The eyes of the owner of the Raven now spin pound signs, like some cheap cartoon show, with the venom of digital overload. Cigar smoke halos the brow of the capitalist saint. Inside his balding skull, with limp rag-tag ponytail, figures are calculated; cover the costs, sow the seeds and reap the profits. The light is green, project go.
“Rob,” he calls across to the band’s vocalist. Rob looks up from the other end of the room where he busies himself with gig dismantling.
“Bring the boys over here for a second.”
Forward, out of the shadows, the rock battlelords; modern heroes prepared for aural war. The uniform of satin and leather, bandanas flutter beneath the air-conditioned wind.
“Have you boys,” the drip of the Blarney Stone begins, “Considered hiring a manager… now it just so happens… think I could arrange… reasonable fee…”
Let the negotiations begin.
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan