Category: Tour Life Page 17 of 22

The next morning, the band arrived bleary-eyed and still buzzed from Cassie’s accidental takeover at the venue. They’d been booked for a live on-air interview at a local alt-rock radio station—Z95.1 The Foxhole—known less for thoughtful music coverage and more for fart soundboards, obnoxious jingles, and DJs with names like “Dingo” and “The Badger.”

Feral Eclipse stepped into the cramped glass-walled studio at 7:45 a.m., greeted by the overpowering smell of coffee, artificial maple syrup, and whatever unholy body spray Dingo wore like war paint.

“YOOOOO!” Dingo howled, punching the “AIR HORN” button twice. “It’s your boys—and girls—and wolves—from the band that made last night explode harder than a diet soda in a dryer! Say it loud—it’s FERAL ECLIIIIIPSE!”

He mashed the soundboard again. Fart noise. Explosion. Goat scream.

Maya blinked slowly. “I already hate this.”

Cassie flopped into the interview couch, oversized sunglasses hiding the regret in her soul. “I could still be sleeping.”

Jonah groaned, nursing an energy drink. “I should still be sleeping.”

Gabriel was the only one beaming, tail swishing lazily as he leaned into the mic. “Morning, Foxhole!”

Dingo grinned. “So, uh… let’s get into it. For those of you who don’t know, Feral Eclipse is like… part human, part werewolf, part musical hurricane, am I right?”

Badger chimed in: “And last night y’all howled. Literal howling! That’s your gimmick, right?”

Thane leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “It’s not a gimmick. It’s just how we are.”

Dingo gave a wheezy laugh. “Sure, sure. But c’mon — what’s it really like sharing a stage with a bunch of howling, barefoot, clawed-up werewolves?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Maya took off her sunglasses, locked eyes with Dingo, and said in her calmest, most terrifying voice:
“Like standing in front of a speeding train made of teeth and distortion pedals.”

Cassie snorted. Jonah choked on his drink.

Thane grinned just enough to show fang. Gabriel wagged a finger playfully. “You poked the wrong female, Dingo.”

The interview spiraled from there.

They were asked if the band hunted groupies under the full moon.

Maya responded by asking if Dingo hunted brain cells in the dark.

Badger wanted to know if Gabriel’s claws helped him play bass better.

Gabriel shrugged. “Helps me open beer cans.”

Thane was asked if his job as a tech manager was “just plugging stuff in.”

His audio cable was in his hand faster than a viper strike. “Wanna find out what this does if I wrap it around your mic?”

Jonah was asked nothing, because he fell asleep mid-interview with his head on Cassie’s shoulder.

And by the time they wrapped, the station had exactly one usable clip: Gabriel laughing, saying, “We’re a weird band, yeah. But we’re real. We don’t need fake howls or pre-recorded tracks. What you hear? That’s us. Raw, sweaty, and sometimes covered in confetti, but it’s us.”

---

Outside the studio, walking to the van

Maya muttered, “I should’ve punched that guy.”

Cassie shrugged. “I would’ve held him down.”

Thane just rubbed his temples. “No more radio. Ever.”

Gabriel leaned over to him with a wicked grin.
“But what if the next one has a buffet?”

Cassie never meant to be the frontwoman of Feral Eclipse.
Originally? She was just the backup vocalist.
Mostly tambourine. Sometimes keys. Definitely not lead anything.

Jonah was the original singer—front and center, gritty vocals, lots of swagger. He could wail through a distortion pedal and command a crowd like he was born in a stadium.
But after one particularly chaotic gig at a dive bar with a sketchy fog machine and a stage no bigger than a shower mat, everything changed.

---

Six months earlier – Flashback

The band was mid-set. Jonah stepped forward to belt the chorus of “Midnight Riptide”—their big closer.
He hit the wrong reverb pedal, tripped over a half-coiled cable, and faceplanted into a monitor with a sound so loud, the crowd thought it was part of the act.

Cassie, frozen at the side of the stage with a mic in hand and wide, terrified eyes, heard Thane yell in her earpiece:
“CASSIE! COVER HIM—NOW!”

With zero conscious thought, she stepped up, snatched Jonah’s fallen mic, and absolutely tore into the chorus like a banshee possessed.
The crowd lost their minds.

Mark, from the lighting booth, later described it as “the musical equivalent of watching someone discover they could breathe fire by accident.”

---

Backstage, post-set

Jonah sat with an ice pack on his face and a smirk that said he wasn’t mad about it. “Well… turns out I’m a better drummer than a lead vocalist anyway.”

Cassie was still shaking. “I thought I was gonna puke.”

Gabriel clapped her on the back. “Then why’d you sound like a war goddess?”

“I blacked out. I don’t even remember it.”

Thane just grinned. “Good. Keep blacking out then.”

Jonah raised his hand. “Call it now—Cass is the front. I’m movin’ to drums.”

Maya squinted. “Wait… can you actually play drums?”

Jonah: “Better than I can walk on stage without breaking a limb.”

---

Now

Cassie owns the mic like she was born with it.
Jonah absolutely rips on drums, complete with flying sticks, acrobatic fills, and that feral grin he never used as a singer.
And every time “Midnight Riptide” comes around, Cassie makes damn sure to stomp that chorus like it owes her rent.

The morning after Fred’s surprise onstage cameo, the tour van was unusually quiet—mainly because Gabriel had lost his voice from screaming “HOWL WITH ME, FRED” no less than nine times during the encore.

Thane sipped his diet Mountain Dew with his claws wrapped tightly around the can like it had personally wronged him. Mark, of course, was already deep into his daily crossword, mumbling threats at a particularly devious five-letter word for “stage fog.”

Then Thane’s phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

*Hi! Mayor Patterson here. We’d like to present Feral Eclipse with a Key to the City this afternoon. We also have several angry complaints about ‘the wolf with the glowing eyes’ howling at our senior citizens, but let’s focus on the first thing. 🙂 *

Thane stared.

Gabriel, now wrapped in a hoodie and nursing a hot tea like a recovering banshee, looked up with a hoarse: “Did we win something?”

“You, specifically, terrified local retirees and are now being honored for it.”

Mark didn’t even look up. “Sounds about right.”

---

City Hall – 3:00 PM

The entire band filed into the council chambers, clearly out of place among floral upholstery and oil paintings of mayors past.

Gabriel’s hoodie was replaced with a leather jacket. His voice was back to a raspy whisper—just enough to mutter, “I feel like a rock ‘n roll Grim Reaper.”

Rico had managed to tape a “Feral Eclipse” sticker over his bass drum that he brought for the photo op. Jonah brought… himself. And Maya, bless her, had a guitar case, a toothpick, and zero patience.

Cassie was livestreaming the whole thing. “This is going to be either legendary or a misdemeanor.”

The mayor approached in a pressed suit and trembling hands, holding a plaque and a large ceremonial key. “It is with great honor— and mild concern—that we recognize Feral Eclipse for their… unique cultural contribution to our city.”

A polite cough. “Please, someone… uh… step forward.”

Fred, standing beside the group in his now slightly upgraded “FERAL GRANDPA – ROAD CREW” hoodie, shoved Gabriel aside and stepped up.

“I accept this key on behalf of the wolves, the humans, and the sheer madness we unleash nightly.”

The mayor blinked. “Sir, are you in the band?”

Fred grinned. “Not yet.”

Mark coughed to cover a laugh. Maya full-on snorted.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “Should we correct him?”

Thane sipped his drink, deadpan. “Nope. Let him have it. Honestly, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if we say no.”

The press cameras flashed. Fred raised the key in triumph. Somewhere in the back, an old lady from the retirement home fainted with joy.

---

Later That Night

A new sticker now graced the van’s sliding door:
“KEY TO THE DAMN CITY.”
With a crude drawing of Fred howling under it.

Fred, now fully outfitted in a custom “Feral Grandpa” tee and a trucker hat that said “HOWL, DAMMIT”, had somehow become the official senior emissary between Feral Eclipse and the retirement home next door.

“Listen,” he said, sitting backstage on an amp case like a mob boss, “Eunice in 2B says she’ll call the cops if your soundcheck rattles her teeth again. But… Doris in 4A wants to know if the tall black-furred one is single.”

Gabriel blinked. “What?”

“She saw you on the venue’s Facebook page. She thinks you’re ‘mysterious.’”

Mark nearly choked on his water bottle.

Meanwhile, the soundcheck was proving… difficult. The moment Jonah tested the kick drum, every loose ceiling tile in the green room trembled. Rico’s quick snare roll caused a piece of decorative molding to fall off the balcony. And Maya’s amp—set to her usual “scorch the demons” level—triggered some sort of city-wide seismograph alert, apparently.

Thane, hunched over the audio rack, groaned. “I can feel this venue judging me.”

Outside, two elderly women were peeking through the venue’s side door, one clutching a purse like it might ward off evil, the other clearly hoping for a glimpse of a shirtless Gabriel.

Fred leaned toward Gabriel again. “Now, about Doris…”

Thane stomped over. “Can we not sell our bassist to the geriatric community?”

Gabriel shrugged. “He’s got charisma. I respect that.”

Back inside, Mark activated a gentle red wash across the stage for a lighting test. Unfortunately, the retirement home mistook it for a fire alarm and evacuated the east wing.

Fred returned from making amends with a tray of cookies. “Diplomacy,” he said, passing out chocolate chip apologies.

Rico grabbed one. “Fred, you’re the best thing that’s happened to this tour.”

Gabriel took two. “You’re gonna come on stage with us, right?”

Fred puffed up. “Damn right. I want in on the howl song.”

---

That night, just before the encore…

Thane leaned into Gabriel. “You really sure about this?”

“He earned it,” Gabriel said.

And so, on the final chorus of “Lunar Burn,” the lights went wild, fog blasted high, and out onto the stage hobbled Feral Grandpa Fred—raising his cane high to the roar of the crowd.

The audience lost their minds.

Thane stood off-stage, stunned, cable draped over one shoulder.

Mark muttered over comms, “…I think I actually like this guy.”

Gabriel grinned, howled at the ceiling, and pointed at Fred like he was the goddamn finale.

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.”

The hotel lobby smelled faintly of cinnamon rolls, chlorine, and something that might’ve been disappointment. Thane stood near the front desk, arms crossed, wearing the universal face of a man who’d slept on a van bench, wrangled half a lighting rig into a trailer at 2 AM, and still hadn’t had his diet Mountain Dew.

Gabriel, by contrast, was happily curled into a lobby armchair like it was his personal throne. He had a triple-shot iced coffee in one clawed hand, his phone in the other, and his tail swishing with pure morning glee. Mark stood nearby, flipping through a weathered paperback titled Lighting the Apocalypse: A Memoir.

Then came the lobby fans.

The front desk clerk peeked over the counter. “Umm, Mr. Thane? There’s… someone here to see you guys?”

Thane’s ears flicked. “Us?”

The lobby doors slid open, and in came three people in full-blown, homemade werewolf costumes. Like… dollar-store fur, glued-on claws, and enough makeup to choke a MAC store.

“Oh, no,” Mark muttered, already regretting waking up.

Gabriel lit up. “YES. I love commitment.”

One of the fans approached with a gift bag held reverently in both hands. “We’ve been following Feral Eclipse since the underground demos! You saved my life during my second divorce! This is for you.”

Thane accepted the bag warily, like it might be ticking.

Inside was a hand-drawn comic titled “Thane’s Thicc Claw Chronicles”—an epic saga of him slashing through evil with heroic thighs and glowing paws.

Mark read over his shoulder and nearly dropped his book. “I—Is that me in a maid outfit?”

The fan beamed. “Yes! You’re the voice of reason in chapter seven!”

Gabriel, sipping his coffee, held back laughter. Barely. “Please tell me there’s a musical number.”

Another fan leaned in. “Gabriel, I knitted you a cozy for your bass guitar. It’s got paw prints and your face. It’s reversible.”

“Bless your chaotic soul,” Gabriel grinned, accepting it like a golden idol.

The third fan, who’d been silently staring at Mark this whole time, finally blurted, “You’re my favorite. You look like you’d destroy me with one look. That’s so hot.”

Mark blinked. “Thanks. I guess?”

The desk clerk was now actively trying to not die of laughter. Gabriel finally stood, looping an arm around Thane.

“Hey, big guy,” he whispered, “you ok?”

Thane looked dazed. “I need a drink. A strong one. Preferably without glitter in it.”

From across the lobby, the fans began excitedly taking selfies—with Gabriel cheerfully posing, Mark halfway behind a ficus, and Thane visibly questioning every decision that had led him here.

Gabriel winked at the camera.

“Feral Eclipse, baby. Changing lives—and maybe your search history.”

Post-brunch. A couple of band members still look traumatized from “Raging Moon Toast.” The crew has wandered downstairs, some bleary-eyed, some still riding the adrenaline from the night before. Gabriel’s sipping his fourth coffee. Thane’s carrying a coil of audio cable for no reason. Mark looks like he’s regretting everything. Again.

A hotel clerk at the front desk waves them down. “Uh… excuse me? Are you guys… Feral Eclipse?”

Maya sighs. “Yeah, what gave it away? The claws? The caffeine aura? The faint smell of fog machine?”

The clerk looks unsure whether to laugh or run. “There’s… a package for you. Actually, a few. They’ve been coming in all morning.”

Jonah steps forward, curious. “Fan stuff?”

“Maybe?” the clerk says, wheeling out a luggage cart stacked with colorful boxes, envelopes, and at least three weirdly shaped gift bags.

Gabriel grins. “OH HELL YES. PRESENTS.”

Rico raises a brow. “Or pipe bombs.”

Maya mutters, “Honestly, both are on-brand for our fanbase.”

Thane opens the first envelope, reading aloud:

“To the alpha with the icy stare and the thighs of destiny—
Enclosed is a handmade thong made of ethically sourced faux wolf fur. I hope it finds you well. – ‘LunarLover93’.”

He deadpans. “I hate this planet.”

Mark opens a box and immediately slams it shut again. “Nope. That’s taxidermy. Nope nope nope.”

Gabriel eagerly rips into a box. Inside is a glitter-covered portrait of him drawn entirely in coffee stains. He holds it up proudly. “LOOK. IT’S ME. MADE OF BEANS.”

Jonah pulls out a small package addressed to “Drum Daddy.” He opens it and pulls out… a rubber chicken. With fangs. And tiny drumsticks taped to its sides.

There is silence.

Then Jonah says, deadpan, “This is my new emotional support item.”

Gabriel gently clutches the coffee portrait to his chest. “I’m gonna hang this above my side of the van bunk.”

Rico finds a rolled-up poster tube and opens it—revealing fan art of Thane and Gabriel as anime wolf princes in sparkly outfits, standing on a mountain of speakers and hearts.

Thane groans. “WHY ARE WE SPARKLY?!”

Maya’s cackling. “Because you’re someone’s OTP, apparently.”

Mark unearths a hand-sewn plushie of himself. It has a tiny scowl, clawed feet, and a felt coffee cup glued to its paw. He stares at it for a long moment. Then carefully tucks it under his arm without a word.

Gabriel gently nudges Thane. “You okay?”

Thane gives him a flat look. “I’m one taxidermy fan letter away from setting this entire rack of mail on fire.”

Gabriel beams. “You’re doing great.”

Just then, the clerk leans back out and nervously adds, “Oh! There’s… also someone waiting in the lounge who says they made you all something special.”

Everyone freezes.

Rico: “Is it edible?”

Jonah: “Is it legal?”

Maya: “Is it emotionally safe?”

Gabriel, eyes sparkling: “I HOPE IT’S ALL THREE.”

Post-gig, sun peeking through half-closed blackout curtains. A coffee machine wheezes in the background. Thane and Mark are groaning awake on opposite couches. The air smells like… is that burnt cinnamon?

Gabriel stood in front of the hotel kitchenette’s stovetop like it was a stage rig, shirtless, tail swishing behind him in full concentration. Clawed hands held a spatula like it was his bass. Something sizzled angrily in the pan. Something that had once been French toast. Maybe.

Thane sat up, blinking hard. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

Gabriel turned, wide-eyed and way too cheerful for the morning after a show. “Brunch, obviously.”

Mark grunted without opening his eyes. “Something’s on fire.”

“It’s caramelizing,” Gabriel shot back proudly. “I saw it on TikTok. You just gotta blast the heat and flip it with confidence.”

“You’ve been watching cooking TikToks again?” Thane narrowed his eyes.

“Uh huh. Gordon Ramsay. But like… werewolf style.” Gabriel beamed, gesturing at the pan where something vaguely food-shaped had fused with the non-stick surface. “I added Red Hots, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and uh… that little bottle of vodka from the mini fridge.”

Mark opened one eye. “That’s not French toast. That’s arson on bread.”

Gabriel flipped the entire pan’s contents onto a plate with dramatic flair. The result thudded. Hard. Like drywall.

“I call it Raging Moon Toast!” he announced triumphantly, handing the plate to Thane with a toothy grin.

Thane stared at it. Then at Gabriel. Then back at the plate. “This looks like something I’d scrape off a subwoofer grill.”

“I’m touched,” Gabriel said, completely unbothered.

Mark groaned. “I’m not eating that. I have a death wish, but not that kind.”

Thane braced himself, tore off a chunk, and popped it in his mouth.

A pause.

He blinked.

Then his ears went flat. “Gabriel.”

“Yeah, Thane?”

“Did you just combine sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, vodka, and spicy candies and try to fry it in a hotel pan with no butter?”

Gabriel looked very pleased with himself. “You can taste the ambition, right?”

Thane slowly stood up, staring at the burnt-red slab in his hand. “I can hear my arteries crying.”

Mark muttered, “I’m putting in an order for real breakfast. If anyone wants something not soaked in danger, speak now.”

Gabriel took a proud bite of his own chaotic creation and immediately winced. “…okay maybe a little less vodka next time.”

The smoke alarm chirped once in sympathy.

The bass is rattling the roof. The crowd is in an absolute frenzy. Sweat flies from every limb on stage. Fog pours out in massive bursts. The lights are strobing like lightning trapped in a cage.

Gabriel is tearing through the bassline, clawed fingers a blur, black fur soaked, fangs bared in pure exhilaration. He stomps across the stage like he owns it—and let’s be real, right now? He does.

Maya’s got the rhythm churning like a damn freight train, slamming each chord with a feral twist of her hips, her eyes wild under the rig lights. She looks over at Rico, who’s blazing through the solo so fast his strings might catch fire.

Mark doesn’t even blink. He punches the cue—BOOM. Pyro goes off, flames leaping skyward like fire demons. The VL2Bs behind the truss fire downward with deep red beams slashing through smoke like bloodied claws.

And then…

CRACK.

Everyone flinches.

Jonah—mid-drum fill—his right drumstick shatters in his grip. It flies over the snare like a splintered javelin and lands in the audience. There’s a beat of pure silence…

Then—without missing a single goddamn beat—he grabs a full, unopened Blue Moon beer bottle from behind the kit and starts drumming with that.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

The crowd loses their collective shit.

Foam sprays from the cap as Jonah slams the cymbals with the neck of the bottle like he’s conjuring thunder from hops and madness. He looks like a possessed bartender at a biker bar drum circle.

Rico sees it and howls with laughter mid-solo. Maya spins toward Jonah, her mouth open like are you freaking serious right now!?

Gabriel? He drops to his knees on stage in mock worship and bows to Jonah while still playing.

And the fans?

They’re throwing beer, screaming, chanting “JO-NAH! JO-NAH!” at the top of their lungs.

Even Mark, stoic Mark, cracks the tiniest grin as he floods the stage with blue-white strobe pulses in Jonah’s honor.

Thane throws his head back and howls, slapping the cable against the riser. “NOW that’s rock and f***ing roll!”

The curtain ripples like the breath of a monster. Behind it, tension crackles. The crowd outside is deafening—thousands of bodies, crammed shoulder to shoulder, pulsing with raw anticipation. A rhythmic chant rises from the front row: FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!

Backstage, it’s a war party.

Gabriel—sleek black fur gleaming under the stage rig, bass slung low across his chest like a weapon of mass destruction—paces like a predator. His icy blue eyes flash toward the curtain, already hearing the beat in his blood. He’s a god behind strings, and tonight, he’s ready to baptize this crowd in thunder.

Maya, rhythm guitar in hand, stands planted like a damn hurricane—sharp-eyed, hair wild, a sneer tugging at her lips. She’s already snarling under her breath: “If someone flubs this opening riff, I will bite a throat.”

Jonah, the drummer, is a machine at the kit—fingers loose, sticks spinning, heart already two measures ahead. His entire body buzzes like a live wire. “Let’s break the f***ing ground,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles.

Rico, lead guitarist, is all energy and nerves—shoulders bouncing, fingers twitching over the fretboard as he tunes. “Please don’t set anything on fire this time,” he says, not sure if he’s talking to Gabriel, Jonah, or God.

And in the wings—

Thane, towering and tense, stands with coiled audio cable in one clawed hand and a storm in his ice-blue eyes. His bare feet flex against the risers. “Mark—lighting’s ready?”

Mark, cool and composed, eyes narrowed from beneath thick gray brows, grunts. His hands hover over his custom DMX board like a conductor over a symphony of lasers. “You’ll know when I start,” he says.

Then—BOOM.

The curtain snaps upward in a blinding flash of red.

Gabriel charges forward like a bullet, slamming the opening bass line down hard enough to rattle the bones of the security guards.

Maya follows, rhythm roaring, power chords blasting through the stadium like shotgun fire. Her hair whips with every crunch of her strings.

Rico dives into his lead line, fingers blurring, mouth twisted in a grin that says hell yes we’re doing this.

And Jonah—oh god, Jonah—he detonates behind the kit, each drum strike a thunderclap, cymbals crashing like lightning at war.

The crowd. Explodes.

People scream. Cry. Climb over barricades. There’s a guy in the fifth row literally howling at the moon.

And above it all—Mark drops the hammer.

Six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the upper truss fire down jagged red beams through the fog, slicing the stage into ribbons of fire and fury. The lights are choreographed with surgical precision—ripping, flashing, biting the beat with every strobe.

Gabriel jumps to a monitor, slams his foot down, and howls into the crowd with his arms raised high.

And the crowd?

The crowd howls back.