The last entry was a little hard to read due to my ineptitude in posting decorum. Here's hoping this one turns out better. As some of you out there (the 32) who have viewed my blog may know, I also contribute to Writer's Digest. This story is a response to a prompt about meeting a band, dead or alive, backstage and an adventure that ensues. Hope you enjoy.

I don’t know how they did it. I didn’t care. I was going to see Nirvana.

Sure, it was kind of creepy that Kurt Cobain was playing the lead. I mean, he’d been dead for almost 20 years already. Modern science, right?

Tickets went for about 2 grand. But, lucky for me, I knew someone heading up the shindig. My two VIP passes arrived in the mail a week before the show.

From: A Friend.

Thanks, Tommy. We’re even now.

I decided to take Dana Wendy. She had this fiery red hair and emerald green eyes. She was my luck o’ the Irish. Well, at least I wanted her to be. She prattled on and on when she found out I got tickets. I guess the whole Revived Cobain wasn’t a big deal to her.

Friday night came all too quickly. Dana and I spent almost every moment together. I felt like I was in high school again. We held hands, tickled one another, kissed under bleachers (okay, that was a little high school), and stayed up until late talking on the phone.

I picked her up in my 1993 Chevy Beretta GTZ 2-Door Coupe and before we knew it, we were cruising at a steady 55 mph (the fastest I could go without the Shakes) and in front of the doors to the venue.

“Matt!” My security guard buddy hustled up to me. “And you must be Dana.” He stooped low and took her hand. “Enchant√©, mademoiselle.”

I didn’t want to tell him how silly he looked, 240 pounds, six foot seven, shaved head, bowing to a woman two heads shorter and 140 pounds lighter.

“And it’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

He blushed slightly. “Oh, um, right this way.”

Rob ushered us to our private booth. “These are the best seats in the house.

I don’t have to say the show was amazing. It was as if Cobain had never died. They played all the classics. Nirvana was incredible.

Then, we got to go backstage. Rob peeked his head in through the curtain before the final song and whispered, “Hey, Matt! Take these and follow me.”

He led us through a series of backstage passageways, telling us of a small history of the theatre and sharing why the theatre was build the way it was. After a right, then a left, then a long corridor, we made it backstage. Nirvana was just starting “The Man Who Sold the World.” Dana grabbed my hand and leaned her head onto my shoulder. Then, she looked up at me, and I looked down to her, she moved in close, I moved in closer, then she brushed her cheek against mine as she whispered in my ear, “I’m going to kill him, again.”

It took a moment to settle. Then, I backed away slowly.

“I can tell by the look on your face, you’re a little puzzled.” She took a deep breath. “Here’s the deal, I’m a member of the militant faction Deathstop.”

“Deathstop? Isn’t that a heavy metal band?”

“No, silly. It’s a militia intent on keeping the dead dead. That,” and she pointed to Cobain, “is a zombie who was supposed to have stayed in the ground.”


“Ugh, we don’t have time for this.” She opened her jacket to pull out a Mossberg pump action 12 cal.


“Play your cards right, soldier, and I’ll let you hold it.”

She pumped her rifle Schwarzenegger style, hefted it to her shoulder, leveled the barrel, and I couldn’t help but stop her from pulling the trigger. “Wait! That’s Cobain. You’re going to kill grunge!”

“Grunge died a long time ago.”

It was in that moment I realized she was right. I moved my hand, she winked at me, and let the rifle discharge all over Cobain’s head… again.

That’s about when she grabbed me by my collar, kissed me tight, told me to keep up, and we ran. We ran fast.

Overhead, a chopper whirred.

“Damn. Someone must have tipped them off.” She whispered into her sleeve. “We go this way.” She tugged on my elbow.

“Where are we going?” I shouted in between breaths.

“To the safe house. They’re about to release their army.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cobain was bait.”

I heard it first. I heard the gasping and moaning. I heard the word I thought was only an invention of a hyperchildish mind in Hollywood: BRAINS.

“Buckle up, baby. Shit just got real.”


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