Normally, Flash didn't care for these affairs, the crush of people and the stench of whiskey and bad perfume gave him a headache and occasionally made him very nauseous. He also had to be wary since the time in Ithaca when he got caught in the crossfire between two members of the crew and their deli sandwiches. Since then, he never walked around without sunglasses, a scowl, and painful memories of how an especially aerodynamic bologna sub nearly took his eye out.
Among the throng of groupies, biker chicks, and teenage girls with and without tattoos whom Tony Hapoate allowed to go backstage, one caught Flash's eye. He was entranced by the way she moved, or at least the direction in which she moved, towards him.
"So, you must be Flash," she said. She was invading his personal space but he gave up no protest. "Superhero of the 6-string, eh? Fastest ass-slinger of all time."
"Axe.. Axe," he thought. To correct her would be rude, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings.
"Let's see how fast you really are." At first Flash was confused, he thought he proved that pretty well on stage. However she seemed nice enough and was obviously a big fan, so he did not want to disappoint.
"Let me just get my guitar from the back."
By the time he returned, she had moved over to the other side of the room and was making out with the bass player, Picasso Cubé. Flash could not bear to watch, but he couldn't look away either. From his vantage point he could not tell which one was which. They each wore black leather jackets, were deathly pale and stood around five-foot-three. All Flash could tell through the heaving mass of humanity is that he blew it. He stood there with his guitar in hand, eyes wide in disbelief and head hung low. While the party raged on, Flash decided to go back to the hotel to practice so that would never happen again. He played all through the night, going over speed drills and trying to visualize the next night's performance. He swore to himself that tomorrow, he would be faster, stronger, better; "Gentlemen, we have the technology." He also vowed to stop watching so much TV. Tomorrow he would show everybody what Flash Gordon was all about.
On the bus, Flash was a wreck. He was a bit paler than normal, unshaven and obviously wearing the clothes he slept in. Adrian came over to sit next to him, "Yo, mate," he whispered, putting a hand on Flash's shoulder. Flash pulled back. "Relax," Adrian continued, "you look awful. Are you feeling ok?"
"Sure, fine. I'm sorry about last night, it won't happen again."
With that, Flash closed his eyes tightly and played air guitar all the way to Albany. Every song and every note that he would have to play danced through his mind. He dreamed that the notes were rabbits hopping every which way in a field full of wildflowers. He was trying to catch them but they were too fast, they were getting away. Sweet music was replaced by thousands of bunnies' evil laughter. The faster he tried to run, the louder the cacophonous din grew as more and more rabbits began to pop up everywhere. They were now chasing him and there was nowhere for him to hide. Flash finally woke up as the tour bus slammed on the breaks to avoid a stray deer, just around the corner from the Albany Palace.


<Previous  <Back to Writings>  Next>