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Word Count: 85,000
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One green light, one drunk driver; that's all it took to put Jimmy Rickliefs’ life into a tailspin. Now, he has to decide if the risks of returning to the stage he loves outweigh the benefits of staying home with his daughter. A single misplaced strobe light could trigger a seizure and his career could end.
Sitting around a sultry garage in Buxton, California, the members of the band Closure jammed a few ideas for their latest album. They believed in putting out the best material they could and would rather hole up in their lead singer’s garage for weeks on end than just push something out.
“Ouch.” Their drummer, Jimmy Rickliefs, dropped one drumstick and shook his hand. His turquoise hair drooped in his eyes a bit as the guys laughed at him. “What? That fucking hurt!”
Anthony Greggs, Jimmy’s best friend and the lead guitarist, shook his head, still laughing. “Only you could manage to smash your finger on the hi hat, Jimmy. Only you.”
Jimmy flipped him off, as he retrieved his stick from the floor. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t swing that way, buddy. I’m sure my wife would object.”
Aldon Smith shook his head, flipping his microphone in his hand. “You know, if we don’t finish this demo today, we’re going to have to deal with Edward’s wrath. He wants one song to show the label, and we’ve got squat so far.”
There was a sigh, which caused the singer to laugh. Finally, Micheal Downs, their rhythm guitarist, straightened a bit on the couch. Brandishing a notebook with lyrics, he nodded to Jimmy.
“Let’s give the man Floozy. It’s at least halfway ready and they understand that it’s a demo.”
Nodding, Aldon tapped his foot while Jimmy counted them in. At least Floozy was halfway up beat, if nothing else.