Snake smacked his fist onto the coffee table, spilling his beer and startling Freaky John awake.  “Exploding Coffins of Doom!”

Freaky John rubbed the nap from his eyes and wiped a hand over his mouth, dislodging the cigarette stuck to his lower lip.  “No doubt,” he remarked, cradling his hand where the cigarette burnt it.

“No, dude, that’s taken.  Listen, you dress up as a medieval knight, and I’ll be a caveman, except I’ll be like the fuckin’ Matrix caveman, fuckin’ kung fu and shit, right?”

Freak squinted suspiciously.  “Matrix caveman?”

“Exactly.  And we’ll borrow your grandmother’s electric organ—”

“Matrix caveman?” Freaky John repeated.  “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Flames!  At the end, we set everything on fire!”

“Wait a fuckin’ minute.  What do you want with my grandmother’s organ?”

“Dude!  Who do we know that has a coffin?”

“Snake, man, will you calm the fuck down?”

“I am totally the fuck calm!”  Snake punched himself in the forehead a couple times.  “Get a pen, stupid!  More ideas!”

“No.  Ideas for what?”

Snake shook with energy.  “The band!”

Freak yawned.  “What band?”

“The band we were just having a motherfuckin’ conversation about, dickhead!  Our band!”

They were silent for a moment.  The refrigerator kicked on.  It seemed very loud.

“We don’t have a band,” Freak pointed out, accurately.

Snake grinned apologetically.  “In my dream, we did.”

“Oh,” Freak nodded.  “That’s nice.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.