I knew if I called Jigger and asked him to weld some kind of cage in there, he’d just start hassling me about screwing up a ‘77 Cutlass and eventually hang up on me. No, I really should just tell Jigger to weld the cage, and skip the wannabe tough guy talk he’s only comfortable spewing after slurring over too many shots of Kieth Richards Brand™ liver juice. What? Liver juice? Isn’t that a tad “cute” sounding? Stupid sounding would be closer. Dudes who write like that should be told something by someone. Silliness, and plain embarrassing is what it really is—embarassing and screwy. Jigger’d be more than happy to be the one to tell me, but by now he’s either complaining about Bobbie’s bowling stance and dousing a steak with A-1, or wondering how he got to the bottom of the stairs so whippin’ fast.

Just build the cage man. That’s how I’ll say it. Jigger, it’s me. Hey, I’m talking to you. Make it happen pops, and make the Helk sure it’s crazy strong. Yeah, that’ll work. Sounds good to me.

I needed to find the truth, and I didn’t want any mistakes. I figured, the only way to get it would be some kind of cactus tie/torture time out near Needles. Always fun, Needles. I played there once for a Bikerfest, right after the Hobo Moms got booed off the stage. We played as loudly as humanly possible—maybe louder, and did not get booed. We did have plenty of bottles thrown at us, but to be fair, we didn’t even start playing until after 3:00 A M. Who wouldn’t chuck empty beer bottles at the loudest band ever at 3 in the morning? It all seemed normal to me at the time, and I didn’t care a whole lot because I was just there for the loudness, money, temporary fame, other rock star stuff we’ve all heard about but haven’t ever experienced, and of course, that other thing—the truth.

I would thank Jigger and ask him to get in. Got to know if it’s going to work pal. Can’t just trust some cat with a welding sign and a kid with red hair and freckles. In my head this sounded perfect, and I was sure Jigger would laugh. There was always the chance he wouldn’t though, and instead, completely miss the whole We Play Loud humor hiding somewhere behind my clever remarks. Jigger might decide it was time to remove the tattoo from my left thigh with a blowtorch. Well, too bad old man. I’ve got to know if this thing is going to hold a 250 pound killer or not.

I can be pretty bad arse when I feel the urge, and this particular morning, I was Mr. Super Bad Arse. A little like if Brad Pitt decided to quit the whole Hollywood thing and try joining a San Diego motorcycle club. No, actually I meant to say whatever the opposite of that would be. More like if Brad did all that while watching himself in a really long mirror. It’s always cool to feel like Mr. Bad for a while, but now I just feel tense. It happens sometimes. I hate being tense. Present tense, past tense, tinsel on a Christmas tree—I suppose this would be the perfect place to type the word whatever. That would make it all just dandy. But no, I’ll just have to pay Jigger the rest when I get back from the desert, take the car while he’s in the can, and get the truth before I run out of gas. Now get in the trunk, you worthless piece of sludge. Sounds good, sounds perfect, and I’m finally ready to rattle. I said, I’m finally ready to rattle. Thank you.

This seems like a smart place to begin another paragraph, plus it will give me that little bit of additional time I need to come up withe something else to lie about. JK bro, JK. That’s like once when I was kicking in an old phone booth and some clown came up and just said, “LOL”. He said the letters out loud, and as I recall, that was the first time I truly became Mr. Bad Arse. Truly.

OK kids. This is probably getting a bit slow about now. Don’t Give Up On Me Baby. Dreamweaver. Sometimes When We Touch. There, feel better? A good song always slams things right back on track. That, and a fat wad of hundreds, a pack of Camel non filters, a number one hit on the Indie Hipster charts, somebody to love, and a really good lie. Wait here, I’ll be right back.