"Everybody's talking 'bout the new sound; funny, but it's still rock and roll to me." ~Billy Joel, "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me"
Jet Star sat on the top of the dune, looking up into the night sky. The stars were starting to come out in tiny twinkling flashes, sparkles of glitter in the indigo cloth above him. Perhaps he could capture that somehow…
He checked the settings on his portable amplifier and cradled his guitar. He strummed a few notes experimentally, pausing to mark down the ones he liked on the papers of sheet music spread out in the cooling sands around him. This was his attempt at rewriting their old song "Trans-Am," which had been great, but as long as he was working on music, he figured he might as well try to put a new spin on it. He'd come up with a synthesis of flowing chords to match the inspirational words that conveyed the sense of justified confidence they'd felt, and now touched on the great relationships he had with his fellow Killjoys, and the melody was an endless field that he wouldn't mind getting lost in.
While writing "Na Na Na" for Party Poison (and for himself, as well), he'd gotten a feeling of meaning that he hadn't known since…well, since he'd chosen to become a Killjoy. It was like he was on the edge of a cliff, about to bungee jump off without knowing if the rope would hold, but feeling compelled to do it in spite of the danger. Or was it because of the danger?
"Hey." He was enveloped in a voice and a thin cloud of sunrise-and-mint-scented smoke and turned.
"Hello, Fun Ghoul," Jet replied. His friend looked a bit out of place, so he cleared away the papers on his right and invited him to sit. The younger man sank down next to him, legs extended down the dune, hands planted behind him, a cigarette between his lips. The ember on its tip glowed deep red and orange, broken by specks of black, like a photograph of the sun.
After a moment, Jet Star asked, "What brought you up here?"
Fun Ghoul shifted, preparing to stand up as he said, "I came to see what you were doing. If you'd rather be alone, I could…"
"No, you're fine," Jet smiled as his friend settled back to a comfortable position. "I'm working on a song."
"Another one?" Fun Ghoul took a drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth farthest from Jet. It rolled, the child of a cumulonimbus cloud moving across the dark air.
"Yeah. Would you like to hear it?"
"Uh, sure." He raised an eyebrow in mild interest, shrugged.
"It's called 'Bulletproof Heart.'"
Jet Star started to play and sing, wishing as he always did that his voice sounded as perfectly melodious as his guitar. The notes washed over them like water, and Jet found himself nodding along with the beat as his fingers slid up and down the strings, easily melding into each configuration. As he reached the second verse, he felt pleasantly amazed at how much of the song had passed already and how much more was to come. A feeling of incredible, boundless contentment and peace welled up in his stomach (this is right, he knew. Perfect) and he launched into the chorus with extra passion to keep it from overwhelming him. And he appeared to have succeeded in capturing stars in the breakdown, he noted joyously. He could have floated away had it not been for the concentration required by his hands on the strings.
Fun Ghoul liked it. It was not the kind of music he'd choose to listen to, sharing Kobra Kid's affinity for heavy metal, but he closed his eyes and let the music surround him. He nodded and clapped along with the verses and sung along with the choruses. When the final note faded with Jet Star's voice, he applauded, grinning.
"That was shiny! No, that was awesome!" Fun Ghoul cheered.
"Thanks," Jet started to laugh out of pure happiness, and his friend joined in.
When they'd both finished their final sighs of satisfaction and lay back on the sand, Fun Ghoul turned to him with curiosity and asked, "Have you ever thought that our fourth album should've been like that?"
"All the time," Jet confessed.
"I mean, the kind of rock and roll we did is fun and all, but…"
"It wasn't what you really wanted." Jet stated, his voice full of the muted regret he knew so well.
"Exactly," Fun Ghoul seemed relieved that someone agreed with him. "It was typical. Boring. Predictable. But this," he gestured to his friend's guitar, "is new- even though I know it's old- and sounds fantastic and it's freaking shiny." He grinned again. "It's like a road trip."
"What?" Jet blinked in confusion.
"It reminds me of the tours we used to go on, back when we were a band. How we'd travel cross-country without a care in the world." Fun Ghoul took another drag on his cigarette, and then ground it out against his boot. He dropped it into the sand.
"Young and fun-loving and innocent, living on chips and a dream." Jet Star chuckled. "Remember how you used to forget me at truck stops?"
"I…don't know what you're talking about." Fun Ghoul couldn't help laughing again, ruining his charade of ignorance. Jet's nostalgia, one-third of which was joking, added to his, and Fun found himself wishing those times could go on forever, the way the song had seemed to.
"Hey, Jet Star…" He was still working out exactly what he meant as he formed the words, so he sounded awkward to himself. "Would you mind if I, like, accompanied you in some of these songs, on guitar? I still have mine; I kept it. It's probably somewhere in those piles of stuff in the diner. I'd have to practice, of course, but I could find it and tune it and I'd need to practice a bunch to get some calluses but…" He was rambling now, and Jet gently interrupted him.
"Sure you can join me. I could use a rhythm guitarist, and I'm honored that you like my songs enough to want to help with them." He was also glad that Fun Ghoul had not forgotten music's value in entertainment, inspiration, and the keeping of memories; it was, he thought, truly one of the best things in life.
They went in after that, Fun walking with a new sense of purpose and Jet Star carrying his amp and guitar. Before they reached the bottom of the dune, though, he let Fun Ghoul walk ahead of him, and climbed back to the same spot. He looked up at the stars that inspired him, felt glad he had named himself after them…and picked up the cigarette butt on his way back to the diner.