Mace the Fusic.

Our first gig was a disaster. I couldn’t figure out why.

I still can’t.

There we were, the newly formed band I named MISS, with me, Pole Sandy, on rhythm guitar, Denim Simmering on bass, 2-Of-Hearts Bailey on lead guitar and Peel Crisp on drums. We were dressed in our best business suits with shaving cream smeared all over our faces to present our rebellious image. During rehearsals we rocked our asterisks off, determined to open a whole new chapter in rock ‘n’ roll. We finally got our first gig and what happened?

Stage fright.

All four of us.

We all stood on stage, too scared to move while staring at the audience, and the audience was staring back, all 5 people in their seats with their faces clearly indicated they were here for something besides staring at four novice rock stars with a bad case of stage fright.

Just play something already. Make some noise.

But we couldn’t do a thing. The only sound was the hissing of intestinal gas from our simultaneous flatulence. I had a habit of farting each time I got nervous, but then, so did Denim. And Two-Of-Hearts. And Peel.

None of us were playing, but we were sure farting up a storm.

Then someone in the front row pulled out a cigarette lighter and before we knew it, we were airborne above a deafening barrage of fire and smoke.

Cool, pyrotechnics.

But not the kind we had in mind.

Up we flew, still in the same formation as we were on stage, still hanging on to our musical instruments. Even Peel was still seated behind his drum set. As we watched the ground below grow smaller, we saw Phil, the owner of Smoke Filled Pub who let us use his place for our ill-fated show. He himself was hurled skyward by the blast and flying in our direction. As he got closer we could see his face and it was distorted with anger.

“YOU PIECES OF SHHHHIIIIIIIIIIII-” Phil screamed, his voice sounding like the loud whistle a bottle rocket makes just before it explodes. And then Phil himself exploded in a dazzle of patriotic colors before dissipating.

We were so distracted by the fireworks that we overlooked one minor detail.

We’re falling.

We were horrified to watch the view on the ground grow larger with each passing second. We had to do something. But what?

Then I had an idea.

“Play!” I yelled. “Play as if your lives depend on it!”

Denim was confused. “But-”

“QUIT BUTTING AND START PLAYING!” I screamed.

So we started playing our set, even as we were plummeting at full speed towards the ground.

I hope this works.

As we were playing, our music formed a pocket of air that eventually broke our fall and gently landed us on the ground.

We stood silently on the ground in the same formation as we were onstage. Even Peel was still seated behind his drum set.

“That was close,” sighed Two-Of-Hearts.

Indeed it was.

Our first gig and already we’ve been to Heaven and back.

At least it wasn’t the other way around.

Apologies to Paul Stanley and KISS
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