Shuffle ain’t on. Warren Zevon is pulling at my heartstrings with “Play it All Night LongBad Luck Streak in Dancing School



Cillian locked the door to his room. He grabbed a spliff out of the cigarette case in his guitar bag and walked to his turn table and hit play. He withdrew the gun from the waistband of his trousers and stared at it for a moment, then put the gun next to his bed and let the Lou Reed album expound on his thoughts. He lit up the spliff stared up at the stars, the legends; the Stones, The Beatles, Sabbath, Oasis, Iggy, Lizzy, The Velvet Underground, Bowie, Rory… He preferred concert posters, ones with stage pictures that showed the holy and awesome power and attitude of rock n roll with tens of thousands of screaming fans.

Vinyl stacks the wall surrounding the turn table contained every b side no one else knew about, including a Robert Johnson rare recording of “Crossroad Blues” supposedly performed at a roadhouse next to the legendary crossroads mentioned in the song. On the opposite wall above the bed smaller posters and flyers for records and gigs for every discontinued band he had ever been in, starting with his first when he was eleven. They were The Knotheads – him and Gareth – they played punk covers of a mid-century pop songs… it was shite

Cillian stared off from the edge of the bed. Guitars filled a corner: A Les Paul, a Hummingbird, a PRS McCarty. He thought about picking one up, but decided against it. He exhaled forcefully and enjoyed the feeling of the nicotine and THC working in tandem.

Fuck what that creep said. He knew this was in him.

He could fix this, make this work. He had to. Becoming a rock star was his destiny. He knew it. he knew what was inside him

Cillian could still hear the imp’s words in his head

These things happen


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