In the wake of their appearance on Willie Cooper's show, a spectacle deemed the most engrossingly funny and far-out radio drama of the year by all those who had heard it, a stream of customers far beyond the serviceable capacity of Floyd's shop had soon become a regular sight in the town square of Peppermint Plains. Far and wide people were drawn there by the tale of this interview, evidently spreading at an alarming rate, intent on seeing for themselves this enigmatic band.

This frosty morning, a group was already gathered outside the door per usual as Floyd moved to open it. A flurry of conversation ran through the crowd as he did, but it was not for the opening of the shop. Rather, the heads of the crowd turned away down the street toward a couple of approaching men.

“The Cherubs!” screamed one girl.

With her screams, a fervor came over the entire group, who moved away from the shop for a better look.

As the validity of the girl's screams was confirmed, a succession of shouts of excitement followed, and Floyd poked his head out to inspect the clamor.

Aster looked up from a pile of records as he scrambled in.

“The Cherubs! The Cherubs are coming!” he yelled, flipping over the open sign in front of the waiting customers as he held open the door.

“Who are you, fucking Paul Revere?” she mumbled, apparently not taking heed of his warning.

But when they did indeed walk through the door— March, Arthur, and Eugene, Aster froze, and her heartbeat began to quicken.

Why the fuck are they here? she thought in a panic, consciously attempting to place herself out of sight.

A mixture of indignation and anger came over her as she recalled their absence at the ball. This in turn caused her to remember the disaster it had been, further souring her mood.

“I don't understand how you can work here with this,” quipped March as he entered, fiddling with the cutout of Johnny Vallerie.

“Welcome, welcome!” Floyd exclaimed.

As was instinctual towards all guests he began to motion them towards the listening corner, but frowned upon seeing Sísí's construct and then grew mortified upon realizing it had somehow only grown in the previous days.

“What brings you here?” he continued, deflated.

“We need to get promotional plans in order before the launch of the single,” responded Eugene, holding up a poster.

Floyd's eyes lit up, and his spirit returned.

“You'd like to promote your single here?!”

Eugene looked at him matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, of course. This is the biggest record store in Peppermint Plains now, after all,” he replied, motioning with a nod outside toward the various onlookers and hopeful shoppers still waiting in the cold. “It's to be expected when you end up on Willie Cooper. We need to go over some specifics, if you don't mind. I'd like to make sure we can compete with whatever Johnny's got going on here,” he added, eyeing the cutouts.

“Why of course, of course! Come now, why don't we move near the fireplace and discuss it further? Sylvia, oh Sylvia!”

Sylvia's little blonde head shot out from the backroom.

“Are we already open?!” she screamed.

“No, but we have guests and we cannot let them go hungry, so get up here right this instant!”

“We're fine, really,” interjected Eugene.

Sylvia, seeing their guests, adopted a warm smile and left the backroom.

“Welcome!” she exclaimed, smiling with her eyes.

“Sylvia, the deli should be opening soon. Please hurry, just bring back something!”

Sylvia brought her hand to her forehead in a salute, and looked Floyd firm in the eyes.

“Aye aye, captain!” she chirped, and moved to fetch her coat.

Aster, wishing to avoid any contact whatsoever with the group, had drifted nearer to the door. She prayed Sylvia would extend an offer of accompanying her to get the food upon seeing her.

However, Sylvia only gave her a smile and rubbed the top of her bushy head.

“Whatever they say, don't let those doofuses get to you,” she whispered, putting her coat on.

Realizing she was to stay, Aster instantly deflated, but attempted to mask it with a meek smile of her own, telling Sylvia not to worry.

The truth was that the Cherubs' very presence was enough to render Aster near apoplectic, and was already rehearsing in her mind the myriad of sharp-witted responses and accusations she would lambaste them with whenever their inevitable reunion came.

She knew their absence from the ballroom show was a petty, insignificant matter, but Aster was truthfully very jealous of the Cherubs and their minor success. This jealousy in turn was easily converted into hatred and anger, as she found out at their introductory meeting when first she had perceived they had slighted her.

To not appear at her performance despite their promise, and thus imply that there were other things more deserving of their time, crystallized this jealous, insecure hate into pure rage, the coals of which now fueled that spiteful little ember in her eye as she looked at them looking at her from across the shop.

With the ringing of the shop's bell Sylvia departed, and Floyd and Eugene relocated to Sísí's stage where the fireplace roared precariously close to the construct of wood and silk.

As expected, March and Arthur began to walk over, and Aster braced for contact.

“Long time no see,” March began, nodding a hello.

Arthur mirrored him with some other insignificant pleasantry.

It wouldn't have been so long if you showed up at the fucking show, Aster thought to herself, restraining a snarl from overcoming her face.

With the most effort she could will from within herself, she nodded in acknowledgment of their greetings, and returned a short, coarse, “hey.”

A moment of awkward silence fell between the three, and Floyd could be heard talking loudly and with animation from far back in the shop.

March then grinned and smirked a devious smirk like that of a boy privy to some mischievous secret.

“What was that interview with Willie Cooper?!” he suddenly exclaimed, lighting up. “I haven't laughed that hard in forever!”

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Arthur looked excitedly back at March.

“Right? I couldn't fucking believe what I was hearing! You did script that, right?”

Aster frowned at this accusation.

“No, why the fuck would we script it?” she replied, offended.

The two of them looked at her with disbelief, then turned to the other and smiled stupidly.

“You're telling us that was all improv, then?” followed March excitedly.

Aster began to scowl. She could feel her face growing red. Regardless of how successful their appearance had been for the band, nothing could diminish the hideous embarrassment she felt at what essentially was a colossal fuck up being glossed over as comedic genius.

It happened time and time again, she realized. The band, despite their incredible efforts to put across a front of professionalism— to embody that image of what they imagined a successful rock group to be— somehow always managed to step on the proverbial banana peel which caused their events to collapse into utter chaos. Yet most vexingly of all, Aster found, was that these disasters somehow always benefited the band.

She could perhaps accept failure being failure, with ineptitude reaping nothing from a dead field, but instead it seemed that the group could only fail upwards, and this to her was more infuriating than being an outright loser.

She wondered if it was perhaps just an innate feature of the Eden device, if she were predetermined to achieve her dreams regardless of what she tried.

This thought filled her to the brim with misery, and she wondered how she could even find the motivation to continue if such a thing were true. What good was success if it was just handed to her?

Aster was inundated with self-hatred as she analyzed her hypocritical stance. She desired success in music more than anything else, so why should she complain how she achieved it? Using the Eden device was a privilege, and yet she in her rotten, spoiled way found a position from which to yet again complain.

“We were just being ourselves,” she at last grumbled.

Arthur squinted. Her reply was so quiet that he could not make out what she had said.

March on the other hand had, and smiled brightly.

“Well, you all are the funniest motherfuckers I've ever heard,” he replied, chuckling.

“Seriously, you might even give us competition at this rate,” interjected Arthur.

March playfully punched his shoulder.

“Don't be jinxing us now,” he snickered. “Though really, it'd probably do everyone a load of good, wouldn't it? That many excellent bands being around.”

Aster looked up at them, and for a moment, felt the indignation she had been harboring toward them fade slightly.

The compliment they had cast upon her felt like a sunbeam piercing a December plain.

“Well, we still have a lot to work on,” she replied meekly.

“You'll get better. They won't all end up like the Savoy.”

She had no response, except to frown, and an awkward silence once again fell over the group.

March cleared his throat.

“By the way, our apologies for not making it. I'm still kicking myself for not being able to have seen that in person. You see, Eugene has been pushing us very hard lately, with the single coming out soon and all.”

Arthur nodded his head in agreement.

“Yeah, we're playing nightly now. And the paperwork we have to go over. Christ, the paperwork.”

March rolled his eyes, lowering his head in mock grief as he agreed with Arthur.

Aster was astonished. They were apologizing?

“It's fine, no worries,” she gave sheepishly, fidgeting with her dress.

It somehow seemed so trivial and embarrassing now, her wounded pride. As the tide of jealousy receded it seemed to reveal her monumental pettiness as something far larger than she had ever realized.

She was ashamed to think that she had never even considered there being a legitimate reason for their absence.

“God, how I would've loved to have been there,” March repeated, shaking his head. “It's literally all anyone is talking about. That and the Willie Cooper show.”

“People think you're fucking maniacs!” Arthur exclaimed. “Not to wig you out or anything, but there's a lot of interest in you guys now. People are expecting something insane.”

Aster's heart began to pound.

There was interest... in her music?

“Yeah, it's fucking tough sometimes, though— fame. We're not even that popular in the scheme of things and it already gets to you in ways. You can't go where you want, do what you want without somebody noticing you and causing a panic.”

“Yeah, March, think of somebody like Godiva. At least when we're outside of the city we can get some peace. Imagine being hounded like that everywhere you go.”

March pretended to shudder at the thought.

“Well, you better get ready for it, Arthur,” March smirked, again giving him a playful jab.

“Seriously though, take care to not let it get to you, if you become so lucky. There's more to the person than the artist,” March said, looking at Aster.

Aster, as she had done the majority of their conversation, shook her head in silent affirmation, lost in her thoughts. She could not detach herself from the bliss which was now seemingly filling in the world at all corners.

It somehow supplanted even the great embarrassment she felt at the reasons for their success. For the first time in her life, Aster realized the power that lay in even a taste of the ecstasy of adoration.

“Like I said earlier, I really wish we could have made your show. We're all itching to see you perform,” he repeated once more.

Then, struck by an idea, Arthur turned to March.

“Why don't we just have them play a show with us?”

Aster looked at him as if he'd spoken in tongues.

“We could, but you know Eugene won't budge.”

Arthur waved this notion away.

“Screw Eugene, it's our band.”

He turned to Aster, smiling. Her wide, orange eyes trembled in disbelief as they gazed up at his face. “So, how's about it? We still need an opener for our next show in Cherryaire.”

Aster could hardly comprehend what was happening, let alone attempt a reply. All that came forth was a series of unintelligible blabbers as she hopelessly attempted to make sense of the moment.

The answer had to be a yes, she thought. There was no telling the benefit opening for the Cherubs would bring to the band. She struggled however, to justify accepting when all of their performances to date had been absolute train-wrecks.

Furthermore, could she rightfully accept knowing the last time she had done so on the others' behalf resulted in Floyd falling from the ceiling of a grand ballroom? This would also be without consulting Cecil, who had a significant personal history with the Cherubs, and likely would be against performing with them.

She considered asking them for time to think on it, but was so anxious for the opportunity and so beyond the threshold of being able to hold any meaningful conversation that she could not dare to ask.

Thus, at this point Aster began to dissociate, and the room itself began to spin as the near infinite considerations of the Cherubs themselves inviting her to play a show with them began to swallow her whole.

“Eugene!” March called suddenly out, snapping Aster back to the present.

Floyd prostrated before him, weeping.

“Please, Eugene, please! Do you not see the crowd out there? I beg of you!”

“What?!” Eugene cried back in irritation, turning away from Floyd's indecency with a look of shame.

“We want to do a show with the Love You Forevers.”

His eyes narrowed, and he turned his head towards them in mocking fashion, cupping his left ear as if it were hard to hear them.

“I'm sorry?” he asked with a tone of exasperation.

March asked again.

Eugene, annoyed in their persistence, grimaced. Floyd's face shone, tears streaming from his eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do that, March?”

Suddenly, another voice entered the conversation.

“Why wouldn't they?”

All present turned to the doorway, where unbeknownst to them Cecil and Sylvia, the latter of whom was proudly holding several sandwiches under her arms, had entered some minutes earlier.

“Think about it, the two biggest bands in the area. One of which just had the most talked about program in months. Where else are you going to get a bill with that draw?” Cecil continued.

He looked firmly upon Eugene, who sighed deeply and buried his face in his hands.

Aster's heart, rescued from the plains of indecision, began to beat double time.

Before she knew it, all of Peppermint Plains was abuzz with the talk that the Love You Forevers were to open for the Cherubs.