The tour van was parked in a desolate corner of a truck stop in rural Kansas, surrounded by flat plains, distant wind turbines, and not much else. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken grievances and the lingering scent of artificial bacon spray.

Gabriel sat sprawled on the long couch, sipping coffee like it held the secrets of the universe. Maya stood near the kitchenette, arms crossed, one brow raised like a queen awaiting her judgment. Jonah paced back and forth at the center of the lounge like a man preparing closing arguments for a trial that might end in bloodshed.

Thane, seated at the head of the table with his arms crossed and icy blue eyes locked in kill mode, banged a fist against the faux-wood surface. “Alright. Tour Van War Council is now in session. Someone tell me why there’s a bite mark on the emergency fire extinguisher and why our drummer smells like a Mardi Gras float that died in a microwave.”

Jonah spun on his heel. “Because these two,” — he pointed violently between Gabriel and Maya — “have declared WAR on basic decency.”

Gabriel raised his cup. “It was performance art.”

Maya smirked. “It was justice.”

Mark, in his usual gruff monotone from the back, muttered, “It was Tuesday.”

Rico slid into a seat beside Thane, quietly munching cereal from a Solo cup and watching the drama unfold like it was morning cartoons. “Continue.”

Jonah slammed the drum throne onto the center of the table. It let out a low, squeaky groan. “This thing has been violated. It moaned when I sat on it. It moaned, Gabriel.”

Gabriel, straight-faced, took a long sip. “You should feel flattered.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, and fixed a glare on the entire room. “Okay. This has to stop. No more glitter bombs. No more bacon oil in shampoo bottles. No more seducing inanimate objects for shock value. We are on tour. This is not ‘Prank Olympics: 2025 Edition.’”

Mark, still leaning in the hallway with his arms crossed, added helpfully, “You forgot the goat sounds app played on loop through the PA system at 3 AM.”

Gabriel raised a finger. “Technically, that was my contribution to the cultural enrichment of the van.”

Maya growled. “He was trying to summon eldritch barnyard spirits, I swear.”

Thane leaned forward slowly. “So help me, if anyone—and I mean anyone—so much as whispers the word ‘mayonnaise’ near my bunk again, I will reroute this van to the nearest swamp, and we will all get out.”

Jonah sat down, rubbing his temples. “I just want peace. And a new drum throne that doesn’t moan at me.”

Gabriel reached over, gently patting his shoulder. “I’ll get you one that purrs instead.”

“NO!!!”

Rico raised his spoon. “Motion to install security cameras.”

Thane grunted. “Motion denied. I don’t want to know what happens when the lights go out.”

Maya raised her hand. “Motion to launch phase two of the war under cover of darkness?”

“Denied!”

Gabriel leaned back. “Motion to rename the drum throne ‘Sebastian’ and treat him with dignity.”

“DENIED!”

Jonah stood, pointing at Gabriel. “I’m watching you, coffee wolf. You’re one glitter sneeze away from getting duct-taped to the roof.”

Thane slammed the gavel (which was just a rolled-up setlist). “Council adjourned. No more pranks, or I swear I will superglue this entire tour into submission.”

The room was silent… for three seconds.

Mark coughed.

The drum throne moaned.

Gabriel burst out laughing.