Rammy couldn't pinpoint the exact moment of time where she knew this gig was going to go downhill. Was it when the band that hired her insisted on paying her after their show? Or when they made her use a stock guitar? Or maybe when they told her to strictly stick to the same three boring chords? If she didn't need the money, she would have definitely left when they made her ride to the venue shoved in the back of their van, sandwiched between two halves of a drum set.

At this point, she'd rather they tipped and crushed her. She was better off begging gigs from Teriyaki Yoko than working with these hacks.

The venue they were playing in wasn't half bad, but that was the only upside. They had booked The Night Trap, a club that had been around longer than Rammy had but still managed to keep its charm. It was popular with the hard punk scene, but not much else.

"We're here," called a gruff voice from the front, and Rammy groaned, untangling herself from the drum stands. There was a loud clatter as a few of the drums fell over and then to the ground when she opened the door.

"Ugh, be careful with the equipment, for christs' sake!" hollered one of the band members, a man with a large cowbell for a head. He rattled himself in agitation, scooping up his drumset. Rammy huffed and brushed herself off.

"Be a lot easier if I wasn't shoved in there like a damn snake in a can. Where's my guitar?"

The man grunted and jabbed a finger to a large chest still in the back of the van. Rammy followed, clicking it open, to see two spare guitars stacked haphazardly on top of each other. They were in awful condition- she was lucky the strings didn't break.

"Christ," she muttered, carefully lifting the top one from the box, "shoulda just brought my own." She slipped the strap over her head and plucked the strings to see how out of tune they were.

"Come on, mutton chop!" called the lead singer, a tall, skinny man named Ricky. His instrument was already slung over his shoulder. "We're on in an hour! You can tune that shit inside." Not waiting for a response, he turned, entering the building. She could hear chatter through the open door, and the sound of a gentle bass. Taking one last glance at the chipped guitar in her hands, she groaned and followed him.

The lights inside were dimmed and colored, but bright enough that Rammy could see her way around. There was a small crowd around the stage, watching the figure sitting atop it. From what Rammy could see, she had been where the music was coming from. The audience around her hushed as the feline woman, shrouded in sharp red light, began to speak.

"You're choking as you try to laugh-
You're vomiting up cream-
And with a kiss you'd cut up my tongue-
I've lost my voice to scream-"

Her voice was raspy and sharp and she punctuated each line by plucking the strings of her bass. It was a constant rhythm of sound and words, and though Rammy wasn't normally interested in performative poetry- or whatever this was- the way she used her words and the way she played that bass was something to be appreciated. It made Rammy stop in her tracks, interested, if only for the moment. The cat brushed her long silver hair from her face, quickening her bass playing just slightly.

"I'm overwhelmed, a savage sculpture-
Vibrating scream-
Eat me like a vulture-
It burns me up quickly-
I can't slow down-
Need to get higher where I can be loud-
Need to get higher where I can't be found..."

Her voice faded into a croak, but her playing didn't stop- instead it got louder, dissonant, echoing through the room. Rammy rose her eyebrows in surprise, not quite expecting her to pick up the pace, but when the poet opened her mouth again Rammy felt a hard tug on her shirt. She whipped her head around to see what had touched her, and it was Ricky, a scowl on his face as he pulled her forward.

He led her on until they made it to a door labelled 'Backstage' in bold lettering, not missing a beat to slam the door behind them. The rest of the band had already made it inside, and they all looked at Rammy, an annoyed expression on their face.

"Jesus," Ricky snapped as he walked away, one hand in the air, "Do I have to lead you with a carrot on a stick or something? What part of 'we're on in an hour' didn't you get?" He turned to look at her for an answer, and Rammy could swear she saw the hint of a bulging vein in his temple. If he wasn't so scrawny, she would have been intimidated.

"Ugh. Who needs an hour to do a stupid mic check anyway?" mumbled Rammy, shoving her hands in her pockets.

"Professionals, that's who," snapped Ricky, jabbing a finger her way. Rammy flinched instinctively, but he made no move towards her. "Maybe play more than kids birthday parties and you'd know."

Rammy's hands tightened into a fist as she grit her teeth. "Hey, I know my shit! I played for Teriyaki Yoko-" Ricky immediately scoffed at the name, crossing his arms.

"Are you kidding? Everyone knows that gig got snatched up from under you by some no-name. Why else would you be out here begging for jobs?"

Heat flooded Rammy's cheeks and she sputtered, trying to find a response, but he was right. If it wasn't for Lammy, she wouldn't be here. Stupid Lammy. Stupid Yoko. Stupid, stupid-

"Now," Ricky said, turning his back to her, "Be a good little lamb and get your act together. Just because you screw up your gigs doesn't mean you're gonna drag us down with you. And," he looked pointedly over his shoulder at Rammy again, "Play it like we practiced. None of that extra shit."

Rammy rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to give his back the middle finger. "Yeah, whatever." If she had known beforehand that the song she'd be playing was going to suck as much as working with this band, she probably wouldn't have taken this job.

The room grew quiet, the two other band members milling about and setting up their equipment. Rammy watched them for a while, then decided she should work on her own severely out of tune guitar.

It only took a few minutes of solid boredom before her ears began to pick up the sound of the poet on stage again. From the sound of it, she was screaming now, and her bass didn't sound much better- whatever the subject matter of this particular poem was, it was probably intense. She almost wished she was out there instead of with these hard-asses.

For curiosity's sake, she slid up to the only band member that hadn't gotten pissed off at her- an avian bass player that she never quite got the name of. "Hey, you know the deal with that chick that was on stage?" she asked, jerking her head to the door, fingers idly tuning her strings to make herself look busy.

The chicken looked towards the door with a frown. "Uh... not really. Never been here before, so..." she shrugged and went back to her instrument, clearly not very interested. Rammy huffed and got back up. These guys sucked.

Going back to her job, she twanged her strings one more time to make sure they sounded right- or as right as they could; she wasn't a miracle worker. Ricky did vocal 'exercises', or, at least, Rammy thought that's what they were. When she stopped trying to hear what was going outside she watched him, head in her hand, repeatedly holler in the back of the room, pace around for a moment, click his tongue, and then repeat.

She checked her watch when she couldn't take it any more and was pleasantly surprised to see it was almost time to go. Once it was all over she could take her $150 and get back to her shitty hotel. Repeat to infinity until she finally died for real, or withered away, or whatever it was people like her did.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and a fly-trap headed woman popped her head in the door. "You guys are on in 5," she said, looking at Ricky, then the rest of them. She gave a thumbs up and closed the door again.

Ricky shouldered his guitar and pointed to the door leading to the stage. "Let's do this." The other two looked at each other before following suit, Cowbell wheeling out his fully assembled drumset with care.

Rammy followed suit, hands in her pockets. Time to pay some bills.

There was a bright light that hit Rammy right in the eyes as soon as she stepped on stage. She squinted, holding her hand up to shield herself from the glare until it was directed somewhere else. The crowd below them had gotten slightly larger, but there were still plenty of stragglers hanging by the bar area. Rammy searched the audience idly, wondering if she could spot the woman from before, but it was hard when the other lights were so dim. Ricky stepped up next to her, front of the stage, mic in hand. He cleared his throat.

"Good afternoon, freaks and drunks of The Night Trap!" He howled with a grin, "We are Meatload! Let's go!" He struck a sharp chord on his guitar, signaling to the drummer, and then leaned back into the mic and hurriedly added, "Also go check out our CDs for sale in the front."

The drummer tapped his sticks together, one, two, three, then slammed them down. Rammy listened carefully for her cue; Ricky had already started screaming into the mic, wailing on his guitar as hard as he could.

"How could you throw me out?
I need a place to sleep,
Don't know where to go-
You said I'm such a creep,

I just wanted a kiss-
You're such a teasin' ass bitch!"

Rammy only halfway paid attention to the lyrics, which were loud and vulgar and probably about an ex-girlfriend, or something. She began her part when Ricky stepped back, signaling her, and played the three chord progression she'd been directed to play. The others joined in to sing partway through the song, echoing Ricky's lyrics loudly.

The constant three chord rhythm only made Rammy feel restless- the song was already bland, and she could see the crowd start to shift away from the stage, to talk or go back to the bar. She looked at the others, playing on like nothing was happening.

"I'm at my best friend's house,
'Cause of this mess you made
I'm sleepin' on the couch
I'm feelin' so betrayed-

It was just a kiss,
But you're a teasin' ass bitch!"

There was a hard succession of drums, and Rammy grit her teeth and stepped forward as the singers vocalized together. She couldn't sit still anymore. She had to break out of this somehow- she knew this song could sound better. She knew she could make this better-

Slamming on her guitar, she began her own solo, her hands flying up and down the neck of the guitar. She matched the rhythm perfectly, echoing throughout the club. Ricky had stopped singing, his eyes focused on hers; there was definitely a vein bulging in that temple now. Rammy just grinned at him as the people below began to pay attention again. She reveled in it, playing all across the stage until she fell to her knees and ended her solo with three sharp chords.

Ricky looked like he was going to strangle her, but Rammy didn't care. She picked herself up from the floor and went back to her three chord progression, feeling smug, and he went back to his song. Below them the crowd had gotten larger again, more interested. She scanned their faces, and, at the very front, tail twitching, she saw the feline poet from before.

There was quiet applause once the song was over. Ricky took a swig of water and pulled the mic towards him. "Hope you guy's liked that one. We're gonna take a short break, but then we'll be right back to entertain ya some more, so don't go anywhere." He turned, and Rammy could swear she felt his eyes burning a hole in her skull. "Backstage, now," he mouthed, jabbing a finger towards the door.

The other band members looked at each other with raised eyebrows, clearly confused. Rammy only rolled her eyes, stuffing her hands in her pockets. "Oh, yes sir," she gibed, following behind him.

Slamming the door behind them, Ricky immediately made his way over to her, towering above her with fire in his eyes. "What. The. Fuck." Rammy winced as spit flew from his lips and hit her right on her chin. "What did I tell you? None of that extra shit! You were supposed to play by the book!"

Rammy wiped the spit from her chin with her thumb. "Ugh, watch where you're spitting." She wasn't going to let this twig intimidate her. She puffed her chest out and jabbed a thumb towards the stage. "Didn't you see the crowd out there? They thought you sucked. I'm just drawing in the people your scuzzy song couldn't. You should be thanking me."

"I don't need some shitty washed up guitarist to fix anything for me!" He swore back, pointing a finger into her chest, and wow, that kind of hurt. Rammy backed up slightly, eyes shifting towards the door. Maybe she'd bit off more than she could chew here. "This is my band, my venue, my crowd! Maybe you didn't understand that, but maybe this will make it a little more clear." He rose his hand, and Rammy braced for impact.

When it didn't come, however, she opened her eyes, and saw Ricky waving a check in front of her nose. Her name was written on it in bold black ink. It didn't stay there long, though, because in a flash Ricky had ripped the paper in two. She watched in disbelief as it floated lazily to the ground.

"Wh- what the Hell?" She stammered, eyes jerking between the paper and the man standing before her. "You- You- you can't do that!"

Ricky gave her the smarmiest, slimiest grin. "Oh, yes I can. I hired you to do the most basic of guitar playing, and you couldn't even do that right. And I don't see your name on any contracts, so guess what? You can go screw yourself. Good luck finding anyone that'll hire you after this one, Rammy."

With that, he turned, guitar in hand, back to the stage, leaving Rammy to stare at the piece of paper that was meant to pay for her only means of shelter.

"God damn it," she groaned. There was a thrum of drums as the music started again. She lit a cigarette, clutching at her shirt, and leaned against the wall. There went dinner, and a warm bed. Why did she always have to screw things up for herself? Maybe there was a reason she went to hell when she died after all. Maybe she should have just stayed there.

Well. It wasn't too late to just go back.

She looked out the window, to the bright, shining moon, to the thrumming traffic outside, and sighed. Not the best way to go, but it would get the job done. Maybe once she'd finished her cigarette.

She'd gotten it nearly to the filter when she heard the door open again. Quickly wiping her eyes, she stood up straight, expecting Ricky to shove his ugly mug in her face again. Who she got was not Ricky, but the feline poet, eyes nervously darting around the room like she was looking for something. She jumped when she spotted Rammy, cigarette dangling from her lips.

"O-oh, uh, hey- I didn't think anyone else was back here. Sorry," she stuttered, backing up into the door. "Uh, I'm just looking for something, so…"

Rammy blinked. "Uh… Alright, go ahead. I don't own the room." She put out the remainder of her cig and scratched the back of her head, watching the woman from the corner of her eye. "What, uh… What are you looking for?"

She hesitated for a moment, brushing her hair behind her ear, before she turned. Her tail was twitching frantically behind her. "My jacket." Her voice was a croak, probably even more strained from the screaming from before. "I think I might have left it back here."

Rammy rose an eyebrow and lightly scanned the room, just to see if she could spot it. Sure enough, on a couch right against the wall she'd been moping on, was a black jacket. Gesturing to it, she said, "Is that it over there?"

The woman perked up and walked over to grab it. As she slipped it over her shoulders, she gave Rammy a curious once over with her wide, yellow eyes. "Say… aren't you that guitarist from before? Shouldn't you still be on stage?"

Rammy scoffed. "Pfft, no. I got dropped, so now I'm staying back here to wallow."

Blinking, the woman tilted her head. "W-what? Why? You were really good…"

"Yeah, well, tell that to those guys," scowled Rammy. "Not only did they kick me out, but that dickweed Ricky tore up my check, too. Guess he thought I was hogging his spotlight."

"Jesus..." She fell silent, rubbing her arm. After a moment, she continued, "W-well, I thought you were great. Maybe… maybe you just need a band that'll work with you, instead of just hiring you." Rammy snickered a little at that.

"What, is that an offer?" She asked, with a little grin.

The woman's tail poofed up immediately and she looked away, shaking her head. "O-oh, me? No, I'm not in a band, I just do poems. Heh, I barely know how to play bass."

"Yeah, well, you play better than those guys, so that's a step in the right direction at least," said Rammy with a laugh. That made the woman chuckle a little. "I mean, your voice wasn't half bad either. I could hear you scream all the way back here. Powerful stuff."

"Yeah, well… I've had a lot of practice, I guess."

The conversation faded again, and Rammy tilted her head, watching her lean against the wall next to her. "What's your name? I never got it."

"Oh, uh. It's Kitty," she replied, fixing her hair again. She did it often enough Rammy assumed it was a nervous tick.

"Kind of self-explanatory, huh?"

Kitty snorted. "Oh yeah? What's yours?"

"Uh… Rammy." Kitty laughed, and Rammy immediately felt heat flood her cheeks. "Listen! If you don't have a redundant name then you aren't an animal, that's just a fact. I mean, our lives are already a joke, so why not just make it more obvious?"

Shaking her head, Kitty settled back on the wall with a grin. "Yeah, yeah. Kinda seems that way, doesn't it? Sometimes it feels like it's not even real."

"Heh. I wish."

Lifting her head up, Kitty looked at her, then the door, opening her mouth for a moment contemplatively. Eventually, she asked, "Uh… so... where are you headed after this?"

"Man, I don't know. That check was supposed to pay for my motel tonight, so, the street or something probably." Rammy shrugged. It sounded even more pathetic saying it outloud. She expected the pitying look Kitty gave her, but it only made her feel shittier.

"Oh…"

"What, you expecting something more glamorous?"

Kitty shook her head again, eyes wide. "Oh, no, I just- um…" She rubbed the back of her neck, then looked back at Rammy. "You know, if you need, you could, uh… Maybe stay at my apartment for the night. If you want, I mean."

Now, that, Rammy didn't really expect. She rose an eyebrow at her, wondering what would compel her to offer such a pathetic looking wretch like herself to have a slumber party, but then she realized she wasn't much in the way to refuse it either. No matter how much she hated herself. "No kidding? I mean, you aren't planning on murdering me, right?"

Kitty rose her hands up defensively, eyes wide. "Oh, no, no! Just, you know-"

"'Cause if you do, I'll come back and kick your butt."

"I promise I won't murder you. Swear on it."

Jeeze, this girl really couldn't understand a joke. Rammy laughed and pushed off the wall. "Well, shit, you've really convinced me. Let's get going, then. After tonight I feel like I could pass out for five years."

Kitty watched her get up to leave, like she was surprised that she had actually taken the offer. After a moment she nodded and followed, reaching in her pockets for her keys. "Y-yeah, me too, I think."

The air was cool by the time the two of them made it outside, the parking lot slightly damp from what must have been a short rain that had happened while they were inside. The moon and club lights reflected off of it nicely, a soft myriad of hues that were disturbed by the girls' boots as they crossed the pavement. Rammy followed Kitty to her car, a small busted up volkswagon that contrasted her overall aesthetic so much it was almost funny. As she opened the door, she couldn't help but notice the band van she'd spent much to long in just hours ago.

"Ugh. That's their stupid van," she grumbled, and Kitty looked up, following her gaze.

"Who, Ricky?" she asked.

"Yeah. It smelled like ass in there." Rammy sniffed, an ear flicking in agitation. "I kinda wanna pop the tires."

There was a second of silence, and Rammy was a little afraid she'd scared Kitty off, until she felt her move to stand next to her. "You know," she said quietly, "I have a knife in my pocket. I wouldn't say anything if you did."

Rammy, surprised, let out a small laugh. "Oh, wow. I think I like you already."

Kitty had given it to her with a mischievous, giddy little grin. As she felt the knife in her hand plunge into the rubber, air escaping with a satisfying, high pitched wheeze, she felt just the tiniest bit of hope in her rotted little heart. Maybe the living world was worth hanging around, if only for just a bit longer.