He slapped his hand on the alarm clock, silencing it. It read 6:30. Vince sat up in bed, wincing and groaning in pain.

“Gah, my back is killing me,” he said to the darkness around him.

He looked at his wife, Carla, who was still in a deep sleep. He got up and walked to the bathroom to get a shower and face the day, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

“I can’t keep playing these bars and little clubs” he said as the water ran over his body, “I’m destroying my back for nothing.”

His band, 2 Drink Minimum, was starting to get attention around town, but they were still having to bust their humps just to play a crappy club that may seat 200 people, but rarely held more than 20. He could see his dream dying before him, all he ever wanted to do was play in a rock n’ roll band. He had to get a day job working in an apartment complex, doing maintenance. Vince hated it. He needed the job, because his band wasn’t making much money. They had to get a record contract, or else. Vince knew what he had to do.