Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 30: Tech Support
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 30: Tech Support - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
March 19, 2005
The Campus
The vineyards around The Campus were just starting to green up, rows of early spring vines catching the sun like someone had buffed each leaf by hand. It was one of those Central Coast mornings that made even practical people appreciate the concept of seasonal renewal—clear skies, warm air, the faint smell of soil waking up.
The old winery maintenance building sat at the back of the property, exactly where the original owners had left it. KVA hadn’t bothered to modernize it beyond electricity and a lock; the structure was still broad-shouldered and sun-faded, with a concrete pad out front that worked perfectly as a staging area for anything large, loud, or potentially stupid.
Jake had wheeled the bikes out earlier and lined them up along the edge of the pad. Owen’s 1989 Road King. Jake’s 2002 Road King. And between them, the one that seemed to glow even in the shade: Laura’s brand-new 2005 Softail Deluxe. Black Cherry Pearl, every surface gleaming, whitewalls spotless, chrome polished to the level of “don’t touch unless you mean it.” She’d admired it for two weeks but hadn’t put a single operational mile on it. Today would change that.
Jake and Laura were geared up but not fully tightened down—jackets on, armored pants on, gloves in back pockets, helmets resting on handlebars. They weren’t at the gear-up stage yet. They were still in the look-it-over, breathe-a-minute, admire-the-iron stage.
They had earned this moment. After weeks of drilling the fundamentals on dirt bikes—clutch control, slow turns, braking, balance—they finally had the confidence and coordination Jake demanded before letting them ride actual Harleys on actual pavement. Laura had taken to it fast. Owen even faster. But dirt riding and asphalt cruising were different worlds, and today was their first bridge between them.
Laura rested a hand lightly on her tank, her fingers tracing the curve of the chrome trim. “God, she’s pretty,” she said with a smile.
“She is,” Jake agreed. “And she’d appreciate not falling over today, so let’s keep things upright.”
Laura gave him a look. “Thanks for the confidence, sweetie.”
“Just encouraging good habits.”
The crunch of gravel carried across the empty lot as Owen approached from the parking area, helmet under his arm and a deliberate calm in his stride. He looked at the lineup of bikes, then at them, and smiled.
“Morning,” he said.
“Right on time,” Jake replied. In Jake-speak, that meant good job.
Owen took in Laura’s bike with open admiration. “That’s ... wow.”
Laura grinned. “Yeah. I’ve been dying to get her out.”
Jake jerked his chin toward Owen’s Road King. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Owen said. “Little nervous. But yeah.”
“That’s the appropriate amount,” Jake told him. “Terror is bad. Overconfidence is bad. Mild anxiety means you’ll live.”
Laura nodded. “Good life advice in general.”
Jake looked between the two of them, then at the three machines gleaming in the morning sun. Everything was ready except for the helmets and the gloves.
Jake rested a hand on the seat of his Road King and looked between the two new riders.
“Okay,” he said. “Before we get rolling, pep talk time. Or, more accurately, don’t-die time. There are a few differences between the dirt bikes you’ve been practicing on and these beasts right here.”
He pointed at Owen’s Road King.
“First difference—weight. Your dirt bikes weigh about two hundred and sixty pounds. Owen’s hog weighs around eight hundred. Laura’s is about seven-fifty. That’s not a small jump. That’s the kind of difference you normally see measured in livestock.”
Laura huffed a laugh. Owen looked at his motorcycle like it had personally betrayed him.
Jake went on. “That weight matters the most when you’re moving the bike around with your legs instead of with the throttle. Standing still. Backing it out of a space. Maneuvering it into parking. Taking it out of storage. Any time you’re manhandling it without momentum, that weight is trying to kill you.”
He held up a hand. “When a motorcycle this big is stopped, the tipping point is about fifteen degrees. That’s it. You lean it more than fifteen degrees in either direction? It’s going down. And unless your last name is Schwarzenegger, you’re not stopping it with one leg. Dirt bikes, you can catch. These? Nope. These will pin your leg to the concrete and make you reevaluate life choices.”
Owen nodded slowly. “So ... don’t tip it.”
Jake pointed at him. “Correct. Do not tip it. That’s why these bikes have crash bars—front and rear. They’re not decorative. They’re there to catch the bike when you inevitably drop it doing something dumb at zero miles an hour. Everyone drops their hog at some point. Don’t panic if it happens. Just hit the kill switch, try to keep your legs and feet clear so they don’t get smooshed, and we’ll right it together.”
He wiped his palms on his thighs. “Now, second big difference—stopping. Your dirt bikes stop on a dime. Tap the brakes and you’re practically doing front-wheel stands. These do not stop on a dime. These stop on ... a medium-sized coin. A fifty-cent piece, maybe.” He paused. “They still stop faster than a car,” he added, “but nowhere near as fast as those little two-hundred-sixty pound toys. You have to look farther ahead, think farther ahead, and give yourself more room than feels natural. Don’t tailgate. Don’t assume you can slam the brakes. You can grab a handful if you have to, but you won’t be happy about it.”
He gave each of them a long look, making sure they were really hearing him.
“And once you’re moving?” He shrugged. “Whole different story. Once you’ve got even the slightest bit of forward speed—I’m talking first gear, from the moment you pick up your boots and put them on the fuckin’ foot pegs—these bikes stay upright thanks to something called gyroscopic precession. Basically, physics keeps you alive as long as you’re not stupid. But slow speeds and stops? That’s where you respect the weight. Understood?”
Owen nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Laura gave Jake a little salute. “Got it.”
Jake slapped his palms together once. “All right. Before we ride, we’re doing a pre-flight.”
Laura arched an eyebrow. “Pre-flight?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Motorcycles are basically low-flying aircraft without the FAA breathing down your neck. This is the ritual. You don’t have to do the whole thing every single time you ride, but at least once a week during riding season, you check the basics. It keeps you alive and, equally important, keeps you from looking stupid.”
He jerked his chin at the front wheels. “First item—tire pressure. Thirty-six PSI in the front, forty in the back. Under-pressure makes the bike handle like shit; over-pressure makes it stop like shit. You want neither of those. And if one of those tires gets too low, like under twenty-five psi, you could lose the tire in a tight turn. It’ll just rip right off—with the expected result to the rider.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” Owen said, worried.
“It’s not,” Jake assured him. “And with these tires it’s hard to tell at a glance if they’re low.”
Laura crouched by her Softail’s rear wheel. “So I just ... check it?”
“Yep,” Jake said. “And because you don’t have saddlebags, you actually get the luxury model experience. As long as your valve stem is anywhere from three o’clock to nine o’clock, you can get to it. Look at that—you’re sitting pretty at four o’clock.”
She smiled. “Finally, something easy.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Jake said. “It won’t always be that kind.”
He pointed at Owen’s bike. “Now, me and GM here? Whole different story. Our saddlebags block everything except a tiny access window between five and seven o’clock. If the valve stem is outside that slice of heaven, you can’t even see the damn thing.”
Owen leaned to look and frowned. “I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” Jake said. “Because it’s not in the window. So here’s the game: you sit on the bike, hold the clutch, and roll forward a foot or two. Stop. Get off. Check. If it’s not between five and seven, get back on and do it again. Repeat until success or until you question your commitment to motorcycling.”
He swung a leg over his Road King. “Watch.”
Jake eased the bike forward a couple feet, stopped, dismounted, checked. “Nope. Not yet.”
Owen mounted his Road King, mirroring Jake’s posture. He pushed forward a little—awkward but okay so far—then stopped and planted his left foot. The bike dipped more than he expected. He overcompensated, the balance shifted, and the Road King drifted just far enough past vertical to betray him.
“Leg clear! Get your leg clear!” Jake barked.
Owen tucked it in just as the bike went over, settling onto its crash bars with a heavy metallic clunk.
Laura gasped. Owen froze in place, horrified. Jake sighed the sigh of every rider who has watched gravity win.
“And that,” Jake said, “is why we have crash bars.”
Owen carefully extricated himself from beneath the bike. “Shit. I didn’t think it was going to go that fast. Did I wreck it?”
Jake crouched and gave the bike a quick inspection. “Nope. Bars took the hit. Maybe a tiny scuff, but nothing Tater and the boys wouldn’t call character.”
Owen exhaled. “God, I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t,” Jake said. “That’s the most common rookie mistake in motorcycling. Everybody drops their bike at zero miles an hour. Everybody. The only people who say they haven’t are liars or haven’t ridden long enough.”
Owen offered a tiny, embarrassed smile.
Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “All right, GM. Let’s get your hog back on its feet.”
They positioned themselves—Jake guiding, Owen listening—and heaved together until the bike rolled upright again.
Owen panted. “Jesus. That’s heavy.”
“That’s why we respect the weight,” Jake said. “And hey, good job demonstrating crash bar functionality.”
Laura snorted. “So ... crisis one complete?”
“Yep,” Jake said. “Now let’s go find these damn valve stems.”
Owen moved more carefully now—almost reverently—like the Road King might buck if he startled it. Jake pretended not to notice. A healthy dose of caution wasn’t going to kill anyone. Eventually all three bikes ended up with their rear valve stems accessible.
Laura slipped her gauge into place with a smoothness that made both men pause. “Thirty-nine,” she said, grinning.
Jake squinted at her hands. “Show-off.”
“Don’t blame me,” she said. “Decades of saxophone work. My fingers can get into places yours can’t.”
“I have seen that in action,” Jake said dryly.
Laura scratched her nose with her middle finger. Kingsley flirtation.
Owen snorted despite himself.
Jake and Owen soon discovered the true meaning of suffering. Getting a pressure checker onto the rear stems of their bikes was a nightmare of angles and finger contortions. The spokes were never where you wanted them. The brake disc was always exactly where you didn’t. The tailpipe loomed like a trap set by someone with a grudge. Owen tried twice, muttering the kind of language he normally reserved for midterms, before Jake told him to take a breath and try a different angle. Jake himself wasn’t doing much better; he shifted closer, then farther back, then around the other side entirely, twisting his wrist until it protested.
At last, Jake managed to get the gauge seated long enough for a hiss and a reading. “Forty-one,” he said. “Close enough.”
Owen found his moment shortly after. “Forty even.”
Jake nodded but held up a warning finger. “And this next part is important. Never do that after riding or even after starting the engine. The brake disc and the tailpipe will be hot enough to ruin your month. I’m not talking ‘ah, that’s warm’ hot—I mean ‘I just brushed the inside of a preheated oven’ hot. Second-degree burns if you graze it. Worse if you linger. And the reading won’t even be accurate on warm tires, so don’t sacrifice fingers for nothing.”
Owen nodded with full religious acceptance. Laura simply winced in sympathy.
The front tires were kinder. Within a minute each gauge hissed in confirmation: everything was within spec.
Jake stood, wiped his hands on his thighs, and nodded toward the saddles. “All right. Enough of that. Mount up.”
They swung aboard. Kickstands stayed down for the moment. Jake waited until they settled, then continued.
“Keys on. Dash lights up. Make sure you’re in neutral. Clutch in before you hit the starter—always. Even if you know you’re in neutral. Harleys don’t have that safety feature that locks out the starter unless the clutch is pulled.”
Laura lifted an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because Harleys are built for people who don’t need some fuckin’ corporate nanny telling them how to ride.”
Owen grinned. “Solid argument.”
Jake dipped his head once. “Start ‘em.”
Three engines roared alive, rumbling through the quiet morning air, vibrating up through their boots and into their bones. They settled into their throaty, uneven idle, that classic potato-potato rumble shaking the air hard enough to vibrate the concrete under their boots. Jake had to raise his voice now—Harleys weren’t known for subtlety.
“All right!” he called, loud enough to cut through the engine noise. “Gear up!”
Helmets went on, chin straps tightened. Gloves came out of back pockets and slid over fingers. They kept their face shields up for now; no point fogging themselves up before they even moved.
Jake pushed his visor halfway down and leaned toward them. “Mechanically, this is the same as the dirt bikes,” he shouted. “Clutch, throttle, brake—you already know that part. The only difference is the weight. That’s the adjustment. Everything else is the same shit you’ve already mastered.”
Some of the tension bled out of their shoulders. Just a little. Enough for them to breathe again.
“We’re just cruising the parking lot first,” Jake went on. “Starts, stops, slow-speed stuff until you get a feel for the bikes.”
Both Laura and Owen visibly relaxed at that, Laura letting out a breath she’d been holding and Owen sagging an inch in the saddle.
Jake caught it immediately. “Don’t stress about the open road,” he yelled. “I’m keeping us rural today. Ranch roads, farm roads, backroads. As little traffic as possible. But even if we do see some cars, it’s no big deal. You both drive. You both know how to handle traffic. Same rules, same shit—only difference is you’re on a bike.”
Laura nodded with a tight smile. “Right. Easy-peasy.” She didn’t sound convinced.
Jake smirked behind his visor. “It is easy-peasy. Once the weight stops scaring the shit out of you. Let’s do it.”
He pointed toward the far corner of the concrete pad, where the old access road started its winding path through the edge of the vineyards.
“We’ll gather near the access road before we head out,” he called. “For now—just practice starts, stops, and low-speed maneuvering. That’s the hardest adjustment. Get that part right and the rest is cake.”
He clicked his visor down with a decisive snap.
“Okay, people,” he said over the rumble. “Let’s dance.”
They spent the better part of thirty minutes carving up the vast, empty parking lot behind the old maintenance building. Starts, stops, slow-speed turns, figure-eights tight enough to feel the bikes wanting to tip but never quite winning. Neither Laura nor Owen pushed past second gear the entire time—there was no need. The point was to feel the weight where it mattered most, at walking speeds, where the big Harleys felt like trucks compared to the dirt bikes they’d trained on.
Both of them handled it impressively. Owen’s nerves from dropping the bike earlier didn’t last long. His confidence returned as he eased the clutch out and found the friction zone again. Laura was smooth from the start, cautious but controlled, adjusting her balance and leaning just so, her feet lifting to the pegs at the right second every time. Nobody dropped anything. Nobody panicked. And Jake, leading them in deliberate looping patterns, was pleased but kept that to himself.
When he was satisfied, he motioned them over to the access road that cut from the back of The Campus toward the main gate. They followed single file, engines rumbling low, and rolled toward the security booth. The guards had learned by now that any motorcycles coming from the secure side were not intruders—they were Jake and whoever he’d roped into motorcycle school that day. First time on the Harleys meant the sound was deeper, beefier, but still unmistakable as internal-KVA traffic. The exit gate stood open by the time they approached; the guards gave them a wave and returned to pretending the job required effort.
Jake led them down the access lane toward the highway, but he didn’t take them onto the 101 yet. Instead he swung them into the wide turnout just before the interchange and had them circle back toward The Campus. On that brief stretch of open straightaway he had them click up to fourth gear. The sudden smoothness surprised them both—the difference between second and fourth on a big Harley was like stepping from gravel to glass.
Coming back toward the gate, Jake raised his left hand in a fist—the standard signal—and then gestured downward. They rolled into fourth again, held it long enough to feel the bikes settle into their natural hum, and then he signaled for a hard stop. They squeezed down, clutch in, brakes firm. The bikes slowed rapidly but not dangerously so. Laura felt the weight shift forward and settle, and Owen felt his heart rate spike and then mellow as he realized he’d executed it properly. They got their first honest sense of stopping distance on a big machine, and both respected it immediately.
Jake didn’t offer praise—just a nod, the kind he saved for moments that mattered.
They rode back to the main building, parked in a neat row, and everyone dismounted with slightly shaky legs, the kind all new riders shared after their first real practice. They made a group beeline to the bathrooms—Jake went first out of seniority and bladder rights. He then pulled water bottles from the break room fridge and stuffed them into his saddlebag. When he turned back toward them, both Laura and Owen looked steadier, more ready than they had an hour ago.
“All right,” he said, fastening the flap. “You two ready for showtime?”
They didn’t hesitate. Both answered yes.
Jake rolled out first, easing down the access road toward the highway. Laura kept tight behind him, her wheels following his path with a careful two-bike stagger—Jake on the left track, Laura a second behind on the right, Owen another second behind her on the left again. No side-by-side riding. Not today. This was basic training, not a parade.
The transition onto 101 southbound was the first real test. It wasn’t Los Angeles, not even close, but Highway 101 was the busiest stretch of asphalt in San Luis Obispo County, a steady river of cars surfing up and down the state. Jake signaled, checked twice, rolled on the throttle, and made the turn cleanly. Laura followed with a clear moment of hesitation, her head turning farther than necessary as she checked the lane, but she did it. Owen slid in after her, wide-eyed but competent.
Jake kept his pace modest—fifty-five, maybe sixty—giving them time to breathe. Both new riders were a little sloppy at first. Stops at the four way stop came with awkward foot placement, the kind of while-doing-a-squat wobble every new rider experienced when deciding exactly when to put a foot down. Taking off from a dead stop in first gear wasn’t elegant either. Laura bogged her clutch once and stalled the engine outright. Her shouted “FUCK—COME ON!” erupted so loudly during the restart that Jake heard it clearly through two Harleys, two helmets, and god’s own background noise. He would have laughed if he wasn’t leading.
But nobody dropped a bike. Nobody panicked. And every stop and start was better than the last.
They wound off the highway and through the small stretch of Santa Margarita, the oaks thickening around them as they headed toward El Camino Real. Passing through Atascadero brought them into gentler rhythms—lights, crosswalks, the hum of weekend traffic. Laura and Owen were stiff but not scared. Focused. Absorbing it all.
Then they turned west onto Highway 41.
The world changed there.
The road began to rise and fall with the hills, sweeping left and right under the canopy of valley oaks and pines. The temperature dropped a few degrees as they climbed into the folds of the coastal range, the air shifting from warm valley earth to cooler stone and shaded leaves. The Harleys pulsed beneath them, engines smoothing into a steady growl as the road unfolded.
Jake felt it immediately—that surge of quiet satisfaction that made motorcycles make sense. This was the part non-riders didn’t understand. The shift of weight in a turn. The clean lean of the bike beneath you. The smell of sun-warmed chaparral followed by cool pine shade. The sudden bite of ocean air long before the ocean itself appeared. You felt every contour of the land. Every tiny temperature change. Every smell of the environment. It was flying at ground level, and it never got old.
Behind him, Laura had relaxed into the rhythm. Her shoulders loosened. Her helmet stayed level through the turns. Owen, two seconds behind her, looked focused as hell but steady, leaning just enough, rolling the throttle at the right moments. All three bikes moved like beads on the same string, the staggered formation holding firm.
They descended through the last stretch of hills, where Highway 41 begins its final arc toward the sea. The world brightened ahead of them, the horizon turning silver-blue. The moment the ocean breeze hit—cool, salty, undeniable—Jake felt the tiny click of recognition he always got when cresting this road.
They rode into Morro Bay proper a few minutes later, easing into the slower waterfront traffic. Boats rocked gently in the marina. Gulls wheeled overhead. Morro Rock loomed large and indifferent over everything.
Jake signaled right and pulled into the lot of a waterfront restaurant with a long wooden deck and a view straight out to the harbor. Laura followed cleanly. Owen completed the stagger without missing a beat.
They rolled to a stop, engines rumbling down to idle. One by one, they killed their ignitions, the sudden quiet almost startling after miles of vibration and thunder.
They parked in a neat diagonal line, kickstands down, the Pacific in front of them.
Laura lifted her visor, cheeks flushed and grinning. Owen did the same, eyes bright, hair plastered slightly to his forehead.
Jake swung his leg off the bike and stretched. “Welcome to Morro Bay,” he said.
Both of them beamed like they’d just crossed a finish line.
And in a way, they had.
March 21, 2005 – 9:00 AM
The Campus
Jake sipped his coffee while the rest of the morning crew filtered into their usual seats around the big round table. Laura and Celia sat side-by-side, flipping through a few music scores. Sharon had a notepad tucked under one arm, already halfway through her own coffee. Nerdly had a stack of his neat little charts—lines, numbers, circles, the hieroglyphics only he understood. Matt leaned back with his shoes on a chair and a grin on his face that usually meant trouble. Owen sat with his notebook open, jotting random things down.
Jake glanced at the clock. “All right. Morning check-in. You two,” he said to Laura and Celia, “good to go?”
Laura nodded. “Three more Stevie tracks to lay down.”
Celia added, “If we could get even one done today, I’d be happy.”
Matt shook his head. “That motherfucker still hasn’t told me what it is about older bitches that makes them worth fucking. It’s gotta be something. They gotta have some kind of clam trick thing you learn after forty. Nothing else makes sense.”
Sharon rolled her eyes on her way to the door. “And that’s my cue.”
Laura stood, kissed Jake, and bumped Celia with her shoulder. Celia leaned in and kissed him too, lingering half a heartbeat longer before following Sharon out. The door swung shut behind the three of them—Studio B bound, as always.
That left Jake, Matt, Nerdly, and Owen. The Intemperance peeps.
Jake sat back down with the others, setting his empty coffee mug on the table and giving the room a once-over. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get to the real reason we’re here. Big day.”
They all knew it already, of course. A dress rehearsal wasn’t a mystery to anyone at this table. In the world of touring musicians, a dress rehearsal meant running the entire set exactly the way it would be performed—song order, transitions, lighting cues, video cues, stage blocking, full volume, no stops unless something physically broke. It was the closest you could get to a live show without an audience, and at this stage in the process, it was where small mistakes got ironed out and big ones got exposed. Everyone was expected to show up like it was the real thing.
Jake continued. “Jules and Mitch have the video crew ready. Tech guys have been busy for weeks. Everything should be dialed in.”
Matt raised a hand. “We recording the shit on the magic box?”
Jake gave him a look. “There’s no reason for that. We’ll have two solid days of recordings at the festival itself.”
Matt nodded. “Good fuckin’ deal.”
“So here’s the plan for the week,” Jake said. “Three full rehearsals of the set every day. Maybe more if we need to fix anything. That’ll give us final conditioning before the dates and help us lock it in tighter than a self-adjusting Fleshlight with a broken safety switch.”
Matt snorted loudly. “That’s pretty fuckin’ tight.”
Jake shifted his attention to Owen. “How you feeling about all this, GM? Clear on your role in production?”
Owen straightened in his chair, as if Jake had just called on him in class. “Yeah. Fetch anything that needs fetching. Deliver anything that needs delivering. If someone needs something brought up to the scaffolding, I take it up. If they need something run through the audience to the sound board, I do that. Help with setup and teardown—anything I’m told to do. And I don’t touch anything I wasn’t specifically told to touch.”
Jake nodded. “Good. And keep your ears in at all times. If somebody calls you, you answer. Doesn’t matter how loud it is.”
“That’s cool,” Owen said. “I like listening to the music anyway.”
Matt snorted. “Doesn’t it get old hearing the same shit day after day? It does for us.”
Owen shook his head. “Never. You guys are badass to listen to.”
That earned him a rare, unfiltered grin from Jake and a pleased grunt from Matt.
They scraped chairs back, gathered their coffee cups and notebooks, tossed their trash, and filed out of the break room. The hallway was familiar territory, floor worn smooth by years of musicians pacing between caffeine and creativity. The morning briefing was done. Time to get to work.
They stepped out of the main building and started the familiar walk across the lot toward the rehearsal warehouse, the morning cool having already burned off into something warm and bright. Nerdly matched pace with Jake, flipping the corner of one of his charts absently between his fingers.
“Did everyone remember to step outside at 3:33 yesterday?” he asked. “To watch the equinox?”
Owen nodded immediately. “Yeah. I did. I’ve been doing that ever since I learned what equinoxes were. Same for solstices.”
Nerdly gave an approving nod. “Same here. I’ve been observing them since childhood. From the moment I first understood the mechanics and ramifications of the events.”
He turned to Jake. “Did you observe it?”
Jake snorted. “I observed it when you convinced me to watch it, back when we were kids. I stepped outside, looked at the sun, and absolutely nothing the fuck else happened. Has that changed since I was nine? Any fireworks now? Angels? Skywriting?”
“No,” Nerdly admitted. “There is still no visual satisfaction. But the awe you feel knowing you are standing there at the exact moment Earth crosses that threshold—Jake, it is as sublime as sex.”
Matt barked a laugh. “Then your fuckin’ sex must not be very good, Nerdly. I watched that shit once when we were on tour after you told me it would be some fuckin’ cosmic mind-blower. It was not cool shit. It was the fuckin’ sun. Looked like the fuckin’ sun. No flashes. No colors. No words in the sky going ‘congratulations, dipshit, you did it.’ Nothing.”
Nerdly glared at him. “Are you even aware of what the equinox is, Matt?”
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