily dying gets a little exhausting. See y’all back here Monday morning when I get in trouble again.