Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

The van rolled to a sputtering stop outside Buckhorn Quick Mart & Liquor, the only gas station within twenty miles that didn’t look like it doubled as a meth lab… just a highly suspicious bottle return depot.

Mark killed the engine with a growl. “Five minutes. Fuel, caffeine, and whatever passes for food.”

“Bathroom too,” Jonah said, already bolting for the door like his bladder had filed an HR complaint.

Gabriel stepped out, stretching with a big yawn, his black T-shirt riding up slightly as he did. Two things happened instantly:

1. The automatic doorbell to the Quick Mart let out a bweep like it was dying.
2. A high-pitched gasp came from the snack aisle.

“OH. MY. GOD. It’s HIM.”

Everyone froze.

Out stepped a twenty-something woman with dyed green hair, phone in hand, wide eyes sparkling like she’d just spotted Elvis doing the Macarena. She turned the screen around to show… Gabriel. Shirtless. Flexing. Covered in glitter.

Caption: “Rawr Daddy 😈🐾 #LycanLust2023”

The entire band blinked.

Gabriel blinked harder.

“…Oh no,” he said softly. “That was a dare. That was for charity. THAT WAS PRIVATE.”

“IT’S ON REDLUSTFURRIES DOT NET,” she squealed, practically vibrating. “I run a whole fan page! You’re like… a LEGEND!”

Thane choked on his Mountain Dew mid-sip. “RedLust what now?”

Cassie dropped a protein bar. “Oh my god. I knew I recognized that abs pic from somewhere.”

Rico couldn’t stop laughing. “Dude. Dude. That site has rankings.”

Jonah came out of the bathroom, took one look at Gabriel’s face, and immediately went: “Nope. Not getting involved in whatever the hell this is.”

The girl was now circling Gabriel like she was trying to summon him with her camera app. “Can you do the howl? Like the one in the video? Please?! I have merch.” She pulled out a handmade T-shirt that read “Team Pupslut” with paw prints in… questionable placement.

Maya was screaming into a bottle of water, trying not to pass out.

Mark just walked back to the van and mumbled, “This is why I drink soda.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to ascend to another plane of existence.

“I—I can sign something,” he stammered, “but only if you promise not to tag me on anything ever again.”

She happily handed him a RedLust-branded notepad shaped like a paw print.

He signed it with shaking hands. Thane patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. “We’ve all done shameful things for gas money, my wolf. You just did it better than most.”

They all scrambled back to the van, half-laughing, half-mortified. As they pulled out, the girl waved both arms and yelled:

“WE LOVE YOU GABRIEL! TEAM PUPSLUT FOREVER!!”

Gabriel curled into a seat and groaned, “I’m never stopping at a gas station again.”

By the time the van creaked its way into the gravel parking lot of The Dusty Hollow Inn, the band was too road-worn to argue. The sign buzzed angrily with flickering neon letters—only D S Y H _ _ L _ W I N still lit—and a hand-painted banner beneath it read “NEW MANAGEMENT (WE THINK)”.

Cassie stepped out of the van, glanced at the building with one eye twitching. “This is where ghosts go to retire.”

“Does it come with free tetanus?” Maya muttered, hauling her guitar out of the back like it might catch something if it touched the ground.

The lobby smelled like burnt coffee, lemon air freshener, and failed dreams. A grizzled man behind the counter barely looked up from a TV playing static and Walker, Texas Ranger reruns.

“You the band?”

Gabriel, still hyped from the gig, beamed. “Sure are! We’re Feral Eclipse!”

The man pointed at a key rack behind him. “Pick one that’s not crooked.”

Thane narrowed his eyes. “That’s your booking system?”

“It’s worked since ‘82.”

Jonah grabbed a key labeled “Room 3 (sorta works)” and immediately sneezed. “This place smells like expired toothpaste.”

Inside the rooms? Even worse.

Room 1’s ceiling fan wobbled like it was trying to escape. Room 2 had a bathtub full of tax forms from 2006. Room 3—Jonah’s—had an unplugged mini fridge containing exactly one jar of pickles and a cassette tape labeled “DO NOT LISTEN AFTER MIDNIGHT.”

Gabriel flopped onto a bed and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of dust. “…Soft.”

Mark walked in behind him, took one look around, and said, “I’m sleeping in the van.”

“No, you’re not,” Thane replied, rubbing his temples. “If I hear you dragging an extension cord out there again, I’m sedating you.”

They tried to relax. Jonah swore his room’s toilet flushed upward. Rico claimed the wallpaper moved when he wasn’t looking. Cassie found an ancient Gideon Bible with a love letter to someone named “Cooter” tucked inside.

By 2 a.m., the power blinked out for no reason.

Mark’s voice cut through the pitch-black like a blade. “I didn’t do it this time.”

Then the fire alarm chirped once, just to say hi.

“…Okay,” Thane said, sitting up. “We’re never staying in a place that has quotes around the word ‘clean’ in the welcome packet again.”

Gabriel turned on his phone flashlight, holding it under his face like a horror movie narrator. “You think if I lick the wall I’ll get powers?”

“Do it,” Maya said instantly from across the room.

They survived the night.

Mostly.

By sunrise, they were half-dressed, caffeine-starved, and fleeing the motel like it owed them money. As they piled into the van, Jonah whispered, “I think something watched me sleep.”

Mark took a swig of warm soda and said, “Same. But it tipped its hat, so I let it be.”

The next venue on the Feral Eclipse tour route? A former church converted into a music hall in rural Missouri called The Rafter Room. The GPS nearly gave up halfway there, rerouting them past suspiciously watchful cows and a hand-painted sign that just read: “Y’all better turn back.”

The old chapel loomed like a relic of some long-forgotten saint of chaos. The steeple had a lightning rod bolted on crooked, and someone had spray-painted Rage is Holy on the side of the bell tower. Stained glass windows had been replaced with colored plexiglass. The front marquee read:

“TONIGHT: FERAL ECLIPSE
TOMORROW: BINGO & BRISKET”

Inside, pews had been cleared to make way for folding chairs and a tiny bar in what used to be the confessional booth. The “green room” was the old Sunday school office—still decorated with sun-faded Noah’s Ark posters and an unsettling number of googly eyes stuck to the ceiling.

Cassie walked in, took one look around, and deadpanned, “I feel like we’re gonna summon something just by soundchecking.”

Maya kicked over a plastic duck. “If the power goes out mid-set, I’m blaming Jesus.”

Thane was already pacing near the back wall, eyeing a breaker box that looked like it had been through at least two exorcisms. “This place has three-prong outlets but only two wires.”

Mark, perched high on a truss trying to mount a VariLite with duct tape and hope, muttered, “It’s fine. We’ve lit worse.”

Gabriel was grinning ear to ear. “This is going to be the most metal church revival ever.”

Rico wandered up holding two mic cables in either hand. “These both say ‘Lead Vocals’ in Sharpie… one’s sticky.”

“Great,” Thane groaned. “We’re gonna get electrocuted and sued.”

But when showtime hit? The crowd—mostly locals, a few confused youth group members, and one guy in a Slayer shirt holding a casserole—turned wild. The sound bounced off the vaulted ceiling in ways that made even Jonah say, “Okay, that was kinda beautiful.”

Gabriel shredded his bass so hard a section of the back wall started rattling. Maya lost a pick mid-song and improvised with a communion wafer someone had tossed on stage. Jonah launched into a solo that echoed like thunder through the old rafters.

Cassie, radiant under Mark’s chaotic lighting work, had the entire place clapping and screaming by the third song.

At one point, an elderly lady in the front row stood, held up her walker, and yelled, “THIS SLAPS!”

Backstage after the set, dripping with sweat and pure disbelief, Thane slumped into a folding chair next to the now-empty baptismal font.

“We just headlined a haunted chapel.”

Gabriel, drinking soda from a chalice he found in the back, nodded solemnly. “And brought salvation through distortion.”

Jonah blinked. “Is this sacrilegious?”

Mark walked by and slapped a clawed hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Nah. It’s rock and roll.”

The van bumped across gravel with the grace of a drunk moose. Dust clouded the windows as they pulled up to what the GPS optimistically called “Red Pines Event Pavilion.” It was, in fact, a half-rotted barn with a corrugated tin roof and a faded “Bud Light Presents: Open Mic Friday” banner barely clinging to the eaves. A neon horseshoe sign blinked “ECLIPSE TONIGHT” with a C flickering like it was on life support.

Gabriel leaned forward in his seat and peered out the windshield. “I think I’ve been here in a nightmare once.”

“Is it the smell of cow shit or the tumbleweed stuck in the fence?” Maya muttered, clutching her guitar case like it might leap out and run away.

Mark squinted through the windshield, unimpressed. “This place is haunted.”

“I’d rather hope it’s haunted,” Thane grunted. “Means the last band probably didn’t survive to leave a bad review.”

Rico, sprawled sideways with his guitar case wedged between his knees, pointed toward the double doors that looked like they were once kicked in by an angry goat. “Why is there a stuffed deer head outside the building?”

Jonah, barely awake, pulled his hoodie tighter over his head. “Please let it be taxidermy. Please.”

Inside wasn’t much better.

The “stage” was a wooden platform raised exactly six inches off the ground. It leaned just slightly to the left, as if it had opinions. A single overhead light swung gently above it, flickering like a possessed lightning bug. The only speakers in sight looked older than three of the band members combined. There were two mic stands—both duct-taped—and a jukebox in the corner blasting Toby Keith at skull-rattling volume.

The bar owner, a wiry man in a denim vest with a handlebar mustache that deserved its own zip code, stepped forward and held out a greasy hand.

“You the Eclipse fellers?”

Gabriel—ever the diplomat—grinned and shook the hand. “Yes, sir! We’re Feral Eclipse.”

The man looked around the group, pausing on Gabriel’s clawed hand and then on Mark’s towering gray-furred frame. “Damn. Y’all ain’t just a band. Y’all a damn furry convention.”

Thane inhaled sharply.

Mark put one clawed hand on Thane’s shoulder.

Gabriel held up a hand quickly. “We’re all musicians, sir. We just play a little harder than most.”

The owner snorted. “Harder, huh? We usually do country covers on Fridays, but hell, y’all can play whatever. Long as the beers flow and no one dies.”

“Low bar,” Maya muttered.

Rico wandered off toward the “dressing room,” which was actually a broom closet with a folding chair and a single fly strip swinging from the ceiling.

And yet—somehow—as soundcheck began, something shifted.

Gabriel’s first bass thrum reverberated through the rickety walls like thunder. Jonah’s drums—jammed between hay bales and a broken jukebox—exploded into rhythm. Maya’s guitar screamed defiance into the stale air.

The local crowd started drifting in—cowboys, punks, confused tourists, a dude in a tank top that read “Beers Before Fears.”

And they loved it.

They whooped. They howled. They two-stepped in the mosh pit. One guy cried.

By the time the set hit its peak, the band was on fire. Mark’s lighting rig was working overtime with whatever surviving bulbs he’d found. Thane looked like a war god behind the mixing board, soaked in sweat and growling orders into his headset mic.

And the barn? It didn’t collapse.

They played their hearts out. They screamed. They burned. They converted.

When it was over, the crowd roared for more.

Outside the barn, beneath the red Oklahoma sky, the band leaned against the van. Gabriel passed around cold sodas from a cooler someone left behind. They were sticky and half-warm, but perfect.

Mark smirked. “So. Not haunted.”

Thane took a long drink. “Worse. It was honest.”

Gabriel raised his soda. “To the barn that didn’t fall.”

Maya clinked hers. “And the stage that almost did.”

Everyone laughed.

Jonah looked back at the building with a stunned expression. “…What the hell just happened?”

Thane shrugged. “Magic. Or moonlight. Maybe both.”

The morning after was always rough.

But this morning? This one was biblically cursed.

The tour van—beloved, battered, and one shaky tire away from becoming modern art—was packed with four barely-functioning humans and three sleep-deprived werewolves, all equally grumpy, and at least two of them actively contemplating violence. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet. Everyone looked like they’d fought a tornado and lost.

Gabriel was at the wheel, wide-eyed and buzzed from his second gas station cold brew—he insisted on driving this leg. Thane, in the passenger seat, looked like a man on his sixth war tour, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch at his temple every time the van hit a pothole.

In the back row, Jonah was passed out against the window with drumstick imprints on his forehead. Rico was slumped next to him, earbuds in, mouthing lyrics to a song only he could hear.

Cassie sat with her knees pulled up, hood over her head, holding a half-eaten granola bar like it had personally wronged her. “If this van hits one more bump, I’m gonna puke out my soul.”

Maya was trying to tune a guitar in her lap while simultaneously elbowing Gabriel in the ribs from behind his seat. “I told you we should’ve stopped at the nice coffee shop.”

“There wasn’t time!” Gabriel barked back, slurping his cold brew like it was a life elixir. “We’re twenty minutes behind schedule already because someone left their entire amp rig back at the hotel.”

Rico raised his hand weakly. “That was me. I have no regrets.”

From the back, Jonah moaned, “Tell my mom I died doing what I loved. Except I didn’t. I died in a tin can with no AC and Gabriel playing ska on the Bluetooth.”

Gabriel grinned into the rearview mirror. “It’s called character development, Jonah.”

Maya launched a balled-up sock at his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Mark, seated sideways at the side equipment rack (the only one tall enough to do so without folding like origami), checked the rig straps with an expression of deadpan despair. “If this amp stack slides forward one more inch, it’s going to flatten Jonah like a pancake.”

Thane growled without opening his eyes. “Maybe then we’ll have room for the fanmail crate.”

Gabriel yawned, then jolted suddenly as the van hit a speed bump at mach five.

THUMP—CRASH—SPLASH.

The third coffee of the morning shot skyward like a geyser and splattered across the roof liner, raining back down in glorious brown droplets.

Everyone screamed.

“I just bought that!” Maya wailed.

Cassie covered her head like it was acid. “Coffee rain! COFFEE RAIN!”

Jonah sat bolt upright, blinked at the mess, and murmured, “Is this… my resurrection?”

Gabriel swerved slightly from laughter. “Okay, okay, my bad! But look on the bright side—we’re all awake now!”

Thane stared at the mess, clawed hand slowly rubbing his muzzle.

“I swear,” he muttered darkly, “if the promoter doesn’t have our load-in ready by the time we get there, I will burn their stage to the f***ing ground.*”

Gabriel glanced sideways at him, still grinning. “Love you too, my wolf.”

Thane exhaled sharply and leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. “Only reason you’re still alive.”

Mark, from the back: “This is fine. This is normal. This is the exact energy I signed up for.”

The van creaked, coffee continued to drip from the ceiling like an espresso-based rainstorm, and the open road stretched out before them like a dare.

Feral Eclipse rolled on.

Backstage smelled like ozone, fog fluid, and sweat-soaked denim.

The band stumbled into the green room like survivors of an apocalypse—sweaty, buzzing, wide-eyed, and trying to remember how to human again. Gabriel kicked the door open with his heel and flopped onto the faux-leather couch like it was the throne of Valhalla.

“Holy shit, that crowd,” he breathed, wiping his soaked face with a towel. “Did you see the kid in the front row with the LED werewolf mask?”

Thane followed behind, one clawed hand clutching his pack of coiled cables like a python he hadn’t finished choking yet. “I saw him. I also saw the idiot trying to film on stage right while standing on the damn fog cannon. Nearly launched him into the f***ing truss.”

Mark walked in last, still adjusting sliders on a wireless console in his hands like the show wasn’t over until the lightboard said so. “Three beams overheated. One fogger’s clogged. Two strobe units blew their fuses. Great show.”

Cassie collapsed onto the arm of the couch, makeup smeared, shirt plastered to her back. “I think my spine fused to the mic stand mid-second song. Might need a crowbar.”

Rico wandered in with a bag of gummy worms and just sort of… fell sideways into a beanbag chair. “No thoughts. Only sugar.”

Jonah followed him in, looking half-possessed. “I transcended. I saw sound. It was red.”

Maya, who had already found the mini-fridge and was halfway through a bottle of water, raised an eyebrow. “You broke two sticks and your backup pedal, dude.”

“I used the kick drum like a cannon. I regret nothing.”

Gabriel raised a celebratory fist. “That’s the energy I live for!”

He then tried to high-five Jonah, missed, and knocked over a stack of plastic water bottles.

Thane growled and started rewrapping cables with the same energy someone might use to interrogate a spy. “I swear, if I ever meet the promoter who installed those janky power tie-ins—”

“I already put a beer in their office toilet,” Mark muttered.

Cassie snorted. “That’s why you were gone for ten minutes.”

From the hallway, a runner poked her head in timidly. “Uh… just wanted to say, you guys have mail. Someone dropped off a package. It’s, uh… vibrating?”

Everyone stopped.

Gabriel sat up straight. “Is it addressed to me?”

“…It just says ‘To the black-furred one with claws.’”

Gabriel lit up. “That’s me! I’m gonna open it.”

Thane barked, “Do not open anything that vibrates and doesn’t have a return label—”

But Gabriel was already slicing into the package with a claw.

Inside?

A single, blinking LED collar.

And a note that read:

“You looked so dominant tonight. Call me. 🐾”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Jonah muttered, “So hey, do we need to, like, screen our fanbase for collars now?”

Cassie choked on her water. Maya cackled and fell over. Rico was too tired to process and just popped another gummy worm.

Gabriel blinked at the gift, then looked up slowly. “Okay. One: flattered. Two: deeply confused. Three… Thane?”

“Burn it.” Thane grunted, not even looking up from his cables.

Gabriel sighed, tossed it in the trash, and flopped back on the couch.

Mark clicked a button on his tablet. “Cameras off. Lights stable. Fog fans cooling.”

Cassie raised her water bottle like a toast. “To another night of madness.”

They all clinked—plastic bottles, metal cans, and one rogue drumstick from Jonah.

And for a moment… just for a breath… it was quiet.

Then Gabriel, grinning sideways, whispered, “Hey, anyone else wanna prank Maya again tonight?”

“NO!” came five simultaneous voices, and a pillow flew across the room.

The stage lights were dimmed, flickering faint red like an animal’s breath in the dark.

The crowd hadn’t stopped murmuring since the doors opened—part anticipation, part confusion. Nobody had seen a soundcheck, there were no openers, and a few fans were whispering that the band had stormed into the venue like a tornado of gear, fury, and caffeine.

Backstage, Thane clicked the last cable into place and gave Mark a quick nod. “Whatever doesn’t explode, make it flash.”

Mark’s fingers danced over his patch panel. “My specialty.”

Cassie, doing last-second stretches, cracked her neck. “Can we just not break anything vital tonight?”

Jonah slapped his snare like it owed him money. “No promises.”

Rico was behind his kit, head bowed, muttering something to the gods of rhythm and fire.

Maya stood center-left, testing her strings. “Let’s see if the roof holds.”

Then Gabriel stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t even twitch.

He just howled.

Not into the mic—just raw from his chest, filling the backstage hallway, vibrating the metal door hinges.

The crowd outside erupted like gasoline to a match.

Mark hit the lights.

Six VL2Bs exploded into deep red, blasting down through a thick layer of creeping fog. The backdrop shimmered as the Feral Eclipse logo cracked across it like lightning splitting the sky.

And then—BOOM.

Maya’s guitar screamed to life with a war cry of distortion.

Rico slammed into the opening riff like he’d declared war on time itself.

Gabriel leapt onto the stage, claws flashing, bass in hand, carving the first riff into the air like a blade. His icy blue eyes locked with the crowd’s and dared them to blink.

Cassie hit the mic like she’d been born with one in her hand.

“WE—ARE—FERAL ECLIPSE!”

The audience surged forward.

Thane moved through the shadows at stage left like a predator, hands flying over the controls strapped to his rigging vest, eyes flicking between meters and surge levels as if managing a nuclear reactor.

Mark’s lights hit full sync: pulsing, breathing, attacking the fog and giving the stage a heartbeat of its own.

Gabriel dropped into the breakdown—low, growling notes that made ribcages thrum and eyeballs twitch. He threw his head back and roared.

And the crowd roared back.

Fists in the air. Horns. Claws. Cell phones forgotten. Tears on some faces. One fan threw an entire wolf tail plushie onto the stage and Gabriel kicked it back into the pit with a savage grin.

Maya hit her solo, bending the strings like reality itself had to obey.

Jonah exploded behind the kit, snapping sticks, flipping them mid-beat and catching the replacements with the swagger of a man possessed.

Cassie dove into the final chorus with a scream that cracked like thunder over the fray.

And Thane?

He stood at the monitor rack, drenched in sweat, clawed feet planted wide as he juggled feedback loops, dying power amps, and the wrath of the gods, running the sonic war machine with blood and fire.

By the end of the set, the crowd was rubble.

Literal crowd-surfers lay in sweaty heaps, breathless.

Someone fainted.

Someone else proposed.

A kid near the front had clearly peed himself from excitement.

And in the center of it all, Gabriel stood over the mic, chest heaving, fur soaked, claws out, smiling with the fury of a beast set free.

He leaned in, voice gravel and glory.

“Next time… bring more friends.”

The van screeched into the venue’s back lot with all the subtlety of a garbage truck crashing into a dumpster full of bad decisions. A stack of mismatched road cases toppled sideways in the rear as Thane killed the engine with a growl low enough to match his mood.

“Six hours of driving,” he muttered, stepping out barepaw and already bristling, “and we’re ten minutes late because somebody needed Red Vines and a spirit quest.”

Gabriel, still chomping on said Red Vines, flashed a cheeky grin. “I regret nothing.”

The venue? A concrete shoebox with the acoustic warmth of a metal coffin. There were water stains on the ceiling, two visible rats near the loading door (Mark nodded at them respectfully), and someone had duct-taped a “DO NOT FLUSH ANYTHING EVER” sign on the green room toilet.

Inside, the stage was half-lit and still littered with bits of confetti from whatever ska band had played last night. The sound tech was a kid who looked like he’d dropped out of college to follow jam bands and had the wiring skills to match.

Thane’s icy blue eyes locked on the kid. “Power drop?”

The tech blinked. “Huh?”

“POWER. DROP.” Thane’s claws flexed.

“Oh! Uh… yeah. There’s one. But like, we lost the three-phase a while ago. Got this one quad outlet, but two ports kinda smell like smoke.”

Mark stepped up beside Thane, crossed arms, and loomed. “We’re going to need more than that unless you want your monitors to burst into flames.”

The kid stared. “Cool…”

Maya groaned, throwing her guitar case down and opening it like she was preparing for battle. “If my strap snaps again, I swear to every human god, I will beat someone with the amp head.”

Cassie stepped over a tangle of cables, her mic in one hand, and looked around. “Who the hell books a band like us and gives us one working power strip and a fog machine that smells like burnt soup?”

Rico, always the optimist, chimed in. “Hey, at least there’s a stage this time.”

Jonah looked up from reassembling part of his kit that had exploded during the bumpy ride. “And at least I still have my beer bottle from the last set. You know. In case of emergencies.”

Gabriel slung his bass on, still chewing Red Vines. “We’ve played worse.”

Thane looked at him sideways. “Name one.”

Gabriel grinned. “That wedding gig where we accidentally caused the divorce mid-set.”

Cassie smirked. “Oh yeah. That was beautifully traumatic.”

Thane rubbed his temples and began plugging in the gear himself, grumbling like a thundercloud. “Alright, wolves and humans—let’s see if we can make this sonic trashcan shake.”

Mark, perched in his lighting command zone (which was really just two milk crates and a borrowed laptop), flicked on the VariLites. They blinked once. Then again. Then flickered out entirely.

“Cool,” he said flatly, “they fear commitment.”

Gabriel’s voice rang out from center stage. “Y’all ready to blow the doors off this sad shoebox?!”

The monitors squealed with feedback that could peel paint.

Jonah dropped his beer bottle.

Cassie covered her ears.

Thane looked like he was about to shift, chew through the PA rack, and eat the contract.

And from somewhere near the back, the jam-band tech kid yelled, “Duuuuuude, that’s, like, real primal.”

The band responded in unison:

“SHUT UP, KYLE.”

The sun was starting to set over the McMansion hellscape as the last of the balloons bobbed lifelessly against the overpriced wrought-iron fence. The businessman’s check had cleared—mercifully—and the van was loaded.

Mostly.

Cassie climbed in last, her arms covered in smeared cake frosting and possibly face paint. “That kid spit on me. Twice.”

“I saw,” Maya muttered, arms crossed, rage-smoldering. “You flinched the first time. That was your mistake.”

Thane slammed the side door shut with enough force to rattle the window seals. “Drive. If we don’t make this next gig, I swear I will bite someone.”

Mark, already in the passenger seat, glanced back with the expression of a man who had accepted the universe’s cruelty. “What was that, like, thirty-five miles of emotional damage?”

Jonah grunted as he shoved his drums back into place in the rear. “This is how I die. Not on stage. Not in glory. Just slowly melting into a puddle of rage in a van that smells like fruit punch and broken dreams.”

Gabriel slid into the driver’s seat with a grin that could only be described as bravely optimistic bordering on oblivious. “Hey, c’mon! The little guy hugged me at the end. Said we were his favorite band!”

Cassie deadpanned, “He also asked if we were part of Paw Patrol.”

That got a low growl out of Thane.

“I swear,” he muttered, digging claws into his seatbelt, “if one of you so much as mentions ‘Baby Shark,’ I will end this tour.”

The van lurched into gear and pulled out of the neighborhood. The silence inside was thick enough to chew.

Then…

POP.
From the back.

A glitter balloon.

The last one.

It exploded with a faint twinkling sound and showered the interior in a final, fatal sparkle storm.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Jonah screamed, smacking at his sleeves. “IT’S IN MY DRUM PADS!”

“IT’S IN MY FUR!” Mark shouted, sounding like someone discovering a cursed tattoo mid-concert.

Cassie coughed. “I swear this stuff multiplies. I had glitter in my nose.”

Thane was vibrating. Actively vibrating. He turned slowly toward Gabriel.

“You.”

Gabriel flinched. “Look, I didn’t know! He said ‘private party,’ not ‘cake-fueled hell rave for six-year-olds!’”

Maya grabbed a bag of gummy worms off the floor and hurled it at him. “You said we only play as a pack.”

“Yeah, well…” Gabriel shrugged, catching the bag with one hand. “You’re still alive. That’s something!”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “No talking. Nobody talks. Until we’re at the next venue. And if there’s a bouncy castle there, I will burn it down myself.”

“Can we at least get food?” Jonah grumbled.

“There’s still cake,” Gabriel offered.

The growl that rose in the van could’ve registered on seismic equipment.

Mark, ever the voice of reason—albeit exhausted reason—sighed. “I’ll call ahead. Tell them we’re twenty minutes late. And maybe also warn them that we’re all one sugar crash away from homicide.”

It started innocently enough—like all good catastrophes do.

Feral Eclipse had just wrapped a scorcher of a show the night before, still buzzing as they piled into the tour van that morning. Gabriel, ever the caffeinated optimist, convinced everyone they needed a pit stop for coffee and road snacks. Again. They pulled into a sleepy corner mini-mart in some suburb that probably had more HOA meetings than music venues.

Gabriel bounded inside, hoodie half-zipped, tail twitching lazily behind him, already headed for the cold brew cooler when a sharply dressed man intercepted him near the energy drinks.

“Excuse me,” the man said with that million-dollar-smile-and-zero-personality vibe. “You’re the guitarist from that band last night, correct? Gabriel?”

Gabriel blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“I’m throwing a private party today. I was impressed by your… stage presence.” The man handed over a sleek black business card. “Would you be interested in doing a short set for a private audience? I’m happy to pay well for a few live songs. Just a little fun for the family, you know?”

Gabriel, never one to say no to playing—and high on caffeine—lit up. “Sure! But we don’t do solo gigs. We play as a pack. You get the whole band or nothing.”

The man smiled wider. “Perfect.”

---

🏡Arrival at the Lair of Disappointment

An hour later, the van rolled through a gated community lined with perfect lawns and suspiciously identical mansions.

“This doesn’t feel like a venue,” Thane muttered, narrowing his eyes at the giant inflatable bounce house on the front lawn.

Gabriel squinted. “Huh. Maybe it’s a backyard BBQ thing?”

Maya groaned. “If there’s a piñata, I’m leaving.”

Mark stared at the life-size cardboard cutout of Bluey on the driveway. “I’m not emotionally equipped for this.”

The van creaked to a halt. The band climbed out and were immediately greeted by a swarm of sugar-drunk 6-year-olds wearing party hats and face paint. A bubble machine hissed somewhere in the distance. A clown juggled silently on the porch, his expression dead inside.

“Welcome to hell,” Cassie whispered.

The businessman came striding out, clapping his hands. “Wonderful! You made it! We’ve got power outlets on the patio, and I moved the balloon animal station so you can set up near the bounce house. You don’t mind playing a few covers, do you? Something the kids can dance to?”

Thane slowly turned toward Gabriel.

Gabriel gave him the most sheepish, wide-eyed, tail-curled-between-the-legs look he’d ever mustered.

“I may have misinterpreted what he meant by ‘private party.’”

Thane inhaled like he was about to commit a felony.

Mark, already pulling a light case from the van, muttered, “I hope this kid’s ready for some trauma.”

---

🎶Setlist of Doom

The band tried—tried—to adapt.

Cassie sang a painfully toned-down version of “Veins of Thunder” with all the growls removed. Rico tried to find a beat that didn’t inspire headbanging. Jonah wore his sunglasses the entire time and muttered under his breath, “This is how legends die.”

Maya played with her volume knob dialed so far back it was practically a lullaby.

Meanwhile, Gabriel was thriving. He handed out picks like candy, let kids touch his strings (against every bassist instinct in his body), and even led a mini mosh with inflatable guitars someone handed out.

At one point, Thane was asked if the “doggie man” could tie balloon animals.

“I will eat that clown,” he growled.

“I’m begging you not to,” Mark said flatly.

---

🎁A Very Special Encore

As the set mercifully wrapped, the birthday boy was handed a custom-made “Feral Eclipse” cake—complete with poorly drawn werewolf figurines on top.

“You guys were AMAZING!” the businessman beamed.

“Sir,” Jonah said, “you invited a metal band to a child’s birthday party.”

“Yes,” the man nodded. “Great exposure! All the neighborhood parents are on Instagram!”

Gabriel laughed. “Well, at least someone had fun.”

Cassie, clearly seconds from cracking, whispered, “If I hear the word ‘kidcore’ one more time, I’m setting the merch van on fire.”

---

As they loaded the van, Thane looked over at Gabriel, who was somehow still grinning.

“You are never allowed to talk to strangers in mini-marts again.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You gotta admit… it was kind of legendary.”

Mark slammed the back door shut and muttered, “I have seen war zones with less chaos.”