(As told by Diesel, with wildly questionable accuracy.)

It was a late night on the road somewhere between Wichita and nowhere, and the bus was quiet—too quiet. Gabriel was passed out in a pile of blankets with a coffee cup still in his hand. Rico and Jonah were mid-chess match using bottle caps and guitar picks. Cassie was journaling by the soft glow of her bunk light, and Thane sat at the back monitoring levels through a tablet, one ear always tuned for feedback.

Then Diesel’s gravelly voice echoed from the front lounge.

“You ever outrun a tornado with a ska band and a drunk goat on board?”

Dead silence.

Mark poked his head out of his bunk. “…What.”

Gabriel sat up slowly. “Okay, wait. Back up.”

Diesel leaned back in his seat, took a slow sip of coffee, and stared into the middle distance like a man who had seen things.

“1997. Nebraska Panhandle. I’m driving this mid-tier ska band—real energetic types, always wore matching vests, had a brass section that could knock your teeth out from fifty yards. Band name was Third Degree Skank.”

Jonah immediately lost it laughing.

Diesel continued, unfazed. “We played a county fair gig outside Scottsbluff. It was one of those ‘pay in corndogs and exposure’ deals. They crushed it—blew the bluegrass band off the stage. We were just about to leave when one of the trumpet players shows up holding a goat.”

Cassie blinked. “…Like, a real goat?”

“Yep. Real goat. Horns. Bell. Name was Jimmy.”

“Who names a goat Jimmy?” Mark muttered.

“This guy. Anyway — turns out Jimmy was the unofficial fair mascot. Somehow got into the beer tent, drank half a keg of warm Miller Lite, and then refused to leave the brass section. Followed ‘em right into the bus. I tried to kick him out, he headbutted the amp rack and made himself a nest in a pile of gig towels.”

Gabriel clutched his stomach, already wheezing. “He drank beer and joined the band?!”

Diesel nodded solemnly. “Wouldn’t let the trombone player out of his sight. Started headbanging to the offbeats like he was born in a Jamaican basement. But then…”

He paused. “Storm rolls in. No warning. Sirens start blaring. I look at the radar—it’s spinning like a blender full of angry bees. Tornado drops right behind us as we’re pulling out. So here I am: hauling a barely-tuned RV full of brass instruments, a half-sober ska band, and a completely blitzed goat, doing ninety-five down a gravel highway with cows flying past the windows.”

“NO WAY,” Jonah shouted.

“I yell at everyone to stay down, and what do they do? They start jamming. Jimmy starts headbutting the wall in time. Trumpets blaring, drums slamming. It’s the most off-the-wall ska set I’ve ever heard, and it’s happening inside the bus while I’m dodging barn debris and praying to every deity known to man.”

Cassie was crying with laughter. “What happened to the goat?!”

“Pulled over an hour later. Tornado missed us by maybe half a mile. Band wrote a song about it called Jimmy the Ska Goat. Minor underground hit. Jimmy retired a hero and now lives on a llama farm in Oregon.”

Gabriel was howling. “WE NEED TO COVER THAT SONG.”

Mark mumbled, “I don’t believe a word of this.”

Diesel just sipped his coffee, deadpan. “Believe what you want. But I still got goat hair in the ventilation system of that rig.”

Thane, from his console, didn’t even look up. “Add that one to the tour scrapbook.”