I Strike the Lightening You Clap the Thunder

Sam was standing on a stage in the largest record shop in Amsterdam gazing out at a packed house. Hundreds of live music fans, some sitting, some standing, were gazing back in utter silence. She debated whether to regale them with her Samantha Fox intro, but she had no way of gauging how many of them were familiar with ‘80s pin-up girl gone mega pop star. She also had no clue as to how many of them spoke fluent English or had a sense of humor or both. Her stock-in-trade intro seemed like a risky proposition. That said, every risk she had taken lately had paid off, in spades.

Unbeknownst to her at that moment of inner debate, a much more innocuous maneuver would prove to be the riskiest of all.

Max stepped onto the stage to introduce Sam. As he began, Sam noticed that every monitor in the entire record store flickered, went dark, and then began playing the video of her and Sid singing “Black” back in the Minneapolis record store. The moment was equal parts shocking and exhilarating. Seeing her rock star persona gyrating and wailing on a half-dozen LCD monitors imbued her with all the confidence in the world.

As Max was wrapping up his overly magnanimous remarks, Sam perused the small sheet of paper upon which she had scratched out her set list. Her lead-off tune was the slow but mighty Joan Baez staple, “Prison Trilogy (Billy Rose)”. Max was nearly finished, as Sam positioned the microphone stand in just the right spot. She proceeded to affix the set list to it with a small piece of masking tape she had grabbed from Kenny, who had seemingly endless rolls and varieties of tape in his bag. Pulling over a stool that was at the corner of the stage, she sat down and flung her guitar strap over her shoulder.

The last thing Sam did before Max motioned to her and walked off stage, was to lift her right leg and rest the heel of her boot behind the bottom rung of the stool. As the audience dutifully applauded in anticipation of her first song, Sam felt the distinct yet terrifying sensation of a seam ripping and her tight leather pants relaxing considerably. Shortly after, she felt the cool vinyl upholstery of the stool in direct contact with her bare ass. Her wardrobe had betrayed her, malfunctioned spectacularly, in fact.

Excerpt from All or Nothing Girl, the forthcoming novella from Blake Charles Donley

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