CHRIS: I might
MARCO POLO: Night(1:06 AM)
DRUMMER BOY: Night!(1:06 AM)
CHRIS: Guys, I have an option for a new vocalist(11:30 PM)
DADDY UWE: Enlighten us(11:31 PM)
CHRIS: Go die
DRUMMER BOY: Who is it?
CHRIS: Mother fucking Leah
LUCALU: Holy shit. Are you for real?
MARCO POLO: That’d be awesome
CHRIS: She hasn’t said yes yet. But she will ??
3. Purpose For Pain
July13th,2017
Buffalo, New York
Inside the bunk,with the silence swamping the space and no windows letting any light slip in, one didn’t know if it was day or night.
In search of his sweat shorts and the worn-out t-shirt he wore as loungewear, Marc patted his bed, sighing. The bassist wasn’t shy; would happily go out naked. Buried Alive’s vocalist and Natalie, the woman who had joined the band for this tour to sell their merch so Eugene could work his photographer magic, wouldn’t have given a flying fuck either. They were accustomed to being amongst dudes. But there was no need in forcing them to watch clandestine, scratching-ass moments in boxers when they were trying to eat breakfast.
Once he was finally dressed, with an uncovered mouth as he yawned, Marc slid the door that connected the sleeping area with the front lounge. To his surprise, though, the only person there was Chris, sprawled on the couch.
“Hey,” the bassist said, his voice hoarse.
“Hey.” The guitarist glanced at him for a second before his attention returned to the TV. Apparently, watching Gantz for the gazillionth time was more interesting than his friend.
“What time is it?” Marc asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Don’t you have a phone?”
Snarky asshole. “I do, but I don’t know where I left it last night.”
He’d never cared much about it. Some people made it a priority to have the latest cell phone that, aside from allowing you to call, send messages, and take pictures, could also transform into an airplane. Not Marc. He hated being reachable at all times. If it weren’t for his mom, his siblings, and the band, he probably wouldn’t even have one. It was the complete opposite with his gear, though. The more the better.
“Six-thirty-five.”
“What?” Marc’s brows slightly knitted together as he sat on the couch across from Chris.
“It’s six-thirty-five in the morning.”
Jesus, our inner clocks are still super fucked up.
“July thirteenth,” Chris added. “Two thousand seventeen, and you’re in the States.”
“Why are you so fucking moody so early? Did a mosquito bite your dick or what?”
“I slept like shit.”
