It's been a year since Daron talked to Ziggy. For him, but for me too. It's been a year since the post went live where Ziggy dove off a stack of amps and was shipped off to rehab. Tomorrow, they will be in the same room and talk... O.O
There you have it, the torture and the delight of following a long running web serial.
Have some quotes to pass the time while we wait:
If the drive to Cleveland had felt long at almost six hours with two pit stops, imagine this, twenty hours. As I stood pissing in a rest area northwest of San Antonio, I calculated that would be ten pit stops at minimum. I felt like a dog, pissing every so often to mark my trail. Jeezus.
It was almost as if there were just the three of us, and yet it was nothing like a rehearsal. Ziggy came to life, howling and leaping off the low stage, then climbing back up like a four-legged spider, and never missed a note. I got so caught up in watching him that I almost missed hitting my footpedal before the solo in our third song. I closed my eyes, then, letting the solo carry me through to the other side where I passed the strand of melody back to his voice. I opened my eyes. He was lying on the floor between my legs, making like the microphone was an ice cream cone. Or something else. I felt my breath go ragged as I closed my eyes again, felt him brush my calf as he crawled away.
“No, no, it’s okay, I mean, let me get over myself and then I’ll be fine.” I’m pretty sure that if there was a video game called Good Boyfriend that line just lost me half my points.
I felt like I was short of air even thought my breaths were long and deep. Worse, I felt myself rushing the riff, and could feel Christian pumping the kick drum more emphatically, as if sending me the message, here! The beat is here! Get with the program asshole!
The obvious solution was to jerk off. When I started, I even did the corny thing of pretending it was Jonathan’s hand. But then my mind wandered, and I went sort of in and out of a dream, and the next thing I knew I was biting the edge of the comforter to keep from crying out someone’s name, possibly the wrong someone. We’ll never know for sure, though, because I kept my fucking mouth shut.
“Can we stop talking about buttfucking!” Chris roared and then put his face down on the drum head, his long, feathered hair hiding everything. “Oh my god,” he moaned from under there.