You're at your local divebar. Friend couldn't make it. Baby stuff, probably. So you figured what the hell, I'll just go. It's open jam night. A lot of the same acts you recognize from past times. You watch for a while. A bit disillusioned, more with yourself than the music, you spend most of your time outside smoking cigarettes, trying to work up the nerve to go talk to people on your own.
You recognized the "psychedelic hippy" band inside, and as you're sitting on the lowlit poorly kept bench behind the bar enjoying your Marlboro 27's, two of them come stumbling out the door beside you.
They sit across from you, 4 feet or so, on a slightly better looking bench and begin talking amongst themselves.
Eventually you get pulled into the conversation. With one of them, an older man. The other, the older woman, large, dreadlocked, pompous, seems to ignore you.
Something about phasing in and out. You're not really sure but you manage to get by without upsetting anyone. Phew The topic shifts to their band, and music. He asks if you play any instruments.
"Bass."
He plays bass too. He asks what kind of basses you have. You've only ever had one, and it's a Yamaha that your
friend left at your house once and you never gave back.
You say Yamaha and then hastily roll off some generic names of guitar brands you've played in the past.
You tell him how you haven't played in a while. Been moving a lot. 6 months or so.
"6 months?! No, that's not gonna work!"
He smiles, rubs his beard with three fingers.
"You're coming over and jammin' with us."
He tells you all the details of his sound studio setup. You're not familiar enough with any of the jargon for it to
stick, so you just act impressed and nod.
So, that's the plan then. You're going to follow them to their house and jam for a while. It'll be cool. You haven't
played in a while and this night was all about putting yourself out there in the world. The large dreadlocked woman, whom you've come to know as "Mufasa" has but hesitantly acknowledged you so
far. The rest of the band has left. However, you decide that it is of little concern. It'll be fun. You follow them to their house, it's fairly close to the bar, thankfully, you are not exactly sober. You pull up behind
them and open your door, releasing your seatbelt and slumping out into the night.
Closing the door, you look to their car for their two figures to emerge.
3 minutes have passed now. You checked. It's 12:36, it was 12:33.
"People think 3 minutes isn't a long time but it's actually kind of long, like, to keep someone waiting."
You say to yourself, shoes starting to seep through in the dewy grass.
"It's not a big deal or anything, it's just kind of funny."
After checking your chosen "final straw" time of 12:39, you decide,
"Alright... ,"
and begin walking towards their car, lights still on. As you approach the rear bumper, the driver's and passenger's doors open simultaneously and out is born the two
hippies with make love not war handwritten on sheets of paper and duct taped on their clothes. They make
greetings and lead you in. You follow.
They take you through an older house. 70s probably. Decent size, but cramped spaces. What some may call "tacky"
cupboardry. The wallpaper isn't helping either. That ornate damask design everywhere. It's fairly well kept, maybe a little messy. More notably, not very "hippie" like. You arrive at a door in the back of the
house. A metal door. Aluminum? Not sure. You only note this because before you left for the bar, metal doors
meant they couldn't be blown up with grenades and you're going to have to find a lockpick or pickpocket the key
off of a guard. He opens it and waves you in, Mufasa going first. It's down some stairs. Nice stairs. Steps and railing the same color
as the cupboardry in the kitchen. They lead down to a wide open room, a nicer room than the rest of the house.
Though not especially updated, if the main house was 70s this is 80s. White shag carpet, with a wooden border
going around the entire edge of the room.
You step onto the carpet.
*Lazyboy type chair. Love seat. Coffeetable between them. 2 and a half foot, tops. Lamp on table. Ceramic. A
bookshelf on the right side, sparsely populated. Small kitchenette on left side with one of those long waist-high
island tables in the middle. Cabinets: contents unknown. Assumed to be basic kitchenware. Drawers. 6. 15% chance
of finding knife drawer on first try. A studio window into the soundboard on the other side of the room. Instruments. Guitars. Drums. One main room. Small alcoves in the far corners. Two doors. One to the mixing room. One exit.*
Mufasa waddles over and takes a seat on the couch and sits idly.
You quietly shuffle over to the area. He offers you the lazyboy in front of the bookshelf. You sit. He offers you a drink. You accept. He puts a bass guitar
in your hands. You freeze.
"Well, I..."
You trail off. They're both just looking at you and haven't said anything. You glance at all the instruments.
"Are you guys going to--"
Mufasa begins humming or yodeling or something. You wouldn't know what to call it if recounting it to someone
and you make a mental note of this fact. You take this as a cue that you should do something so you begin
doodling on the bass. It's rough.
You're starting to feel like an asshole. And like a pile of ooze. You're feeling all your bodies organs moving
individually. Your fingers are m...eltting...
wait... i....... what... something is.... not... i.........
You look up. They're both staring at you. He fucking drugged you. That wasn't just Yerba Mate. How long did this
realization take? You check. It's 1:36. It was 1:33. It took 3 minutes.
Suddenly, you're up in a flash and scampering up the steps like an escaped guinea pig. You reach the knob and tug
feverishly.
Locked.
Padlocked.
Turn around.
There he is.
This is it. The moment. Prove Yourself. Stand or die. You've been waiting for this right? Your moment?
Seize it.
As those words enter your mind you grab his neck and
.........by the hair...
flash of white
pain......
.....face......... corner of step....?
*flash of red*
wetness?
black
Black fades out. You hear a ringing in your ears and your vision is gradually filled with dancing geometrical shapes
and a sharp red static.
*And a cave? A cave of life? A cave of corrupted life. It's leaking. It spills. It can't be contained. It is a deep and endless
black. Dripping with ooze and stench. There's nothing you can do. It just keeps coming and coming. You keep
trying to cover it, but now it's taking you too. If you stay here, you're going to drown. You're covered in it. You're
drowning. You're drowning. You're going to drown here forever.*
THUD
You let out a sharp exhale. Managing to tear your eyes from the step shaped hole in his face.
Mufasa has flipped backwards over the loveseat, knocking it to the ground, assuming a ready stance. Just as you
just had your moment, this is now hers.
She's bootstrapped with a bowie, 8" blade, which she quickly draws and flips into tactical position. And by the looks
of that thing, this sucker has seen some action.
No more thinking. You dive, straight to the coffee table. Lamp. Grab. Throw. She's too quick. She catches it, easily. She laughs and squeezes the thing to pieces right there in one hand.
Now it's her move. She's throwing lamp shards with frightening precision. Each one a ceramic ninja star, exploding in shrapnel blast on impact. You catch two. One in the leg, One in the gut, and some shrapnel in your left eye, before grabbing the coffee table and flipping it toward her as a makeshift riot shield, taking cover crouched behind it.
The thuds and shatters on your shield cease and you raise, advancing on her position, pushing her toward the
kitchenette. She makes a swipe. You parry it away, and punish her with a calculated shield jab, wishing you had
your Hornet Ring on.
Pop. Another shield jab. Perfectly placed. Straight in the teeth.
"You don't get it do you?"
She sputters through red spittle, barely coherent. Disgusting.
"This is th-"
SMASH
You punish this lapse in preparedness immediately. You're slamming into her with your coffeetable shield. Full force. She goes flat on the kitchen island, head hanging off the back, legs dangling in front of you. In an instant, you flip the coffee table, legs toward her, and slam it down above her on the island. In the same motion, you grab both sides of it and leapfrog directly over, coming down ass first on her dangling skull.
SNAP
You catch yourself on the ground. One bent knee and one fist down. Creating small craters where you landed in the tile.
You smirk and slowly rectify yourself.
Silence.
You earned it.