The moment Gabriel set foot on the stage—a spray-painted plywood riser with “Rock It, Cletus!” still faintly visible beneath the black paint—his clawed foot stuck to something.

“Either that’s a stage booger,” he muttered, “or crawfish juice is way more adhesive than I expected.”

Cassie pointed to the stage-left monitor. “Why is that wedge covered in duct tape that says ‘DO NOT SING HERE’?”

Thane checked the patch bay and grimaced. “Because if you do, it feeds back so hard it calls the dead.”

Jonah was crawling under his drum setup—wedged between what looked like a folding table and a fake cactus—to figure out why one of his toms was wobbling like a nervous chihuahua.

“Uh… guys?” he called. “There’s a mouse. Just… chillin’ in the kick drum. I think it’s judging me.”

Mark was high up on a shaky scissor lift made from an unholy mix of rebar, rust, and prayer. He had managed to secure two surviving VL2Bs to the flimsy truss overhead.

“Don’t bump the fogger,” he called through comms. “It’s directly wired into the breaker for the snack bar. Again.”

Maya let out a full-body sigh and glared at her mic stand, which had all the stability of a Jenga tower in an earthquake. “If this collapses mid-set again, I swear on every string I’ve ever broken, I will eat it.”

Gabriel was mid–bass thrum when one of the fluorescent lights above them fizzled, sparked, and then flickered back to life—revealing that the venue ceiling still had disco balls from the skating rink days… and possibly a squirrel nest.

Cassie laughed. “This is either gonna be the best show we’ve ever played or a paranormal crime scene.”

Thane barked into comms, “Let’s get it over with. Line check. Pray to whatever gods are listening.”

Five minutes into soundcheck:

  • Maya’s strap broke and she did try to play with her teeth.
  • Gabriel tripped over an extension cord and almost took out a full speaker tower.
  • Rico knocked over a paper crawfish mascot that somehow burst into flames.
  • Jonah’s snare stand collapsed and the mouse retreated, unimpressed.
  • Cassie shredded her throat trying to sing over the venue’s popcorn machine whine.
  • The lighting rig shorted during the fog test, cutting power to the bouncy house next door—mid-birthday party.

Mark, from his post near the breaker box, sighed. “Congratulations. We’ve broken everything. Including childhood.”

Thane slowly lowered his headset mic. “I’m starting to miss the birthday party gig.”

Gabriel, sweat-soaked, claws covered in stage grime, looked up and grinned. “Still better than Tulsa.”

The band collectively agreed.

Even the mouse seemed to nod.