Naked, Stoned, and Stabbed
Page 6
“Hey, Amplifier!” he said. “You leaving?”
I nodded. “And you’re on your way to see Adesina?”
He hefted the case. “Yup. We’re gonna play a little. Band practice at school is all well and good, but you gotta put in the hours if you wanna be a badass.”
That was true. “I’m glad Adesina has a boyfriend as serious about music as she is.”
Peter’s jaw went slack, and his face flushed. The lenses of his Buddy Holly specs fogged a bit.
“I, uh, I—” He gave a cough. “I wouldn’t say I’m her boyfriend, exactly.”
“Ah,” I said. “But she would. So have a care.” I lowered my own specs and looked at him over the rims. “Don’t make me raise my voice.”
He swallowed. “I hear you.”
“Good man,” I said. I gave him a clap on the shoulder and started on my way again. “But it’s ‘Mister Amplifier’ to you.”
This time, I had walked just another ten feet when the sky above me rang with the majestic noise of side one, track two of Who’s Next. Turned to eleven.
I looked up and saw Morpho Girl hovering above me. She was eight stories high, just outside her open bedroom window.
“Uncle Freddie!” she called down through the music. “It’s a love song! But it’s, like, about more than that, right?”
I gave her a wave. Exactly right.
Now I had to hurry. So the nearer I drew to Chrystie, the more I became aware that my joints still ached. That my legs still had pangs. That my head still throbbed, and my throat and chest still rasped. That it was still going to be a while before I was strong again. Before I was free of pain.
Well, no wonder. I had been punched, shocked, kicked, dropped, pummeled, bubbled, and knocked about like a small silver ball being flipped and battered between bumpers and buzzers. And then I’d tilted into a darkness where I hadn’t even known whether I still existed.
But after all that—
I’d awakened into a new life. In a new world.
And like the song says: I’d call that a bargain.
The best I ever had.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Bradley Denton
Art copyright © 2019 by John Picacio