The vomit burned the soft tissue inside of Raeburn Messiah’s nose as he hung his head over the cold
railing of the civic center. Clear and hot, the vomit took what seemed like a minute before it slapped
loudly onto the concrete below him. Staggering and weak from the pure excesses of his rock and roll
lifestyle, Reaburn fell on his ass at the top step. They were the metal kind, and he could barely see a few
of the roadies below him through his swollen eyes. They were silently passing a joint amongst
themselves.
“Fucking mother-fucker,” was all that Rae could say before another round of sickness came over him.
He wasn’t quick enough to change his position and this time the vomit rained down onto the heads of the
roadies below.
From beneath an eruption exploded: a cacophony of cursing, screaming and laughter. Though each of
the men experienced a similar revulsion to the shower of vomit, each instantly bore a personal posture of
the event.
“What the fuck!” cried out Spencer, the somewhat uptight lighting technician, “who the fuck is that up
there?” Spencer was the most pissed off of the group as the puke hurried down the length of his back
and had already seeped into his underwear.
Marcus, the small, small man that operated one of the spotlights had doubled over in a fit of laughter that
only the death of his mother would have contained. And he was - by far – more drenched in the
wretched, smelly puke than Spencer or Chuck.
Chuck, having been caught holding the joint, calmly lit up a cigarette – their joint was totally destroyed –
and chuckled, while enjoying the scene. Chuck had what amounted to an unfair advantage as to what
was about to take place; he ran the board for Rae as far back as their sophomore year in high school.
That’s when Rae entered his first band into the annual talent show.
And an ego was born.
“This is gonna be legendary, boys. Friggin’ legendary,” Chuck mumbled, calmly predicting the event
that was about to unfold.


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