The drizzling rain was cold as the boys left the office building and crossed the back alley to where their van was parked—illegally. Stix shivered and zipped up his leather jacket. Whatever had happened to them, whatever strange turn had left them in their present state, it hadn’t stripped them of human responses. They still got hot and cold, tired, sleepy, hungry. And for Stix’s part, he simply didn’t like the rain.

They climbed into the van and the engine roared to life. Skullen, who’d been the first one in and was now sitting all the way in back—after all, he was the drummer (who ever lets the drummer sit up front?)— hollered, “So that’s it then? Stix Stonz and the Skeleton Bonz? You think Roth’ll buy it?”

Johnny, who’d spent decades now locked in as Skullen’s rhythm partner, said, “Well, it’s better than your suggestion. Which was ‘Mac and Cheese!’”

Skullen playfully threw a drumstick at Johnny, who ducked just in time and watched it stick into the back of the passenger seat. “Well, I’m hungry!” Skullen barked, with a hint of exaggerated frustration. He actually was hungry, but the band-name conversation had everyone keyed up, so he leaned into the joke—until Fingers had floated the name they’d all instantly locked onto.

“Okay, big guy,” Stix said, with a trace of fatherly compassion, “we’ll stop at a burger joint and get you a burger and a joint.”

They all laughed, and Skullen shifted gears, steering the conversation toward something real. “Hey—now that we’ve got a new name, what song are we kicking this thing off with tonight? We need to make a big impression on Roth. I don’t think he believes we can actually pull this off, man.”

The van went quiet. For the first time all day, the band had to be serious. If Roth didn’t see their live potential, he’d never sign them.

“We need something extra tonight,” Skullen said. “Some smoke, some fire... maybe a mystical illusion or something. Do we still have Lefty’s number?”

“Oh no. Not Lefty,” Johnny barked. “You remember why they call him Lefty, right? He blew his right hand off doing pyro for Alice Cooper!”

From the back of the van Skullen muttered, “Man, that is one ugly woman.”

After a very pregnant pause, the entire van erupted with laughter.

“Johnny,” Stix said, “call Lefty and get the security code for the warehouse. And Skullen—what if we open with ‘Lights Are On?’ Roth hasn’t heard that one. He didn’t even finish the tape. We’ll save ‘Haunted House’ for the closer and blow him away again.”

Skullen flashed a wide, toothy grin. Retrieving the drumstick from the back of the seat, he began tapping out the beat to “Haunted House,” making it clear to everyone that he was more than happy with the plan.

Ira Roth was... well, wroth. He was seriously questioning his sanity for giving that bunch of freaks a slot on tonight’s show. Sure, the music was fantastic—but Venom Records was flatlining, and he was staking his future on a band of skeletons based on one song.

“Why didn’t I listen to the whole thing?” he muttered as he lit yet another cigarette. “They could be a fluke. A one-hit wonder.”

He puffed too hard on the Camel and burned through it before he could enjoy it, so he lit another. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Two hours before he had to leave for the show.

“Tammy!” he shouted. Then, without waiting for a response, “Go to the store and get me another carton of Camels!”

Only then did he remember he’d given her the afternoon off. After Stix had threatened to take away his best —or at least most manageable—employee, Roth had decided to be “nice” and let her get ready for the show.

Now he was really mad.

He’d grab a case of cartons on the way to the venue. He lit his last cigarette, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door. If everyone else had already cleared out for the day, he’d at least get himself a late lunch on the way to the fairgrounds.

Lefty was a former magician—pardon him, an illusionist. After blowing his hand off, he’d retired, but he still had piles of unused junk lying around. The boys were hoping they could find something unique— something that would win over Roth and the audience tonight.

They uncovered mirrors and fog machines, and with Lefty’s “expertise” they rigged a way to appear and disappear onstage. Or at least make it look like they did. It was a simple trick, but if executed properly the band would materialize onstage as if by magic, earning at least some opening applause from an otherwise skeptical crowd.

Battle of the Bands shows were notoriously brutal. Crowds came loyal to their favorites and ignored everyone else unless a band somehow felt larger than life. Stix hated gimmicks, but Venom Records was the only label that had even considered them. They had to impress Roth.

They packed the gear into Lefty’s trailer, hitched it to the van, and headed for the fairgrounds.