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STUCK BY A DRUMMER
This short work in progress orginally appeared on the RIGHT STUFF message board. Here it is in free-flowing, easy to read format!!
Stuck by a Drummer- The Adventure Continues
"Dear Steve and Pete," it read, "you guys know by now that I love you both very much and have worked my tail off promoting you to radio and TV stations, magazine editors, etc. Just ask Lynne- when I met her in Ventura, she touched my hand and was so sweet and said you both appreciated what I've done for you over the years. If that's so, then why did you change your phone/fax number and not give me the new one? Steve, I'm sorry that I made you fall down the stairs because you were running to get the phone in your spice girl boots. But that's no excuse to think that it will happen again and change your number as a result. Please contact me at the number below ASAP so that we can all be best buddies again. Love and Kisses, Taura."
I shuddered as I put the letter away. I doubted that Steve and Pete would have changed their phone numbers just because Steve fell down while rushing to meet her call. Most likely, they had given it to her in a moment of weakness, gratified by promotional work she had done on her own initiative, and she'd programmed it into her speed dial.
I sipped my tea and reflected on my evening. The sex and violence memories made me smile and shudder in turn. Dead Or Alive, I had to admit, were an intriguing band, musically and personally. Pete was a mascaraed Mad Scientist, Steve a reserved but potentially volatile Silent Type. As I pondered Taura Manson, I realized with a shake of my head that Pete had likely divulged their original number to her. He seemed to have a soft spot for syncophantic freaks. Steve, on the other hand, was aloof and suspicious: at the club meet and greet before the interview, he had watched the fans mill around Pete for autographs with suspicion and alarm, like he was sure a knife wielding psycho would make a beeline for Pete any minute. It had also taken several minutes and an equal number of vodka shots for him to warm up to me. I got the impression that he trusted nobody, which both puzzled and flattered me when I realized how spontaneous and open he had been with me.
I had to see him again. It was more than about sex: there was something solid and intriguing about him. My woman's intuition also told me that he was like a Caramilk Bar: hard on the outside (big smile here) but soft once you figured out his secret.
My thoughts were interrupted by a heavy crash as something came sailing in through my open window. I screamed and peered over the counter. It was a brick, likely taken from the construction site down the road. A note was attached to it by a rubber band stretched to its limits.
I dropped to all fours, crawled to it on limbs that shook a mile a minute, and pulled the note free. I darted back to the safety of the kitchen counter with trembling fingers and unfolded the dirty paper.
LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW, BITCH, it read.
Now this is the part in horror films where you grab the arms of your chair (or your couch mates) and scream, "DON'T DO IT!! HE'S GOT AN AX (or gun, or whatever...)" But I just HAD to look. I reasoned that if someone was out to kill me, they'd have come through the window themselves instead of sent a calling card. Slowly, cautiously, and remaining hunched over, I went to the dirty sill and peered over.
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