The next venue was a converted theater in a small town that proudly declared itself “The Gateway to Somewhere Slightly More Interesting.” Gabriel parked the van behind the building and immediately got a bad feeling.

The loading dock ramp was cracked and slanted like a skate park for reckless grandmothers. The side door had a handwritten sign that read:
“PLEASE KNOCK. DO NOT ANGER MARGE.”

Mark stared at the door. “Is… Marge the building manager or some sort of eldritch being?”

Maya stepped out of the van, stretching her back with a groan. “If I get tetanus from this gig, I’m invoicing someone.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, had spotted a small, metal sign bolted to the fence. It read:
“Silent After 9 PM – Retirement Community Next Door. Offenders Will Be Prosecuted.”

“Oh no,” Gabriel whispered, eyes widening with glee. “Thane… we’re about to play “Burn the Packlight” with 60,000 watts of subwoofers… next to grandmas.”

Thane slowly turned toward him, coiled audio cable already in one clawed hand. “Do not provoke the elderly.”

Inside, the venue was an actual gem—an old opera house with updated sound and gorgeous lighting potential. But the moment they plugged in, a venue rep came sprinting down the aisle with arms flailing.

“NO SOUND TEST YET! The wall shared with the senior yoga center is vibrating!”

Jonah, who had just started hitting the snare, grinned sheepishly. “Oops.”

Rico—tuning a tom nearby—looked around. “So… are we canceling the pyro?”

Thane whipped around. “We never had pyro, Rico.”

“Right. Totally theoretical question.”

While Thane argued with the venue manager about decibel limits and the precise definition of “minimal bass,” Gabriel disappeared. Ten minutes later, he returned with a new T-shirt that read “I Scared Marge” in bold letters.

“What did you do?” Thane asked.

“She yelled at me for existing too loud,” Gabriel replied, sipping coffee.

Mark had climbed into the rafters to hang lights, muttering about OSHA violations and the tragic misuse of truss clamps. Maya was duct-taping a setlist to her pedalboard and laughing every time someone said “Marge.”

Then… the door opened.

An elderly man in a beige cardigan stepped in, holding a small hearing aid in one hand and a flyer for the show in the other.

“You the loud wolf band?”

Everyone froze.

“Yes, sir,” Thane said cautiously.

The man smiled. “My name’s Fred. I’m ninety-three. Can I get a shirt that says ‘Feral Grandpa’?”

Gabriel’s grin went nova. “Sir, I will make you one right now.”