The gig was going well.
Scratch that, he thought, it rocked.
Austin's fingers flickered frenetically over frets, power chords sparking the air like a tesla coil.
The throbbing crowd, like an enormous inverted luminescent jellyfish, moshed. Hard.
A forest of hands thrust horns in time to bristling, blistering drums.
As the lights spun, Austin saw the doorman again. They call me Papa, he said when they first met, one gold tooth glinting in the smokey darkness.
I like you Austin, you've got soul. With my help, you can go places.
A hungry musician, he'd jumped in with both feet.
Metal Hammer hailed his rise as meteoric.
A golden flash and Austin pondered. Maybe, in the pre-gig noise, he had misheard him.
The smiling man leaning in, You've got a soul he mouthed in Austin's mind's eye.
Did he still?
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