Flash was still visibly shaken when Veracity Stryker took the stage, but it didn't seem to effect his performance. Except for that he just stood in his place looking down, Flash was on top of his game. His playing was as precise and musically flamboyant as ever, and he was a striking figure to behold in his hair shirt, dog collar, and aqua-socks. In fact, Adrian had never heard Flash sound any better. The crowd, however, was not so kind. Many among them were still loyal to the old V.S. guitarist, Rudy Tom Johnson, an Albany native. After leaving the band, Rudy Tom joined several religious fringe organizations and was at the time being deprogrammed from his stint in the infamous Cult 45. He was however, still Albany's favorite son and not soon forgotten by his loyal fans. When Flash was introduced before the first encore, his ovation contained a small chorus of boos. He responded by turning his back on the crowd and playing even faster until he thought that either his fingers would fall off or he would begin to float off the ground, whichever came first. All that really happened was that the show ended twenty minutes early and Adrian Mandibone almost passed out trying to keep up.
At midnight in the parking lot, a strange middle aged man wearing a blood red t-shirt, torn blue jeans and a goatee called out to Flash,
"Hey, buddy. That was quite a show out there. Man, you've gotta be one of the fastest players around. I mean, you're definitely up there."
Flash glared at the man. He could not make out the features on his face, but the color of the shirt was dazzling. He had never seen anything so red before in his life Flash closed his eyes, opened his mouth and was ready to explode, "I am Flash fucking Gordon, and I am the fastest of all time!" However, what came out sounded a lot more like, "Thanks," By the time he spoke, the man was already gone. Flash didn't know where he went, and he didn't really care. Concern number one was definitely to get back to the hotel and to see if he could make himself levitate.
No such luck. He spent all of the early hours of the morning with his feet planted hopelessly to the ground. It seemed that as he played faster he began sinking instead of floating. He was sinking deeper and deeper into the carpet with every minute and every musical phrase. Obviously, Flash thought, he did not want it bad enough and should try another day. He put down his guitar and decided to go to sleep, but it was too late. 3 PM, time to head over to Binghamton.
This time, everybody kept their distance on the bus. For one thing, Flash stank ferociously. He had not showered since the tour began and was really offensive. Also, Adrian, Picasso, and Tony Hapoate had all decided they would rather not catch whatever was turning their guitarist into what Tony referred to as "some sort of freaky vegetable." Flash could feel their eyes on his back and decided to diffuse the situation. "Flash is fine," he asserted, "Don't worry about the Flash. Flash play real good tonight."
Adrian looked over at Picasso Cubé, and shook his head, "Oh, shit."
Somehow, Flash did indeed play real good that night, as well as the following night in Ithaca. He was developing a sizable following on his own, mostly consisting of teenage boys with greasy long hair, glasses and bad skin, but a following nonetheless. Flash had no idea of this, all he could think about was why he could not play any faster, why he couldn't get himself to levitate, and how he could get his guitar to play itself. This latest project was not going to be easy. He placed his instrument on the bed, leaning against the wall and proceeded to stare at it for the entire night to no avail.

<Previous  <Back to Writings>  Next>