skulls, tied around his greasy brown (possibly blonde) hair.
Darren affirmed that he had indeed let Mark crash there, by nodding and holding his beer high up in the air.
"Did he try to contact you at Darren's house, Mark?"
"Wait," Darren laughed, "didn't he call that one night during Spinal Tap, you know, when it was on VH1 and they had edited out all the funny parts?"
"Oh *censored*!" Mark covered his mouth with a fresh pint of Icehouse. "Yeah. That VH1 version really sucked."
"But do you remember the phone call?" asked Mr. Tweedy, who was growing impatient with the two boys in their late twenties.
"Nope. That wasn't the Rev, that was a phone solicitor, remember?"
The two boys laughed, because they remembered how stoned they had been when the phone call was received, and they were surprised to have remembered any phone call at all.
Mr. Tweedy left Mark and Darren at the bar, where they would remain until their performance that night at eight. They were waiting for their bass player, Killer, who was supposed to show up twenty minutes earlier, in order to get "butt- wasted" before the show.
Mr. Tweedy's thoughts wandered, but not too far. Those boys are in need a good whipping, he thought. I don't know how the Reverend could handle that ungrateful slum of a boy. Good, God- fearing man, that's all that could handle an S.O.B. like that boy. It was time for lunch, and Tweedy stopped for a sandwich at Olga's Cuban sandwich shop, just a few blocks away. He ordered a Cuban on rye, hold the pork.
Tweedy was lucky that he was so important to the town of Cary. Typically, only the trash in town ate at Olga's ( a Cuban family ran the place), but because he had to "keep up with all walks of life" in town, he could have his delicious sandwich and maintain his equally satisfying reputation. Cary, most society people thought, was too far north in Florida for any Cubans to raise a family. "How could it possibly be hot enou...