Mated to the Alien Alpha

“You’re full of shit, Ziggi. My new tatt doesn’t look like text from a crappy printer. It’s based on Otzi the Iceman’s ink. This stuff has history.”

I looked at the black bars on the back of Carlos Rivera’s neck. All I could think was lame. “This is like a step above tribal tatts, is all I’m saying, my dude.”

Carlos adjusted the volume on his bass. “Whatever. You have pink hair and a rainbow on your ass.”

“Hey,” I said. “My rainbow isn’t a rainbow, it’s a moonbow. That’s why it’s in black and white. Moondust is my middle name. Ziggi Moondust Collins. It has meaning, it’s not a badly inked bar code!”

“Would you two shut it? I’m trying to get in the zone,” Spike said. He twirled his drumsticks in the air.

I plugged my guitar into its amp. “Right.” I turned to Carlos “Hotsauce” Rivera. “Forget what I said. Your new tatt is cool.” (It wasn’t.) “We good?”

Carlos nodded, wary. “Whatever. I guess.”

On that discordant note, the Iguana Knees jammed.

Cyrus wandered in halfway through our set, smoking pungent weed in his mushroom shaped bong. This one smelled like a dank skunk. He scoured the floor of Carlos and Spike’s garage. Cyrus found a rusty nail and a dented bottle cap.

“Would you guys mind if I kept these?” Cyrus yelled over the blare of my riff, pocketing his newfound treasures.

Carlos eyed Cyrus’ toned arms. I wasn’t exactly immune to them either.

“Sure thing, man,” Spike shouted over my solo, making a V with his drumsticks. “Mi casa is your casa.”

“Stop speaking Spanglish Spike, you’re rage-murdering my ears,” Carlos muttered, plucking at his bass.

“Shut up, Hotsauce,” Spike laughed.

“Whatever, dude,” Carlos sighed.