Dean marched in blinkered, on a mission. He parked himself behind the kit on a low stool, took out his sticks and stunned; grinding a meticulous beat. He stopped for an instant, twirled his sticks, stooped his Ray Bans and beckoned, daring them to join in. Kael smiled wide and dived in adding funky stabs on keys. Jimmy nurtured the scream and whistles from his guitar as he ground the pickups against a battered Vox Amp. He stepped up to the mic improvising words and melody. The room glowed white hot. Pra peeped through the door and jumped in on bass nodding approval. He harmonized slipping falsetto on top then Kael jumped in adding the upper fifth. They looped the groove, reading thoughts, working as one, then broke
after their hour was up.
“That was the shit. Man I don’t know who you are but you’re ours now and if you leave I will fuckin kill ya,” exclaimed Kael.
Jimmy and Pra stepped forward. “Nice playing.” added Jimmy.
“Welcome to the band,” said Pra shaking his hand. He paused. “Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Dean, my name’s Dean.”