NaMoWriMo
NaNoWriMo + Movember = NaMoWriMo, the National Moustache Writing Month.
jan_event 's entry is here. Mine follows:
After the band split up, Bluey was left with three things: his 1962 Fender Precision bass, the scars on his knuckles, and his muttonchop moustache.
The label took back their advance. The bank foreclosed his house. And a pair of pimple-faced groupies stole all his clothes. Even his sunglasses were borrowed. Scottish Joe lent them to him at Sunbury '74, and had been asking for them back ever since.
"You need a new band," said Scottish Joe.
They were shooting pool together at the Corner Hotel. It was Wednesday afternoon and the pub was empty. The only things moving were the flies and Scottish Joe's mouth. Bluey lined up a shot, but it bounced off the rim of the pocket.
"Do you hear me, you sulky bastard? You need a new band. Someone fresh. On their way up." Joe tried to poke Bluey with his pool cue, but Bluey slapped it away.
"You sniffing speed again?" Bluey said.
"Fuck yes. Want some?"
Bluey shook his head. Scottish Joe wasn't actually Scottish. He was from some weird town in South Australia where everyone was descended from Glaswegian sailors or something. Before he was a manager, he'd been a small-time pot dealer. He had to switch careers because he smoked more than he sold.
"So who's the band?"
"I never said I had a band," grinned Scottish Joe. "They're called Japanese Peaches. They're from Albury, just moved down. Young, but they're gonna be huge. Huge!"
"And they need a bass player?"
"Their old one had a wife and child. Wouldn't let him move."
"Japanese Peaches." Bluey thought about it. "Sounds like a poofter name. They're not fucking glam, are they?"
"Pub rock," said Scottish Joe. He looked Bluey straight in the eye as he said it, the one sure sign he was lying.
Bluey sipped his beer. He was sleeping on his mum's couch at the moment. She'd turned his old bedroom into a sewing room and refused to turn it back. A grown man, a barbarian of rock and roll, reduced to sleeping on his mother's couch.
"Okay," he said.
"Excellent! Excellent decision." Scottish Joe slapped Bluey on the back. "Just one thing, though. It's the Eighties now, yeah? Got to move with the times."
Bluey scowled. "What?"
"The moustache. It's got to go."
"Fuck. Off."
"Come on. You look like a gay San Franciscan leather boy, not a Japanese Peach."
And that's when Bluey punched him.
jan_event 's entry is here. Mine follows:
After the band split up, Bluey was left with three things: his 1962 Fender Precision bass, the scars on his knuckles, and his muttonchop moustache.
The label took back their advance. The bank foreclosed his house. And a pair of pimple-faced groupies stole all his clothes. Even his sunglasses were borrowed. Scottish Joe lent them to him at Sunbury '74, and had been asking for them back ever since.
"You need a new band," said Scottish Joe.
They were shooting pool together at the Corner Hotel. It was Wednesday afternoon and the pub was empty. The only things moving were the flies and Scottish Joe's mouth. Bluey lined up a shot, but it bounced off the rim of the pocket.
"Do you hear me, you sulky bastard? You need a new band. Someone fresh. On their way up." Joe tried to poke Bluey with his pool cue, but Bluey slapped it away.
"You sniffing speed again?" Bluey said.
"Fuck yes. Want some?"
Bluey shook his head. Scottish Joe wasn't actually Scottish. He was from some weird town in South Australia where everyone was descended from Glaswegian sailors or something. Before he was a manager, he'd been a small-time pot dealer. He had to switch careers because he smoked more than he sold.
"So who's the band?"
"I never said I had a band," grinned Scottish Joe. "They're called Japanese Peaches. They're from Albury, just moved down. Young, but they're gonna be huge. Huge!"
"And they need a bass player?"
"Their old one had a wife and child. Wouldn't let him move."
"Japanese Peaches." Bluey thought about it. "Sounds like a poofter name. They're not fucking glam, are they?"
"Pub rock," said Scottish Joe. He looked Bluey straight in the eye as he said it, the one sure sign he was lying.
Bluey sipped his beer. He was sleeping on his mum's couch at the moment. She'd turned his old bedroom into a sewing room and refused to turn it back. A grown man, a barbarian of rock and roll, reduced to sleeping on his mother's couch.
"Okay," he said.
"Excellent! Excellent decision." Scottish Joe slapped Bluey on the back. "Just one thing, though. It's the Eighties now, yeah? Got to move with the times."
Bluey scowled. "What?"
"The moustache. It's got to go."
"Fuck. Off."
"Come on. You look like a gay San Franciscan leather boy, not a Japanese Peach."
And that's when Bluey punched him.