Ultimate New York By Night

Events of Interestingly Epic Proportion

Wow... Sh*t Happens...

SCN convened at the studio space to write and practice our songs for the upcoming record. We were f*cking stoked. We had no real idea what we were dragging ourselves into, but we were more than enthused about it. We were working on a new piece, entitled “Murder Hurt Her”, and it was going epically.

“Alright, let’s clean up the bridge section towards the end there,” I called to slEDGe, SLyMe , and Scott “ShAnK” Hemato. They nodded in agreement, and with a cymbal count-off from SLyMe, we jumped back onto the high-tempo passage that was giving us a lot of trouble. My bass line probably was the most simple part of this jam sequence, but that’s still not saying much.
I didn’t flub my line this time though. I hear a metallic clack and a loud “Son of a b*tch!” as SLyMe’s cymbal splits and is sent flipping through the air. SLyMe drops his sticks and catches the flying piece of metal in mid-flight, which cuts his hand and leads him into another scream-fest.
“Cock-sucker!” He roars, as he hurls the metal fragment onto the ground and storms out of the rehearsal space. sLEDGe and ShAnK look at each other, and then me, in confusion. I shrug then say, “I think that’s enough for the day, guys. He needs to cool off and get his stuff in order. Practice your parts until your hands can’t move anymore. Sound like a plan?”
They nod in unison.
“Right, then. See you guys tomorrow night.” I switch off my amp and get to the ass-pain of a process of packing my sh*t up.

I bolt the door to my appartment and sit the guitar-case and amp down in my room. I check the seals on my windows to make sure everything is still in line. Then, I go back to the living room, pick up the remote, switch on the TV, and flop down on the couch to sift through the channels only to realize that I just sat on something that didn’t feel like a cushion. I pluck the foreign object from the ass of my pants and stare at it. It was a thick, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper, with a note jutting out of it.

I pluck the note, in a display of obscene curiosity and unneeded glee, and read the formal cursive of a very familiar hand-writing.

“This is to be read three days after you believe me to be dead”

My eyes widen, as I flip the card open.

“This is my journal of political rantings and plans for the Elysium. Use it to the best of your abilities and follow their directions to the “T”.

Signed, Alan Buchanan
P.S. Kill Victor, that fucking snake!"

I stare out into the open space for a few seconds after reading that line. Then, my eyes widen in excitement, and a vicious, blood thirsty smile crosses my face.



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