12: Put Your Faith In a Loud Guitar (Caveman King)

Samantha Ross was tired.

Acid Magnet had been running auditions for a new lead guitar all day, and so far had no strong contenders. Sam had been up all day, she was feeling cramped by Alejandro's garage, and she'd definitely heard too many mediocre guitarists. “Who's next?” she grumbled.

Zoe Kenfield checked the list, then looked nervously at Sam. “Kevin Kingsley.”

Sam went from tired to angry in half a second. “Not him.”

Alejandro Calderon spoke up. “Sam, we need somebody. We don't know when Neil's coming back, if he does at all.”

“Not. Him.”

“Let's give him a chance,” Zoe pleaded. “We're running out of time before our next gig.”

Sam turned to the bassist, Sierra Harper, who only shrugged. “Fine,” Sam said in defeat. “But the first time he says 'bitches,' we kick his ass out.”

“Come on in!” Zoe called, and the man who walked in could only be a hair metal tribute...or parody. Wild hair tied with a leopard-print bandana, tight jeans with random holes, snakeskin boots, and a black leather vest with no shirt. He had a tattoo on one arm of a tyrannosaurus with huge, muscular arms; on the other, a brontosaurus in a cowboy hat.

“Name?” Zoe asked.

“Everyone knows the Caveman King,” he said.

Samantha fought the urge to be sick. “Don't you have your own band?” she asked—rhetorically, of course; Acid Magnet and Tyrannosaurus Flex had competed at countless shows over the last two years.

Kevin put a hand on his brontosaurus tattoo. “We lost Buster in the alien invasion three months ago. Decided to break it off.”

“I...I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

“It's cool. Mind if we get to it? Sonja needs her beauty sleep.” Kevin unslung his guitar; a red-and-silver Gibson Flying V.

“Go ahead,” Samantha said. Anything to get this over with faster, she thought. The last thing my band needs is his trash metal bullshit.

“Saw this in a movie once,” he said as he tuned his guitar. Sam rolled her eyes...until Kevin started playing.

“Is that...” Sam whispered.

“Paganini,” Alejandro replied. “Caprice Number Five.”

Kevin's fingers flew along the neck of the guitar with blinding speed and pinpoint accuracy. Every note was crisp and clean...and according to Sam's ears, he didn't miss a single one.

When he had finished, Sierra--of all people--was the first to speak. “Damn.”

“Third in my class at the Bachand Institute,” Kevin said. “Shoulda sold my soul to the devil; it would have been easier.”

“Bachand?” Alejandro asked. “Had no idea. T-Flex never sounded like that.”

“Wasn't the music we liked...and don't get me wrong, I love those guys--” he tapped the tattoo again-- “but they couldn't hang with it. So what...is this gonna be the greatest band of all time, or not?”

The others turned to Samantha. They all knew this was her show.

“Put on a shirt, and we'll talk.”