Beat it

Gerry bobbed his head in studio drumming his fingers on a section of the huge mixer. A piled ash tray sat next to him with embers dying out slowly from the last puff. The studio was on fire, the music was relentless, hit after hit, beat after beat; Gerry just could not get enough of it. He stepped out of the studio to get some coffee from the kitchen. He hadn’t even noticed the time; he knew it was time for a caffeine kick to keep the midnight oil burning.

“That’s a great idea!” Gerry said out loud and headed back to the studio with his coffee mug. He rocked back in to the studio with a spring in his step, a bob of his head and tripped on a cable and there went his coffee, snaking its way across the multimillion shilling mixer. ‘NOoOOOOOOO! Damn it!”

He dashed for the door, but it just wouldn’t open, he whipped out his cellphone to wake up his kid brother to open the door for him. And bring in some paper towels. Terry’s phone rang but no one answered, it was 3am in the morning; he wasn’t going to answer it.

“Damn it Terry!” Gerry cursed and looked helplessly at his mixer, coffee now spilling to the studio carpet. A loud buzz emerged; Gerry spewed profanity and walked in to the recording booth. He flung the door open and headed dead center to where the microphone was, immediately he was plugged right in front of it, the door shut and he heard a lock turn. It made no sense, the door had no lock. He dashed to the door and tried to yank it open, the handle broke off. He tried thumping at the glass; it was sound proof; futile. Gerry began to panic, he needed a cigarette, he was shaking and screaming, he grabbed his left wrist and held it in a weird way, as if he was trying to yank it off. He began to hyperventilate.

“LEFT. ME. OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Then suddenly music began to blare in the studio he couldn’t hear it clearly, but involuntarily began to moon walk and punctuate each moonwalk grabbing his crotch with a ‘hihihi’ at the end like Michael Jackson.

Then the studio went silent. Gerry was sweating now and in need of a sip of his coffee. A bottle of water was lying near the foot of one of the mics, he sipped on it and then the music began to blast again. Then once again involuntarily; Gerry raised his right arm with a fist pumping in the air shaking his head sideways and jogging on the spot like a Rastafarian.

“IRON, LION, ZION! I’m on the run…” He bellowed. Gerry was so confused it was like an out of body experience watching himself; under some form of a spell.

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