Greg M. Hall
Copyright 2010 by Greg M. Hall
For more information, visit www.gregmhall.com
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“Wow! This is a little nicer place than we’re used to, huh?”
Mike said this as he lugged a plastic garbage can laden with cymbal and microphone stands through the back door of the Black Rock Club. Ahead of him, Frank stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, looking all around at crystal chandeliers and polished woodwork. Most of the bars where they set up to play were decorated by beer posters, neon signs, license plates, animal heads; the usual American drunkard bric-a-brac. Such ornamentation was not only unnecessary on the warm oak paneling of the place, it would have been barbaric.
“You sure this, ah, is a good fit for us?” Mike set down the garbage can, its contents clattering against each other, and stood by his bandmate. Soon both heads tilted upward, scanning left and right.