Free Broken Birdie Chirpin by Adam Tarsitano

them yet.
    The
third “Jack Slap” appeared to be their lead singer and guitarist. He had
scruffy brown hair and the early makings of a garibaldi. His wiry frame was
clad almost exclusively in denim. He strapped on a Strat and grabbed the
microphone.
    “Cheers.
You lot ready for some rhythm and blues?” He received a mostly lukewarm
response. “Ooh, that’s not gonna cut it. Come on. You tossers ready for some
rhythm and blues?” The response was more robust but there were also scattered
jeers on account of his swagger. “Alright. Alright. Sod off. We’re just gonna
play bloody loud and to hell with you.” Seconds later the band made good on his
promise. Their sound was thunderous and heavy as they dropped gritty
reinterpretations of R&B standards. It was Big Bill Broonzy meets The
Animals.
    Donnie
Fitzgibbons couldn’t press their bloody trousers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    We
were rock n’ roll confetti splattered across newsstands. Pouty mugs. Tight
trousers. Eyeliner. Our physical beauty was matched only by our hit-making
prowess. Platinum records. Top of the Pops. The headlines were mostly the same:
“Rip Churchill: The Crowned Heads of Rock n’ Roll.” This was the vision I kept
for my beloved band. Fortunately, Rip Churchill would someday bathe in the
grandeur of such superstardom. Regrettably, the four of us would never bathe in
it together.
    Lincoln
strutted over to our table during intermission. He plopped his enormous hand on
my shoulder and sighed. “I am sorry about Becky. Who can figure birds, right?”
Becky had obviously spared him the particulars and I wasn’t about to disprove
any misconceptions. The enormity of her selfless act was mostly devoured by my
overwhelming sense of relief. Rip Churchill needn’t croak at the hands of my
shabby constitution. There was still the possibility it’d croak at the hands of
our rhythm section, however.
    “Now,
I know why you lads came here tonight and I assure you you’ll have your answer
before the night is through, one way or the other. But you’re going to have to
stick around for another set first.” Lincoln wore the grin of a mischievous
sprog and I found it mostly reassuring. Skeffington figured we were being
jerked around by the help.
    “Why
all the bloody cloak and dagger in The Cloak and Cucumber, mate? You’re either
in or you’re out.”
    “One
more set. That’s all I’m asking for. What do you say, Churchill?”
    I
leaned over and whispered in Skeffington’s ear. If Lincoln and Frisby weren’t
fully committed members of the band after the next set I’d move on. Donnie
Fitzgibbons was better than doing this wild fandango in reverse or chasing
something that never really existed in the first place. I was just bluffing of
course but Skeffington bought it. I looked back over at Lincoln. “Sure. Right.
One more set then.”
    “That’s
awfully clever.” Lincoln leapt from his chair and started back towards the
stage before turning around again. “Oh, and ah, you troubadours ought to stay
on your toes.”
    The
hour that followed was extraordinary and unfolded like a Kawasaki rose. The
band continued to devour rhythm and blues like ravenous piranhas while
Skeffington and I anxiously awaited a sign from atop the stage. It finally
materialized midway through the set as the third “Jack Slap” wiped the sweat
off his brow and leaned in towards the crowd.
    “You
lot enjoying yourselves?” Applause. Catcalls. “Uh, that’s sweet, but…well,
we’re getting tired of playing for you.” Playful jeers burst forth from every
corner of the café. The spectators had long since realized that the cocksure
repartee was part of the show. “Wait. Buggering hell. I’ve got a bloody
solution. Who here digs rock n’ roll?”
    Cheers.
Whistles.
    “Well,
we don’t do rock n’ roll. Sorry.” Hisses and boos. “Alright, calm yourselves.
We’ll give it a go since you’re all so gorgeous. Oh, and I almost forgot…we’ve
got some allegedly