CarnivalBarker
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 15, 2013
- Posts
- 5,591
Brendan awoke from his haze enough to stumble up from the couch in the makeshift greenroom near the stage at Tricou Ouse on Bourbon Street. He normally hated gigs like this, but he needed the money since the job opening for James Taylor at Jazz Fest fell through once Harry Connick, Jr. notified the organizers that he wanted to return home and play this year. Brendan lit a cigarette and then took a deep pull from the Lone Star beer sitting on the coffee table and choked it down as he quickly realized it was warm.
Jesus, how long did I sleep? He wondered. His head pounded and he took a deeper pull from his smoke, and ran his hand through his hair. As he did, the curtain to the area opened up, and the bartender popped his head in.
"Ready boss," the man asked.
No, he thought. He hated the fucking tourist trap places like this. It was always a bunch of drunks, college kids and people who still wanted to be, nobody that appreciated music, and nobody he generally wanted to play for. He stood up and peered around the curtain.
"Where the fuck is everyone?" He asked the barkeep.
"Weather, man," came the reply.
"The fuck? Weatherman?" Brendan asked.
"Nah," the bartender said. "The weather. Man!" He nodded to the window at the far end of the room, out of view of the area he had first checked when he looked out into the main room. Brendan looked to the distance and saw the clouds outside were deep and dark, darker still as the night came rolling in.
"Raining?" He asked.
"It's 'bout to," the bartender informed him.
Goddamn it, he thought. Weather tended to soak the French Quarter and pond the area making it a mess to walk through, and making it undesirable to be in. If the rains came, the floods would come. If the floods came, the people - and therefore the tips - would not come either. "Yeah, let's do this." He said, taking another drag and crushing the butt out in the stale beer can. The bartender left to notify the guy at the soundboard to get ready, and a moment later, Brendan Vicary pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder, careful not to strike the new cigarette he had fired up and held in his mouth, and easily perched himself on a single stool. The room was black, situated a few steps down from the street where light did not easily enter, and the illumination of a few, small, yellow candle lights attached to the pine wood planks along the walls gave a golden hue that seemed to dim with each crackle of thunder over the Ponchartrain.
The crowd was sparse, only six or seven people attending, and likely none there to see him play, but rather some simply looking to drink and stay out of the street. He began to launch into a slow, peal of a song, his voice low as the song rolled on beneath the roll of the storm that occasionally filled the room:
If you were the ocean and I was the sun
If the day made me heavy and gravity won
If I was the red and you were the blue
I could just fade into you
If you were a window and I was the rain
I’d pour myself out and wash off the pain
I’d fall like a tear so your light could shine through
Then I’d just fade into you
In your heart in your head in your
arms in your bed under your skin
Til there’s no way to know where
you end and where I begin
If I was a shadow and you were a
street
The cobblestone midnight is where
we first meet
Til the lights flickered out, we
dance with the moon
Then I’d just fade into you
He scanned the "crowd," as he always did, searching, ever searching to connect with someone, a girl, perhaps another soul. He saw nothing, though he felt a rage begin to fill him while he kept calm, echoing the words of the deep, slow dirge that filled his own soul and longing to be anywhere but here. As his eyes took on an amber color, likely not visible in the dim room, he felt the music to his core, and felt a rhythmic vibration somewhere nearby like he had not felt in some time. Something was close, or perhaps it was someone. He just....sensed it. He did not know if it was bad or good. But he knew what he wanted. And he scanned the room for her, looking for his next.....victim? Addiction? His next drug?
http://imgsrv.965thebuzz.com/image/krbz2/UserFiles/Image/Sex-On-Fire.jpg
Jesus, how long did I sleep? He wondered. His head pounded and he took a deeper pull from his smoke, and ran his hand through his hair. As he did, the curtain to the area opened up, and the bartender popped his head in.
"Ready boss," the man asked.
No, he thought. He hated the fucking tourist trap places like this. It was always a bunch of drunks, college kids and people who still wanted to be, nobody that appreciated music, and nobody he generally wanted to play for. He stood up and peered around the curtain.
"Where the fuck is everyone?" He asked the barkeep.
"Weather, man," came the reply.
"The fuck? Weatherman?" Brendan asked.
"Nah," the bartender said. "The weather. Man!" He nodded to the window at the far end of the room, out of view of the area he had first checked when he looked out into the main room. Brendan looked to the distance and saw the clouds outside were deep and dark, darker still as the night came rolling in.
"Raining?" He asked.
"It's 'bout to," the bartender informed him.
Goddamn it, he thought. Weather tended to soak the French Quarter and pond the area making it a mess to walk through, and making it undesirable to be in. If the rains came, the floods would come. If the floods came, the people - and therefore the tips - would not come either. "Yeah, let's do this." He said, taking another drag and crushing the butt out in the stale beer can. The bartender left to notify the guy at the soundboard to get ready, and a moment later, Brendan Vicary pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder, careful not to strike the new cigarette he had fired up and held in his mouth, and easily perched himself on a single stool. The room was black, situated a few steps down from the street where light did not easily enter, and the illumination of a few, small, yellow candle lights attached to the pine wood planks along the walls gave a golden hue that seemed to dim with each crackle of thunder over the Ponchartrain.
The crowd was sparse, only six or seven people attending, and likely none there to see him play, but rather some simply looking to drink and stay out of the street. He began to launch into a slow, peal of a song, his voice low as the song rolled on beneath the roll of the storm that occasionally filled the room:
If you were the ocean and I was the sun
If the day made me heavy and gravity won
If I was the red and you were the blue
I could just fade into you
If you were a window and I was the rain
I’d pour myself out and wash off the pain
I’d fall like a tear so your light could shine through
Then I’d just fade into you
In your heart in your head in your
arms in your bed under your skin
Til there’s no way to know where
you end and where I begin
If I was a shadow and you were a
street
The cobblestone midnight is where
we first meet
Til the lights flickered out, we
dance with the moon
Then I’d just fade into you
He scanned the "crowd," as he always did, searching, ever searching to connect with someone, a girl, perhaps another soul. He saw nothing, though he felt a rage begin to fill him while he kept calm, echoing the words of the deep, slow dirge that filled his own soul and longing to be anywhere but here. As his eyes took on an amber color, likely not visible in the dim room, he felt the music to his core, and felt a rhythmic vibration somewhere nearby like he had not felt in some time. Something was close, or perhaps it was someone. He just....sensed it. He did not know if it was bad or good. But he knew what he wanted. And he scanned the room for her, looking for his next.....victim? Addiction? His next drug?
http://imgsrv.965thebuzz.com/image/krbz2/UserFiles/Image/Sex-On-Fire.jpg
