A dingy basement
Victoria, Canada
Some Sunday in August of 2010
Some time after midday ramen and before evening ramen

Rafael Singer was the first to arrive.

This wasn't in and of itself entirely surprising, as he technically lived there, in that dingy basement beneath a slightly less dingy apartment, renting for a small fee from the family above with the caveat that he wasn't to sell drugs out of their home. This was no great challenge, as Rafael didn't like the idea of selling drugs, it sounded like a lot of legwork. As living arrangements go, it was not the most glamorous: the basement consisted of a cold concrete floor, a half-bathroom segregated from the rest of the room only by tacked up blankets, and the furnishings might have been college spartan if Rafael went to college. A very old futon, scavenged long ago from a dumpster, a microwave oven from a pawn shop, a rather impressive collection of broken guitar and bass amps peppered by a small handful of amps that actually worked.

The others often left their musical arraignments here, mainly because there wasn't a reliable mode of transportation between them, and it really was a hassle hauling drums and amps by train or bus or foot every day.

Regardless, Rafael was the first to arrive. There was to be practice today, though the lack of precise timing meant he couldn't be sure when. After all, as Rafael didn't own a clock, all he knew was that it was presently some time after midday ramen and before evening ramen. Band practice was to commence at precisely 'when the sun is kind of setting but not quite, and could someone else bring food this time?'

So, whenever that was. You can always burn that bridge when you get to it.

A young woman in drab clothing lay sprawled out on her living room couch, circa 1974, watching with disinterested eyes as the images flickered past on her television screen. A large, fluffy white cat happily occupied the space immediately above her chest and stomach, and her left hand absently stroked the sleeping feline from time to time.

Estelle Rogers supposed she should probably be getting ready to go right about now, but she really couldn't bring herself to care. Melville was warm, the TV was just the right level of mind-numbing, and the smell of cookies in the oven was just at the point between raw and baked. She was considering just letting her eyes drift shut until the oven alarm went off when it started.

At first, it was a tremor in the floor, vibrations not entirely unbearable from her position on the couch. But of course, where there were vibrations, there was eventually noise, and sure enough it wasn't long before the sound of some Norwegian screamo metal band assaulted Estelle's hearing, and she groaned. As far as she was aware, every single tenant in this apartment building (if you could even give that sort of name to what was effectively a restructured warehouse with indoor plumbing and a killer draft) hated Jacob Dillon's music and his proclivity to play it at the most inconvenient times for everyone else, but he was the owner's son, and flats in Victoria didn't get much cheaper than this.

Melville yowled his protest as Estelle sat up, and hopped off her stomach at her nudge. She absently dusted long, white cat hairs from the front of her rust-colored shirt, and threw on an off-white cardigan to guard against the slight chill that she always seemed to feel in the Canadian air, regardless of season. She threw on her beat-up green converse and had just enough time to turn off the TV before the oven timer decided to add its own particular brand of caterwaul to the cacophony of her existence.

This, at least, was easily dealt with, and a few more minutes saw her loading a wrapped plate of cookies into the small basket on the rear of her bicycle along with a pair of polished black drumsticks, the most expensive thing she owned, aside from the battered first edition of Thoreau's At Walden Pond, but that had been a gift.

About five blocks South and two West, she hauled her bike in and leaned it against the wall of the house. The owners didn't seem to care, ad the bike wasn't even worth locking up, really. Estelle used the back stairs and didn't bother knocking, just pushed the door open and slipped inside, setting her plate down on an only semi-functional amp, the first empty surface she could find.

Spotting Rafael, she managed something nearly equivalent to a smile. "Hey, how's it going?" This was an automatic greeting, something she asked him every day, though she supposed that most of the time she was actually somewhat interested in the answer. Estelle didn't keep "friends" exactly, but Rafael was a decent enough person, and she supposed that if she did, he'd probably be one. She took a seat on the futon, crossing one leg over the other, and waited for the remainder of the band.

To call Calvin the affluent one of the band would be like calling Rosie O'Donnel fat: accurate. True, he was hardly sporting a trust fund, but a deft balance between basic thrift and a steady advertising job allowed him to plateau at middle class. He blinked away the sleep in his eyes and slowly lost himself in the steam the shower guttered.

Casually, he reflected on the details of the previous night's tryst: cute, German-Irish, sufficiently scruffy, ironic anchor tattoo, slightly less ironic tattoo of scripture (or slightly more ironic? Certainly nothing they did last night was exactly biblical, at least outside the pages of Genesis.) They talked a bit, a puree of conversation- the poets who had performed that night, the weather, whatever the hell Cameron Diaz was doing with her life, and how awful the tea house did everything, including tea. It took the bat of an eye and a few choice drinks to get him to succumb to Calvin's charms. Not that he was exactly a pugilist on the matter, and Calvin suspected that he would've come home with him- drunk or not.

Stepping out in a cloud of rising moisture, Calvin toweled himself off, ensuring that every nook and cranny was properly dried. Satisfied that his hygienic regimen had reached completion, he threw on a plaid shirt, a pair of slacks, and went on his merry ass way. His apartment was nice; a step above utilitarian, but several leagues below inviting. It welcomed with a clinical redundancy, made only more confusing by his personal touches. A mishmash of styles dominated the space, from several sets of prayer flags, to the polygonal ire of IKEA furniture, it seemed to yearn for an expression greater than white walls. So he settled, having learned very quickly that there are only so many ways to dress up a turd, even if it does happen to be a decent enough turd.

Calvin saddled his olive colored vespa, perched against his doorstep like some coy tart, hungry for a screw. He refused, on principle, to offer his band mates rides on a regular basis, citing some bullshit story about “reducing his carbon footprint” and that “dinosaurs weep for your petrol.” He snapped the platinum helmet snug around his head, because safety always comes first. Always. The scooter burst alive under his touch, revving and puttering as he eased her out onto the street. The drive wasn't terrible, usually taking him no more than ten minutes to reach Rafael's place. He settled in next to Estelle's bike, before making towards the band's secret lair.

Upon entering the basement abode, he smiled a bastard's smile, before joining Estelle on the opposite end of the futon.

“Morning you two. How's tricks?”

A couple of minutes (about fifteen, to be honest) elapsed before the back door opened again, mysterious guest suddenly not so mysterious as his Doc Martens made their distinctively loud way down the flight of stairs to the basement. Along with his shoes came the low white noise of music being played way too loudly from small headphone buds underneath the edges of his brown fur trooper hat. Both hands were filled: one held on to his theremin's suitcase, and the other was holding a grocery sack that had a peculiar smell lightly wafting across the room.

Dierk didn't have a long commute to Rafael's house; rather, it was maybe twenty minutes away on foot. But halfway to his band's meeting, the Finnish hipster decided he wanted something to eat (as was the usual sentiment he felt whenever he did just about anything) before making his appearance. And Rafael had said something about bringing food, right? Thus, Dierk could justify it as a necessary detour and thus a good excuse for his tardiness.

He set the suitcase down next to the motley assortment of amps with almost an awkward amount of silence and care, even going to far as to back away slowly from the suitcase as if it would suddenly burst into flames if he left it unattended too quickly. After he was satisfied that the suitcase was not going to combust, he flashed the rest of the band a dorky grin and a thumbs up. Fishing in the pocket of his bright yellow sweatshirt to turn off his music, the blond cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses before producing the grocery sack from behind his skinny legs to set on the dysfunctional amp next to Estelle's cookies.

"Sorry I'm late...but I brought food, if that makes you all feel better. Venison. I had a craving for it, you know? I haven't had any since the last time I went back home..."

By the way Dierk was dressed, it was entirely plausible that he had caught and prepared the deer himself.

Estelle was the second to arrive, her greeting was returned with an almost blank half-smile, a half-hearted wave, and a call of, "Hey..."

Which was promptly replaced with an excited and thoroughly girlish squeal when he saw the plate she had set down. It wasn't entirely surprising, his reaction: the majority of Rafael's sustenance came from ramen. His typical day's schedule, in typical slacker fashion, consisted of rising bright and early at three forty-five, PM of course, eating his afternoon ramen, practicing either with or without the band, eating his evening ramen, and perhaps hitting the town to try to talk some poor girl into buying him a cup of coffee. This usually ended with one party having hurt feelings, and Rafael getting a cup of coffee. He found the arrangement rather beneficial, mainly because it allowed him to go into places of business without actually having that useless thing called money.

"You brought COOKIES! MARRY ME!" This was followed by a slight harrumphing sound in the back of his throat as Raf came back down to Earth, and a more subdued and far dryer comment of, "I'd, ah, I'd appreciate it if you forgot I ever said that, kay?"

With the Awkward Zone hopefully defeated, Rafael didn't spare a moment going after the cookies, which was where he could be found when Calvin made his usual entrance, with his usual flair. "...mmftricks?" Through a mouthful of cookie, he gave Calvin a look that was somewhere between a housecat's Oh, it's just you expression and a small puppy's got caught shitting on the rug expression. "Tricks are, mmmf, good. Cookies. Cookies are good too, because they aren't ramen. Do you want a cookie? Or, um, or does that go against the gay diet? There is a gay diet, right?"

That also meant they were only waiting on Dierk, and that problem solved itself quickly too, as the theremin-playing representative of Europe's Canada announced his presence by dropping a grocery sack of dead ungulate on the dysfunctional amp by the cookies.

A different view of Rafael came out then, one that would have been all business-like, except it was still much too irreverent for that.

"We're all here. So, um, I'm going to have some dead ungulate, and then we should get started. I think I remembered to pay for electricity this time."

Well, that had been slightly... unexpected. Estelle's left eyebrow almost met her hairline at Rafael's rather...enthusiastic reaction to cookies, and she wondered briefly if the man was starving or something. There was an awkward pause, after which he asked her to forget what she'd just heard. Estelle merely shrugged. She had assumed he wasn't serious, anyway.

Still, sitting there while he scarfed the baked goods wasn't the most comfortable of situations, and she was somewhat glad when Calvin walked in. She briefly considered telling him that he was the only one who worried about tricks, but that probably would have come off the wrong way, and so she clamped a lid on her sarcasm like she usually did and replied with a simple "Hey" instead, which was also what she usually did.

Dierk clomped down a bit later, with something that smelled distinctly weird, and when he declared it to be venison, Estelle was suddenly glad she'd eaten before practice. She wasn't quite a vegetarian (too much commitment), but that didn't mean she wanted to eat a deer that stank like it had been out in the sun for a few hours too long.

So while the others ate or didn't eat, she occupied herself idly nibbling a few cookies (or what crumbs remained after the others had gotten through them, anyway) and twirling her black lacquered drumsticks about in her hands. They had bits of purple marbled into them, something she had bought on a more spontaneous day. To date, she hadn't been able to decide if she regretted this or not. Not that it mattered, really.

It had taken a while for Calvin to accept that this was how their rehearsals would start, this veritable clash of the titans. Except in this case the "titans" were a bunch of social vagabonds who made noise together and happened to along in some impossibly strange way. Over the years he'd been in a few bands, but none of them worked the way Tragically Canadian did. It was curious, true, but he hadn't given the matter much thought, other than it being an outlet for him to play music.

Rafael's cookie induced tirade almost mustered a raised eyebrow from Calvin, but considering how desensitized he was to his bandmate's flippant nature, he could barely summon a curled lip. At one point early on in their friendship, he had been attracted to Rafael's naivete, his childlike dimness that somehow manifested itself as charm. That delusion quickly (and thankfully) faded away, and Calvin soon realized that he would be better off pursuing things that mattered: like how to croche a tea cozy or properly flip an omlette.

"Yes, Rafael, you've found us out. All we gays do is consume glitter and things shaped like Liza Minelli. I'll simply have to report you to the gay cops so they can send you to gay jail, which is altogether pretty similar to regular jail."

The monotone in his voice could have dulled a ginsu knife, which is funny because ginsu knives are really sharp, implying that he was being REALLY sarcastic. It was then that Dierk entered the basement and began fiddling with his equipment. Following his greeting and offering of Bambi's Dead Mom, all Calvin could muster was a very severe scowl. I bold severe so as to emphasize the point that, yes, as far as scowls go this was very scowly. Something about Dierk made him want to annoy the shit out of him. Perhaps, he theorized, it was his stupid hat collection? Yes. He then decided that it probably was the stupid hat collection.

"Speaking of the gays, how's my little Norseman doing, hm? Jeans constricting the blood flow enough, for you?"

Calvin relished at any opportunity to give Dierk shit, despite it all (mostly) being done in jest. He quickly rose to his feet, before locating his guitar case and amp.

"Anyway! Everyone eat quick, I'm in the mood to be noisy."

The blond wrinkled his nose at Calvin's comment, mouth turning into a light frown as he squinted and adjusted his glasses again. "I'm not gay, Calvin....sorry to disappoint you." Truth be told, Dierk was so shy offstage that this had yet to be proven, but it was still within the realm of possibility. The Finn held every person at arms-length to begin with, with a healthy scoop of a genuine naiveté. It had taken a long time for him to be able to relax around others, even his bandmates, and even to this day he still acted a bit aloof. So it was understandable that he didn't understand (or perhaps didn't catch) Calvin's idea of humour. His fingers picked at the fabric of his jeans as if to make them less skinny, Calvin's comment having subconsciously affected his self-esteem in some extent.

One hand snaked its way out of his sweatshirt's pocket to reach for one of Estelle's cookies, lips barely parting to nibble at one of its well-baked edges before his canines sank into its still-soft interior. Eyebrows arched a bit as he eyed the solitary female member of their group, chewing his cookie slowly. "Did you make these? They're pretty good." A beat passed, and then Dierk's eyes widened a bit as he swallowed his cookie hurriedly before speaking again. "I-I mean, not that I assume you baked them because you're a girl or anything, I just...didn't see Rafael as the baking type, a-and I don't see Calvin bringing anything to share, so....yeah."

After the cookie was thoroughly demolished, Dierk leaned down to begin taking out his theremin and assembling it silently, face slowly turning red as he mentally beat himself up in Finnish.

Somewhere between a cookie and a slice of dead hoofed mammal, Rafael glared up at Dierk with a look that could have... well, Rafael's looks didn't 'kill' so much as they 'emulated small animals', he was really very bad at looking angry, or annoyed, or anything like that. Regardless, he gave it his best shot, and gave Dierk a look that could have drawn mild curiosity out of a puppy.

"I'll have you know I'm a marvelous baker. The bakingest baker that ever baked. I just don't have any money, and I'm sure none of you are interested in ramen cookies. Even if they are flavored with real Chinese people." In point of fact, Dierk's analysis was probably completely fair. Rafael didn't bake, mostly because baking required effort, and effort was one thing Raf didn't make a whole lot of. The money was also an issue, and Oriental-flavored Maruchan Ramen was, indeed, a poor base for any dish other than Oriental-flavored Maruchan Ramen. "Besides, aren't you from, like, the land of lutefisk and graaviholi?"

A moment later, Rafael had finished both his impromptu meal of cookies and suspiciously flavorful venison (we say suspicious because it came from the European, and everyone knows Europeans are sissifying hockey - just ask Don Cherry - and who knows what else?), he bounced up to his feet - conspicuously bare - and made his way to the guitar stand that held his battered, battle-scarred old Rickenbacker. The guitar was promptly slung over his shoulder, he grinned at the rest of the band. Not that he'd ever admit it, but Rafael was quite fond of these irritating people who brought him cookies and deer meat and tidbits about gay life.

He cleared his throat, tapped on his usual microphone - the sound that made was nothing short of horrific - and proceeded to announce: "If everyone's ready, let's go ahead and start with 'I disagree with your reasons for leaving but respect your right to go and wish you well in your future endeavors, you heartless bitch', kay?"

That really was the title of the song. In case you were wondering where it came from, don't ask.

Were she an emotionally healthy person, Estelle might have laughed at Dierk's obvious discomfort, and then perhaps assured him that she was unoffended. As it was, she simply shrugged. The unoffended part was true, actually. One of the perks to being an apathetic soul was that nothing really bothered you. A person would have to work a lot harder than "well-intentioned Scandinavian dork" to get her hackles up.

It was for this reason that her next observable change was when she stood and made her way over to the drum set, a rental piece whose actual owner charged next to nothing, primarily because he viewed the band as a free storage location for a piece of junk that he didn't care about anyway. And the drums were, indeed, junk. Estelle might have hated them, but the same stunted soul that prevented her from caring about anything else also clouded this potential emotive reaction.

Her playing, while technically proficient, probably moreso than anyone else's (well, except for maybe whatever Dierk had to do with those weird creepy noise-emitters of his, because she wasn't exactly sure what was "proficiency" with such a thing), was also largely lifeless, and so she sounded about as good (or bad, whichever) as the rest of the band. In truth there was still a part of her that wished desperately to kick in this awful drum set and find a piano, but this part was small, and ruthlessly quashed in the haze of uncaring.

Rafael's mike was going wonky again, and she wasn't exactly certain bases normally made whatever noise was coming from Calvin's currently. Then again, these drums sounded like they'd been kept in a moldy cellar for the last fifty years, and she wondered momentarily of perhaps Rafael needed to buy a dehumidifier. It might fix some equipment issues, like the one where they went through a crappy used amp every month of so. She doubted he would have though of this, and doubted even more that any of them could afford one that worked. Well, maybe Calvin could, but he was the only one.

She resolved not to think about it too much, and settled back into the cloud of mediocrity from which she could view the world with nothing.

Estelle's accusations of mediocrity were certainly not unfounded, as the band by and large sounded like a train wreck that occasionally indulged its listeners with being in the same key. Calvin's own technique rested somewhere between the fuzzy resonance of Mick Ronson and a mime playing "Smoke on the Water" with his dick. With each lash and assault on his poor widdle guitar, a fresh coil of arterial noise sprung forth from the wizened amp, echoing the hurt and confusion caused by the aforementioned "heartless bitch." This was one of their more wanky songs, so when the lengthy instrumental sections and overwrought lyrics were finally brought to a close, Calvin had already begun perspiring generously.

"That was ... good. Goodish."

He grabbed a towel (of questionable repute) off one of the amps and patted his brow, forehead glistening slightly in the ill lit space.

"You know what I heard? Word is The Captain Ahabs are looking to get signed by Epitaph. Fucking Epitaph, man. I don't get it, the music blows ass. It's the goddamn nautical theme that sells it, you know? We need a theme. We could dress like mounties or bull moose, and then maybe then we'll get some recognition."

Calvin had wanted to introduce a more theatrical element to the band for a while now, and costuming seemed just the way to do it. Bar-tending in the gay club circuit had built him a decent array of contacts and it would only take a few calls (a seamstress here, a go go there, maybe one of the less swarthy drag queens he knew) before they'd have more sequins on than an ABBA cover band could shake a stick at. A Swedish stick.

Now it was Dierk's turn to be offended. "Hey," he whined, frown deepening as he dipped his hand into the theremin's loop antenna to test its reception, eliciting an equally whiny sound from the instrument. "Don't dis the lutefisk until you've tried it." A beat. "....you haven't tried lutefisk, have you? Oh man, I gotta bring some next time. My mom has a good recipe for it."

Any other thought about his mother and cooking was eliminated as the band launched into one of their verbosely-named songs, hands immediately creating noises out of thin air and vibrato hand movements. His contributions to the songs usually involved a strange melody that a keyboard would have been better suited for, yet Dierk insisted on using the theremin because it sounded "cool". The others and their respective noise-making devices couldn't even faze his concentration. As usual, he kept almost deathly still save for his hands, mouth forming a relaxed line as the Finn worked magic out of those antennae. The theremin was a finicky instrument--Dierk had to focus very hard to hit exactly the right note that he wanted. It was almost a science as much as putting together the instrument was, and while Dierk was good, he was far from sending theremin rockets to Mars.

The song ended, and the blond let out a breath he wasn't aware that he had been holding. Shoulders relaxing, he began fiddling with the dials of his instrument, a sigh passing from his lips the only half-hearted noise he would give in terms of the song's quality. It wasn't that he didn't like his friends or judged them for their talents; Dierk just had a lot of wishes, and seeing the ones like 'I wish my friends would rock out AND be good at doing so' and 'I wish it would rain lingonberries' not come true always gave him the saddest of dispositions.

But when Calvin mentioned costuming, Dierk's head shot up almost immediately, expression akin to a teenager walking in on his parents having sex.

"Costumes? Jumalauta...." The slip of the Finnish word always meant that Dierk was serious. He had to physically restrain himself from slipping into his native tongue, so any use of the language was strictly on purpose.

Rafael made a harrumphing sound as the song came to a close, fiddling with the microphone idly in a futile effort to reduce the feedback. The real shame, naturally, was that Rafael's voice wasn't bad at all, behind the broken microphone and terrible equipment. Rough at the edges, maybe... but then, in this little outfit, everyone was pretty rough at the edges. And the equipment, well. The equipment didn't even have edges anymore, let alone rough ones. Tragically Canadian had its share of issues. But to Rafael's mind, a lack of costumes surely wasn't one of them.

As Calvin made that comment, Rafael turned a bemused look his direction: somewhere between a glare and a roll of the eyes. "We don't need costumes, Calvin. Except maybe Estelle, I think she could do with a short skirt. Dierk could too, now that I think about it." Little grin. "No, we don't need costumes, what we need is a bassist. We don't have one, and they provide structure, which I'm not very good at and Calvin is even less good at."

Rafael cleared his throat at this point, perhaps nervously, perhaps just for dramatic effect. Either way, he followed up his rambling with a much more succinct comment. "I invited a bassist to come tonight. He should be around shortly."

Without really waiting for any sort of commentary, either positive or negative, in response... Rafael strummed the opening chords to another song, this one rather esoterically titled Peaches and Cream, which was sometimes about food and sometimes about sex and sometimes about how totally awesome Sault Ste. Marie was, even though Rafael had never been that far East before.

At the very least, it couldn't possibly be worse than Victoria.

Estelle's eyes narrowed at the mention of short skirts. She'd really really like to see someone try and make that a rule. It would just make her life. Not only would she be a poor, stunted individual with a minimum-wage job in a band that nobody had ever heard of, but she'd be all that and look like an idiot. how the heck was she supposed to sit at a drum set with one of those on?

Luckily (mostly for Raphael), she discovered it was a joke when Dierk was mentioned, and so her glare at the offending singer was only halfhearted, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. The other two gave Dierk an amount of crap that probably bordered on unhealthy. She wasn't actually sure how stable the Finnish guy was; some of the stuff he ate just had to have given him some weird foodborne condition. Like madcow, without the death thing.

The other piece of information took a while to hit her, which was understandable considering that they'd been looking for a bassist for so long she never thought they'd get one. "You mean somebody actually took you up on that?" she asked, without the incredulity in the tone that pervaded the thought. For all she knew, Rafael had either been trying to pirate a bassist off another band or asking random people performing in bars. Was it possible that someone else actually wanted to join Tragically Canadian? she hoped the guy wasn't a professional musician; they hadn't gotten a paying show in a couple of months, ever since that fiasco with the wedding and the sheep.

She forcibly removed the memory from her head as the next song started up. She didn't understand why a song that was obviously about the existential angst of a dying painter was named after a food, but there you go.

Calvin's face reasserted a hearty scowl, having been simultaneously rejected and insulted. Not that either really bothered him, he just liked to give the impression that it did. A bassist. The concept was somewhat alien and hardly uplifting. It was very likely that they'd be just another layer of noise on their tiered cake of over amplified shit. Although tiered cakes were very pretty, and Calvin was never one to object to more cake. He thought this over, scowl easing as he paid his daily homage to the gods of both Rock and Roll. Obligingly he entered on the chorus, firm baritone underlying Rafael's ... whatever he was.

"PEACHES, PEACHES, PEACHES, PEACHES,
AND CREAM, CREAM, CREAM, CREAM, CREAM,
PEACHES, PEACHES, PEACHES, PEACHES,
AND CREAM, CREAM, CREAM, CREAM, CREAM,
SEXISAWESOMEANDSOISSAULTSTE.MARIEEEE!!!"

Stephen Sondheim they were not.

Paul was walking down the street. He feeling pretty cool after a day of collegey type stuff and wearing a totally badass red suitcoat, but then something hit him. It was this goddamned wall of sound emanating from this basement. "What is this shit?" he thought, "It sounds like my goddamn highschool band." It was decent enough sounding so he tried opening the door. Paul, expecting it to be locked, was surprised when it swung open. Then he remember he was in Canada. So he walked down the stairs and waited until their song was over. "Hey guys. Uh, my name is Paul and I heard you practicing. You kinda sound my old highschool band but uh, at least you guys are attempting to play the same notes from the sound of it," he said to the band, pausing for with awkwardness, "I can see that your putting a kinda shitty type microphonesque thing though an amplifier. Yeah, that might explain all the feedback. You guys really need a PA and a new mic. And maybe a bassist? Well I can't do anything about that, but uh...I could be your roadie. I think I have a ok portable PA somewhere back in my dorm and a microphone that won't blow your ears off. And I could mix your sound so you guys don't blow your ears out and...stuff." Smooth Paul. Smooth.

((Come and knock on our door!))

((COME AND KNOCK ON OUR DOOOOOR)

((WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOUUUUUUU))

(( Bwah. ))

Or should I be knocking here? I've never used the chat window before..

(( Aside from a character-in-the-making who should be round shortly, I believe we're all here. ))

((Ah, Good. I found the right spot then.))

(( Indubitably. ))

ah