I own a fedora, and a whole shitload of LP stuff. I have not obtained the band, though, so rest easy.

Hm. Well, I haven't got my glasses yet, but meh. Tomorrow I'll have a pair. And, since this is technically the twentieth chapter of the arc, I'll do the thanking. Wow... ten more reviews, 1100 more words, and... three hundred less views. Jeez haloo, I love you guys. And I somehow end up with more people on my 'extra special' list than I do my other... huh.

Thanx to: Artixan, ~hard2forget~, SJ.

Even more thanx to: Arty (Have.), Ashes (It has come!), Burnt_out_Phoenix (No, you'll see. I'll get to it.), chazzy kid (We're getting to it, promise. Arty's job's eating her life.), No~One (It's here!), SteppinRazor (Hm, the effect I wanted. Yay!), Vixenla (*bows*).

Banner pic, already done. Check. And I think it's wonderfully... unorganized, no?

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As I type this, I suppose I should reflect a bit, just a little, before I tell the ending of the story.

The events that happened in South California Mental Institution brought upon us several changes in the dynamic of the band. Mike became more like Chester- talkative, a bit loony, and more down-to-earth. Brad had his fear of complete darkness, which is why one of us either tripped over him in the morning as we entered the lounge in the back, or discovered an uninvited guest in our bunks when we woke up. Phi and Joe became almost inseparable, perhaps to spite the demonic personalities they displayed near the end. Chester was healthier, and took care to stay that way. I must’ve changed in some way, though how, I don’t really know. Everything I do seems so normal to me.

Overall, we became closer. Our music changed to suit that... Brad went for a few more solos, Mike nearly took off his shirt during a concert... then again, my marching snare may have helped with that. My bad.

The Idaho Falls Incident helped us along as well. I grew accustomed to the ghosts that followed us around, and the others got used to seeing me talking with no visible audience. Ghostly occurrences happened every now and again; one show saw Chester’s mic stand fly across the stage and land at the base of Mt. Hahn. Chester, for his part, pretended that he had thrown it, and the crowd ate it up.

That was another thing.

The lies.

People had discovered the SCMI picture in the old newspaper. Millions of people had seen it somewhere, and about a quarter of them seriously thought it was me.

And we still had no idea who had painted that damning graffiti.

Brad came back to the tour and played as strong as ever, his little experience as a semi-ghost having no effect on his personality, playing or appearance, save for one long scar that ran down the side of his head, from hairline to chin, where a huge beam had sliced into his face.

Nothing a bit of makeup couldn’t hide. I don’t think too many fans noticed.

We came together as a band. We suffered, bled, leaned on each other and supported one another as a band. But, most of all, we grew. We matured. No longer did Joe want to skateboard down the bus steps, no longer did Phi want to hurt Chester in a towel fight.

I’m looking at the clock now. Eleven fifty-five. It’s almost midnight. Enough time for just one more story. One more story before twelve... just to keep us warm tonight, when we wrap ourselves in our sheets and fall asleep to dream of what dreams may bring.

For weeks, my cell phone had rung.

Sometimes it was Bob. Or Brad. Mike, Chester, Joe and Phi might call as well.

More often, though, was the no-number mystery caller.

I’d only answered to them once since the Idaho Falls Incident. I didn’t get an answer, just the heavy silence that Mike feared so.

I was beginning to hate my phone.

I had switched phones, but the caller still reached me. I thought I had escaped them, and I happily had it in my pocket for the rest of the day.

At 7:43 PM, it vibrated against my leg, and I opened it, and groaned.

And it had not stopped.

I began to notice a pattern as time wore on. Every twelve hours, for sure, I would get one of the strange calls. Sometimes I’d get one at other times as well, but 7:43 AM/PM was the one I could count on.

I tried turning the phone off during that time period.

It worked, but that meant that another two calls would be coming my way at some point in the day. And I wouldn’t know when.

Well, that doesn’t help me now, does it?

I sighed and picked up Mike’s laptop. No use pondering over something I can’t control.

And speaking of things I can’t control....

Some fans in the show where Chester’s mic stand had flown had gathered and decided Chester hadn’t hit the stand, but only thought he did. They came up with some wild theories; CIA agents with tripwire, magnets, assassination attempts... the list went on. Only one got the truth, but it was a joking suggestion. Sarcasm.

If only they knew...

Well, maybe not.

In truth, the whole idea that ghosts exist was very abstract for most of our fanbase. Not too many people who sit around at cemeteries or haunted houses listen to Linkin Park, I guess. Joe had painted a few pictures of paranormal-based ideas, and we were questioned in our last interview about it. Mike just happily exclaimed that, “We prefer to call them ‘Spiritual Emanations’!’”, quoting The Ghost And Mr. Chicken, which, in turn, got questions in the chats with the fans.

Well, can’t please everyone, I guess.

I went to the LP message boards. Threads about the new dynamics and how we performed now as compared to before flooded the first page of the main forum. The next pages were all on Brad’s coma; well-wishers who wrote letters, signed an ‘ecard’ for him, and others who wanted us to shave the Fro while we could.

Nothing too suspicious. And very, very little on my number.

That could not get out.

That was perhaps the one thing that I really knew could not escape from the Incident in southern California.

I hopped onto the chat room under one of my usual pseudonyms. I had several, but there was one that the rest of the world didn’t know was me.

I scanned the slow little conversation that was creeping up the screen. It wasn’t anything about me. In fact, it wasn’t about music in general. Someone was asking about a sexual encounter with their boyfriend and the other four people were trying to assure the person. It wasn’t obvious exactly what gender the person was, and I didn’t really care. I left, suggesting that the person call in on Loveline, and then surfed randomly, still pondering.

It wasn’t as if I had anything else to do. Brad was in my bunk, and his... I didn’t want to be Fro-covered when I woke up.

One Fro in the band is enough, thank you. Especially if the Fro-Bearer is Jewish.

Makes for easy jokes by the fans.

I stopped on a random site. Ghost Stories and Sightings.

I clicked on the ‘random story’ button.

Stiffy Green? What kind of a name for a dog is that?

A prison... interesting....

And thus the early morning hours wore on.

When Mike woke up, he took my only source of amusement and did his own random surfing while I decided that the neglected game console needed some attention.

Joe joined in, playing against me. I nearly had him, then my ammo ran out.

Just as I was killed, my cell vibrated, this time against the table. I checked the wall clock.

Right on time, I guess.

The vibrating ended. I gave it a confused look. That didn’t normally happen. I flipped it open.

A text this time.

I C U.

~G.T.~