The Last Barbarian - part 3

[sharplittleteeth]

The next morning.

Bluey showered. He put on his cleanest black t-shirt, combed his moustache, and used some of his mum's deodorant. It took him a while to work up the courage to make the call.

"Hey," he said, when Scottish Joe answered.

"Oh look! It's Muhammad Ali."

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"So you fucking should be, mate. I'm trying to help you here."

"I know." Bluey coughed. "We still on?"

Joe sighed. "I'll set it up. You're at your mother's place, right?"

"Uh. Right."

"Then I'll pick you up from there about eleven."

Bluey killed the time practising. Then a car horn beeped outside, and Bluey ran out, Fender still in hand.

"You won't need that," said Scottish Joe. "This is strictly meet and greet."

"Singers talk," replied Bluey. "I play bass."

They drove to a 50s themed cafe. Bluey carried the bass in with him.

"Down the back," Joe said.

And for a moment Bluey faltered. The new band didn't look like glam rock. They looked like cockatoos rolled in gelati.

There were three of them. They looked up, and Bluey caught the fear that flickered through their eyes.

That's more like it, he thought. He sat down in their booth.

"So. What sort of music do you poofters play?"

"Bluey," Scottish Joe said, "Meet the Japanese Peaches. This is Simon, Kaz and Max."

One of them was a girl, Bluey realised. They all wore so much makeup it was hard to tell.

"No," she said, turning to Joe. "He's not the one."

"Bullshit. I'm the best bass player you'll ever find."

The girl eyed him coldly. "Who's your favourite band?"

"Black Sabbath. Yours?"

"Gary Numan."

"Never heard of him."

"You're not helping your case. Why do you want to play with us?"

"The beer and groupies. Why do you want to play with me?"

"We don't." She turned back to Joe. "He's too old. His look is all wrong. Sorry, but he's just not for us."

She was right. Bluey must have been ten years older than these children. They still had pimples under their glitter and hair dye. And whatever music they made, it would be a thousand light years away from Bluey's beloved hard rock.

But they were a band. And bass player without a band was just a loser sleeping on his mum's couch.

"Look," he said. "Let's jam."

"Jam? Why the hell would we jam?"

"Because we're completely wrong for each other." Bluey paused, getting his words straight. "But are we just wrong wrong? Or are we so completely fucking wrong that we're actually right? Only way to find out is to jam."

There was silence around the table.

"I like him," the one called Simon said eventually.

"Yeah," said the one called Max. "Fuck it. Let's jam."

The girl glared at her two band mates, realised she was outvoted, and slumped back into the couch, scowling.