[Ibby]

Noah slung his Ibanez guitar over his head and shoulder and strummed a few chords to check tuning. He twiddled a knob on his amp and quickly ripped out the intro to Smoke on the Water, then, adjusting the volume a bit more, stood up and looked around the room again. "Man, I'm digging the soundproofed room, Ibby!" he exclaimed, thumping a fist solidly into the heavily padded wall.
Ibram grinned and replied, "Tom demanded it when he realized how thin these dorm floors and ceilings are; he's in here banging away all hours of the day. And night. And morning. And… well, as far as I can tell, all the time. Sometimes he eats. I think."

As the boys shared a good chuckle, and Ibram tuned up, Tom came in and sat down on his drum throne, pulled a pair of sticks seemingly from thin air, and limbered up. Counting four, Ibram launched headlong into the Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop, playing an extra couple measures to give his new bandmates time to catch up. As they finished the punk rock classic, Ibram leaned his mic to the side and started crooning towards Noah “Hold me clo-o-oser, tiny da-a-nce-ah! Count the headlights on the hi-i-ighway!”
“Lay me down in sheets of li-i-inen!” Noah continued, grinning madly at his new friend.
“Y’had a busy day toda-a-a-ay…” the boys finished together, as per their developing style.

After a good three hours of playing and jamming and arguing and even a bit of songwriting, Tom left for math class and the other two crashed on the couch with an old Bowie concert DVD and a box of Girl Scout cookies. Of course, the inevitable conclusion of the evening was Ibram strutting around the flat in little more than his underwear, wailing about pretty things and moonage daydreams, and Noah doing his best Mick Ronson and contorting his face into intense acrobatics in time with his solos. As the evening wore on and fellating guitars grew old, the boys calmed down a bit and stuck in an old Stephen Fry movie about Wilde.

As the movie finished, Noah left to do homework, leaving his guitar so they could jam the next day. Ibram fell into bed, visions of stardom and rock & roll excess pounding through his brain. Strutting across the stage, he punched out a bass solo to rock the rafters, singing heartfelt tales of life and love to filled auditoriums of screaming, adoring fans. Faces rose out of the crowd; spun about his head, fueling him, driving his showmanship, his energy, his flamboyance ever higher. Laughing, screaming, crying, dancing along to his every word, the audience pulsated to his rhythms, surging, breaking like waves on the stage, a hundred, a thousand, a million hands reaching for him, worshipping him, hands straining, reaching, grasping, all of them, all the fans, the fans, the fame, the love, the adoration, oh god its all too much the lights sounds faces sights beats chords spinning spinning away in the night and-

Ibram woke up drenched in sweat. His hands were clenched tight, white-knuckled. He sat up and looked around him, feeling so alone after his fantasy onstage. He knew what he had to do. He had to make it, he had to get this band onstage and make it to the big time.

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