“Check. Check. Check one, two, three.”

“Hey, Bill?”

“Check check.”

“Bill?  Yo, Bill!”

“What? Yeah?”

“Dude, Man.  I think we got to tone it down a bit for the show, man.”

“What?  Tone it down?  I mean, we’ve been working on this set for like months.  I’m not going to tone it down.  That’s just stupid.  People pay good money to see us play, man.  Shut your pie hole with that nonsense.”

“The cover is $3.00.”

“Yeah, well, Steeeevie.  You as the manager of this band could try to better negotiate our moolah.  We are The Screaming Antelopes, man.  We. Are. Known.

“Dude, I’m your cousin and this is the coffee shop where I work not a big music venue or creepy, dingy bar.  And, yes, you are known.  You are known for being a group of guys that get together after school and pretend to jam because your mom won’t let you hook up the amp because it scares her cats.  The name of your band makes no sense.  I don’t even think antelopes can scream and if they can, I’m sure it’s out of pure terror.  You should call yourselves the Scaredy Deer-Like Animal Band.  Quit trying to be such a badass.  You’re 16 and two years ago you were swimming in a blow up pool in my parents’ backyard.  There is no negotiating.  Now, I think the strobe lights are little much.  Plus, your drummer back there is now having a seizure.”

“Dude.  I thought he was just warming up.”

 

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