“Aster, what do we do? What do we do?!” Sylvia squeaked, returning the receiver to its cradle as the news sank in heavily and all at once. “If we can't get a permit to play at Wally's Walleye Wagon what are we gonna do?!” she continued to peep as Cecil held his head in hands, rubbing his temples as Marion came strutting through the door, his leather winter boots rapping against the floorboards.

“I told you! I told you all to give me a warning about this stuff!” he yelled, tossing a motorcycle helmet onto the register, “I can't just keep flaking on stuff with no notice guys. I'm gonna have to start thinking about how seriously I take this band if this keeps up,” he threatened as Cecil nestled his head deeper into his hands.

“Why did I suggest this?” he bemoaned.

“Where is Floyd?” Marion inquired, looking around the half-empty shop to find it amiss of even a hint of his urbane campishness.

“He burst into tears after grovelling to Eugene on the phone and ran off. An hour ago,” Cecil replied, as Aster and Sylvia dutifully flipped through a phone book in search of other vacancies behind the register.

“God this is such a pain in the ass,” grumbled Aster.

“We tried getting a permit to play at the seafood place down the street, but they said they 'didn't like the rabble' we had coming around the shop,” Sylvia explained, handing the phone book over to Aster as she began to dial the receiver once again.

“Rabble? Those are my people!” exclaimed Marion, a gust of exuberance reaching him in his sudden defensiveness.

“Yeah, but what mother wants to take their kid to the shop teeming with bikers?” quipped Cecil. “Even then, Vallerie's residency starts tomorrow, and we don't have anything put together,” he added, kicking his feet up onto the leather recliner as he attempted to lose himself in thought, the ringing of the phone stealing Aster's eyes away from Marion and Cecil's conversation to Sylvia who was caught in utter surprise, midway into dialing.

The receiver shook in its case as the chime of a message to be received echoed throughout the shop, Sylvia hesitating as the others looked on to her, her face bright with surprise and anticipation.

“Well? Answer it!” whispered a nervous Aster as she leaned in to listen. Sylvia fetched the receiver, placing it against her ear as she began to speak with a light smile cast across her face.

“Hello, Childress Records, this is Sylvia!” she greeted, her eyes wandering the room as she listened in. The rest of the group looked on with bated breath as she nodded and replied in confirmations, the air electric with anticipation as her eyes suddenly went wide. Sylvia glanced over at Aster, her nervous little heart shaking with the look her friend was casting on her. “Yeah, she's here!” Sylvia responded, Aster's heart near jumping out of her chest upon hearing this. Cecil sat up in the recliner, Marion standing next to Aster as Sylvia ended the call with a sudden goodbye and thanks, the phone clattering in its holster as she turned to face them. Their glances weighed heavy and expectant on Sylvia as her radiant, gleeful expression ceased to wane, only heightening their excitement.

“Well? Spit it out!” cried Marion, Sylvia looking as if she were about to burst.

“That was Eugene, he said he's stopping by to see Aster perform!” Sylvia cried with infectious excitement, Marion and Cecil left betwixt expressions of similar joy and utter dumbfoundedness, while Aster crumbled into a visage of worry, pained and pale.

“I'm going to fucking vomit,” she uttered, the faintly girl at once now a trembling, sweating mess.

“No way, you are going to be unreal!” Sylvia cheered as she sat down on the stool before the register, her radiant eye-smile the counterpoint to the shivering mess her friend was devolving into.

“I can't. I can't play alone,” she muttered, her intestines twisting labyrinthine in the utter anguish and pain her sudden fit of anxiety bestowed on to her.

“Well, why don't we just back her up?” inquired Cecil.

“I want to, but he specifically said just Aster...” Sylvia frowned, rubbing Aster's back as she doubled over in agony.

“You know,” added Cecil, looking across the room to the shaking mess. “I don't know what he wants with you, but if you impress him, we could get some of The Cherubs to show up, maybe,” he added, his chin returning to his hand as he locked eyes with the scuffed floor in search of inspiration, “But that still doesn't solve where we're going to hold an entire festival.”

“Well, Aster was telling me earlier we could hold a concert on the rooftop,” Sylvia interjected, Marion and Cecil throwing her confused glances.

“Do you know how cold it is up there, Sylvia? We'd freeze half to death. Besides, think of the noise complaints,” Marion said, squinted eyes locked on to Sylvia, now blowing a raspberry.

“Yeah, that's a little unrealistic,” added Cecil, who suddenly rose from the recliner, heading across the room to fetch his jacket.

“Wait, where are you going?” asked Marion as Cecil made his way to the door, opening it to reveal the already mature day that signaled the urgency of their situation.

“To try and figure something out. Why don't you two let Aster calm herself down, practice, and try to get stuff together. Go find some places to provide food or something,” he replied, shutting the door behind him as the frigid cold billowed through the front of the store.

“Food,” murmured Sylvia, her upbeat face no doubt lost in the pondering of starch.

“Alright, Sylvia,” declared Marion as he tossed his helmet back into his hands. “For once that bookworm is right. The sun's already setting, we need to get this ball a-rollin'!” he exclaimed, Sylvia throwing on her cardigan as she said her goodbyes to Aster.

“Hey, Aster,” she said quietly, looking up at the girl who's bright orange eyes, cradled above those heavy signs of lethargy trembled. “Johnny Vallerie only had a hit 'cause you kick butt, remember that,” she said, giving her a hug. “I know you can do it if you believe!” she exclaimed, pumping her fist which blossomed into a wave goodbye as she and Marion made their way out the shop, taking the air with them as the door closed shut, leaving Aster alone with the bone-deep purgatory that was silence.

“Fuck— fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Aster screamed suddenly, bawling her eyes out as she wildly grabbed at her hair, the stool rocking as she began to breathe even more heavily. “That's it, I'm fucked. I'm completely and utterly fucked! I can barely function with them backing me up, I have no chance alone. He's going to stare at me and expect something and get nothing but bullshit!” she rambled in increasing hysteria as she leapt from the stool, trying to gather and calm her thoughts as looked around the empty shop, the disquieting silence of its aisles digging into the anxiety that found itself nestled in the pit of Aster's stomach.

What am I even going to play...? I need to think of songs, she thought, hurriedly making her way up the stairs to her room. She fetched her acoustic from beside her bed, falling onto the creaking mattress as she played around with various chords, desperately cloying for a song that could suitably impress him.

She went silent after a few strums, her hand shaking profusely in a refusal to form any chord shape. The weight on her chest proved too heavy for her to bear any rational, constructive thought on the situation, the noose-like miasma of sheer terror in the face of social inadequacy robbing her of even her ability to breathe. Tears streamed down her soft cheeks as she limply held the guitar, her ears ringing with the dead silence she knew would give way to the sudden knock announcing Eugene's presence at any second. I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

—

“Marion! This would be so much easier if you just told me where we were going!” Sylvia argued as she steered the Volkswagen van down the dusty side streets of the village, turning on a dime as Marion gave directions piecemeal into her ear.

“Yeah? Wouldn't be much of a secret hideout if I told you, would it?” he quipped back as the van finally pulled up to a cottage nestled on the outskirts of town.

“Not like I don't remember exactly what streets we took,” pouted Sylvia under her breath as she hopped from the driver's seat, shutting the door behind her.

“Guys, get your asses out here!” Marion called out. A group of several mischievous looking men appeared from various points of the cottage, heralding Marion's call.

“Hey, it's the boss. What you doin' here? I thought you had to run some stuff for Tommy?” one man with an obscenely up-done pompadour made note of as Marion spit his toothpick to the ground, walking up to the cottage with Sylvia in tow.

“The bozos decided to call me in on short notice again,” he quipped, motioning with his head to Sylvia.

“Hey, who're you calling bozos you big jerk?!” Sylvia yelled. Several of the men chuckled, the large pompadoured one coming forth to greet the two of them.

“So you must be Sylvia, huh?” he asked, looking down at the frowning pipsqueak, almost a full two heads shorter than he was. Her stubby eyebrows drew inward at this, looking expectantly to Marion as she crossed her arms.

“Huh? Are you talking about me, Marion?” she demanded as Marion looked away, whistling innocently. The rest of the crew emptied out of the cottage, finding themselves around Marion and Sylvia.

“Alright, what's the call boss?” another messily shaven man asked, cracking his knuckles as he leaned against a rusted station wagon that lay unevenly parked on the cottage's lawn. Sylvia glanced around at the men, who in a quick count appeared to number a dozen, some of the faces familiar from her protest. The cottage appeared well-kept, a multitude of motorcycles parked and scattered down the gravel driveway that led off the dirt road.

“Well, we kind of have a little shindig coming up, real short notice,” Marion began, looking down at Sylvia who frowned further at this.

“Hey, don't give me that kind of look Marion!”

“We have a festival that we need to throw tomorrow. Problem is, we have no bands, or stalls, or anything,” Marion continued, the group talking hurriedly amongst themselves in response.

“It's going to be a bummer without music,” The bearded one called out, scratching at his chin in thought.

“Yeah, tomorrow is definitely dicey boss... What's a festival with no food?” one spoke up.

“Exactly!” interjected Sylvia.

“Definitely, which is why I was thinking we organize a bake sale,” Marion declared, Sylvia looking up in abrupt confusion as the leather and chain adorned men broke into further optimistic chatter. “Marcy, you've been wanting to show off your lemon meringue, right?”

“Hell yeah I have!”

“And as for the music side of things you can all bring your bands, we'll have spots for everyone,” Marion added, looking back to Sylvia in an expression that scoured her face for confirmation as he delivered his shaky promises. Her eyebrows twisted upwards, returning the same look of utter unknowingness as she shrugged her shoulders.

The cottage became consumed in their planning, excitedly discussing who would bake what, or which band would get which stage, as the waning sun spilt its mature orange glow onto the chrome of the motorcycles. Suddenly, the revving of several engines broke through their chatter, the men and Sylvia turning their gaze down the dirt road, now being split by a column of dust and noise that aimed for their direction.

Marion's men, all cordiality and jubilation eschewed in looks of seriousness, took a defensive stance around Marion as three motorcycles came to a stop before the group, the tattooed men who rode them stepping off as they whipped their kickstands down in clouds of dirt.

The scene stood deathly silent in a moment masquerading as an eternity, as the glacial November wind snaked its way through the naked and cold trees in the woods surrounding them, their percussive limbs the only soundtrack to the tension hanging in the air.

One of the three stepped in front, a deep scar hanging from below his right eye, his hair slicked back in a style reminiscent of the rockers of the decade past.

“What do you want with us?” Marion asked him in a gravelly voice, stepping forward in turn. The other men beside him stepped forward to back up their boss. Marion signaled them back.

“We've come from Aspartame Ward,” the man replied in an affectless voice. He stood significantly taller than the already well statured Marion, completely dwarfing Sylvia who watched from behind with the others.

“I know,” Marion spoke lowly, reaching for his pocket. “If this is about the concert—”

“It's about the bootlegs,” the man interrupted dryly. The entire compound at the cottage readied into defensive position as his words rode the chilled air, the three tattooed men remaining unmoved.

That cutting silence, that disemboweling vivisection of muted conversation that was the inward reflection of souls before battle, begged all in the surrounding area to respect the death grip it held on their hearts and throats.

The tall man moved to speak first, adrenaline cascading freely through Marion's men as he motioned himself yet further. “Actually—”

“Not today, jerk!” Sylvia screamed suddenly, sprinting up to the man in her stubby strides as she spiked him right in the shin.

“Fucking shit, Sylvia,” Marion gasped in horror, chorused by the cries of surprise from his men as the man buckled, grasping at his shin in pain as the wound up Sylvia took battle position.

“Marion might be a doofus, but at least he isn't a goon like you!” she continued, Marion frowning as she stood before the man, her little fists balled up and ready. “So if you want to take them you're gonna have to hit a girl first!” she threatened, drawing her foot back into another promise to strike his uninjured shin.

Marion and his men stood back in terror, the emotionless man rubbing at his leg as the fearful hearts of the men at the cottage waited to see what would become of this. And yet, the two men behind him were chuckling. “Yeah, this is the girl. The one with that wild guitar they told me about. They said she was fuckin' crazy!” one of the men said with a small laugh.

“What?” Marion uttered. The tall man finally stood up, a smile on his face.

“I wanted to say I knew I recognized you,” he finally spoke, reaching out to shake Marion's hand, and Sylvia's in turn. “Your gang's charity work has done a lot to help out our families.”

The rest of the men hesitantly let their guard relax as the man's demeanor shifted, the two behind him sitting on their motorcycles as the two of them talked. “Bootleg sales, I'm assuming?”

“Well, Marcy likes to bake a lot too,” Marion grumbled in response, looking back at the bearded Marcy who waved. Sylvia's bow was left darting between the two parties in complete confusion.

“Well, whatever it is, it's helped us out a lot. And don't worry, we don't really have any interest in cutting into Peppermint Plains— you guys are all square as shit, we'd stick out instantly.”

“Square?!” Sylvia shouted, the man patting her head as she angrily pulled away.

“Your man Floyd's old man has been a big help for the workers of Aspartame Ward too, for a long while. He called the bar up sniveling earlier today, asking if we could help out with a festival he's organizing. I could barely understand him through the sobbing but when we realized he managed your band we just had to lend a hand,” the man explained, frail wisps of cloud cover fragmenting the spotty, dying daylight overhead.

“Truthfully, it's all the bar has been talking about all week. They've never seen kids shred like that in their life,” he continued, Sylvia yet again donning an irritated face.

“I'm twenty, thank you very much,” she replied arms crossed, the tall man smiling in response.

“My apologies little lady, no intention to offend. Anyways, our reason for being here, and what we'd like to humbly offer is a few stalls of our members businesses— mostly restaurants, and general crowd control,” the man offered. His unzipped leather jacket fluttered in the cold breeze as Marion fit another toothpick from pocket to mouth, mulling over his words.

“For free? How am I supposed to buy that?” Marion countered.

“Well you don't, because it's not for sale. Yes, the offer is free. Like I said, you guys' charity work is worth more than enough to repay. You've kept our younger family members out of some seedy stuff by helping those rundown neighborhoods. Now just accept the offer, before you start making me look bad,” the man replied, finally drawing the zipper on his jacket up.

“Food, Marion. Food,” Sylvia whispered in some attempt at a veneer of discussion, his men behind him nodding eagerly in confirmation.

“Fine,” he uttered, reaching to shake the man's hand once again. “Be at Floyd's shop at seven tomorrow, we'll try to figure something out,”

“Seven A.M.?” Sylvia grimaced as the man gestured goodbye with a light salute, hopping onto his motorcycle.

“And by the way,” he added as their engines came alive with noise and vapors of spent petrol, “Sylvia, was it? Feel free to consider yourself an honorary leader of the Aspartame gang,” he offered as he kicked the pedal, the three squealing off into the evening as the cottage once again lit up with discussion and fervor over the events that had just unfolded.

Sylvia turned slowly back to Marion, a shit-eating grin wide across her face.