Jerry bolted around the corner of the venue like the opening act was a pack of debt collectors. The second he was out of Thane’s line of sight, he bent over and wheezed into the shadow of a broken vending machine. His Big Gulp sloshed wildly.

“Holy hell,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. “Call Greg. Call Greg. C’mon…”

The phone rang. And rang. Finally—

“You’ve reached Greg with All-Nite Promotions—”

He hung up and whispered, “Useless, Greg. Just like your inflatable stage dancers.”

Jerry slapped his forehead and darted into the maze of back hallways that connected the kitchen, janitorial closet, and what was generously referred to as the “green room.” He flung open a storage door and fished out a weathered metal cash box hidden behind a crate of expired Sour Punch Straws and three tattered mascot heads.

As he counted out a terrifyingly light stack of twenties, he muttered under his breath.

“No one told me they were real werewolves… I thought it was branding. Like those guys who wear Viking helmets and scream in German.”

He dropped a five on the ground, cursed, and dove after it, cracking his head on a case of discontinued energy drinks.

He staggered out of the closet, hair full of dust bunnies, clutching the envelope of his own doom. On the way back through the corridor, he passed the raccoon trap again. Sure enough, Ralph the raccoon was inside—now eating what was very clearly Maya’s emergency Pop-Tarts.

Jerry slowed down.

“…I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

He trudged on, then stopped at a water cooler with a taped-up hand-scrawled sign:

DO NOT DRINK – VERY SLIGHT SULFUR.
Jerry stared at it. Then drank anyway.

Halfway through his cup, he jumped as Logan—the unpaid college intern in a neon vest—ran up, headset tangled in his neck.

“Mr. Jerry! Mr. Jerry! I think I unplugged something important trying to get the disco ball going and now the fog machine is… uhh… breathing?”

Jerry blinked. “Breathing?”

A low huff… chuff… huff… echoed faintly from down the hall.

“Oh for the love of Meatloaf,” he muttered.

He stormed past Logan, slapping the walkie-talkie out of the kid’s hand as it squawked, “Can someone tell the guy in the parking lot with a ferret on his shoulder he’s not part of the VIP meet-and-greet?”

By the time Jerry reached the stage door again, he was sweating through his khakis. He shoved the envelope toward Thane like it might bite.

“Payment. In full. Don’t kill me.”

Thane opened it. Counted. Nodded.

Jerry sighed in visible relief. Then winced when Gabriel leaned in with a wicked grin and whispered:

“Ralph says hi.”

Jerry screamed.