Band Therapy: The Pale Ones

Looking back on it, Joe was sure he wouldn’t have opened the front door that morning. He was positive, that, even in a caffieneless haze, knowing what he now knew, he would not have opened the front door.

Because, if he had not opened the door, he would not be in his living room at 7am with his band mates waiting on their manager for band therapy to start. With a licensed therapist staring at them with pure judgement in her reptilian eyes.

Joe hadn’t meant to open the door, but he’d randomly woken up with a hangover and tea sounded really good so he’d stumbled down the stairs, clad only in his boxers and bracelets, and managed to start the kettle, when the doorbell had rung. Being hungover (and still slightly drunk), he’d gone to answer the door and found a pink sweatered woman announcing a standing appointment for 7am Band Therapy. For whatever reason, he’d let her in. And then gotten dressed and woken up the other guys.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Pip, the drummer, finally broke the silence. “Ok. I give up, who called the therapist?” he pointed an accusing finger at the older woman sitting in Pip’s favorite armchair. She looked up, eyebrow cocked.

“My name is Mrs. Danvers, Mr. Sampson.”

“My name is Pip! Pip fuckin’ Sickness!” Pip squawked, clearly affronted. Though it was hard to tell how he felt underneath all the scraggly facial hair he’d amassed.

Starfish, the rhythm guitarist and the most normal looking of the bunch snorted. “Hmm, who could’ve called a band therapist?” he mused in a distinctly sarcastic tone. “Certainly not…our…manager!”

“I did what now?” called out a sleepy voice from the stairs. All heads swiftly turned to affix a glare upon said manager, Kylie. Against all odds, she looked put together, full makeup everything. But her voice belied a certain lack of sleep irritation.

“Stop glaring at me” she groaned. “Its way too early and I haven’t had any sugar yet so your little bitch problems can just- who the fuck is that and why is she in my house.” Kylie pointed at therapist Danvers, cocking her hip, other hand placed on it in a vision of gothy irritation.

“Like you don’t know,” Joe Crow (the brave lead guitarist) growled, glare still on his face. “This is the band therapist you hired for us. To do therapy. At 7am.”

Kylie rolled her eyes. “Shut the hell up Bird Boy, I’m not going to schedule 7am anything in this house. And we don’t need therapy.”

“Then who the hell was it?” the short goth Welshman demanded loudly, far too loudly for the time of day.

Danvers cleared her throat, all eyes in the room instantly flying to her as she explained, “Your lead singer Joey…Al called me. He said it was pretty urgent. Dire might’ve been the word he used.”

Heads slowly swiveled towards the curiously not sleepy looking lead singer who hardly looked guilty. He shrugged, smirking just the tiniest bit. “What can I say? I love you guys so much, I just want you to get better.”

After a brief pause, Joe rose gracefully out of his chair. “I am going to murder you slowly and painfully. Wait here while I get a knife.”

Kylie shoved him back into his chair with a hissed “stop” and turned her glare to Al. “You hired a therapist? This is so beyond not in the budget, Al. I might kill you myself.”

Al snickered, hazel eyes glowing. “Honestly, it was a joke. You guys needed a wakeup call.”

Joe almost leapt out of his chair at the sniggering bastard but Kylie planted herself in front of him. “A joke? Waking me up at 7 am is not in any way a joke. It is the equivalent of signing your own death warrant.”

Al shrugged again. “She’ll leave in a minute and you can go back to beddy bye.” His curious English accent grated on the nerve of everyone in the room, excluding Danvers.

Kylie exhaled slowly, not taking her eyes off Al. “She’s not leaving. You got a therapist, fine, we’ll do some therapy.”

Horror shone in his eyes as he realized what she’d said. “No. You aren’t serious. No. You can’t make me!!” He tried to rise from his chair, hampered by the furious Pip grabbing onto his legs and keeping him there. “I don’t do therapy!”

Kylie shrugged, unaffected. “Too bad, sweetie pie. Sit your lily white ass down in that chair. We are doing therapy. Now excuse me, I need sugar.” Tossing her bleached blonde hair over a shoulder, blue-gray eyes still lit by the unholy fire of the Mad Managers, she stormed into the kitchen.