Nothing But The Hits
The clock was ticking. She’d be back any minute and they’d have to fucking scram. They’d be taken as a buncha dirty cokeheads who’d long forgot the concept of showering or at minimum proper hair care. Wouldn’t do.
“ALRIGHT HOW YOU FEELING TONIGHT DETROIT WE’RE THE PRESSPASTES AND THIS THE REVOLU-”
“Ted shut the hell up, it’s a garage and a stage in Detroit isn’t much higher. Get your chords right and then you can jerk off all over the crowd. Jesus.”
“Alright, alright. A ONE TWO THREE!”
The shambling drumline brought the first 40 seconds of the song forward in temp as the guitars got ready to grab the rest of the guys by the shoulders and tumble down the hill together, breaking limbs and fucking eardrums apart in some cruel parody of light rock through the lens of ironic self hate.
I don’t know what got me here but I willing to stick it out if it means Ted’s eventual suicide. This song’s about Love, or Love Trains and mentioning Lightning. There’s an off chance he’s probably just high.