Day 11: Nailed It!
Heavy clouds filled the sky as a new morning crept over the hills of Bridgeport. The gang began their day with breakfast, consisting of a medley of various leftovers (mostly hot dogs and apple pancakes that I don’t remember any of them making).
By the time everyone finished eating, cleaning up, showering, and tossing their laundry on top of the steadily growing pile that had filled the hamper, it was just after midmorning. The gig became accessible at noon, but who goes to a bar at noon to watch a band? Masochistic Murder Llama needed exposure, and on a Thursday, optimum exposure-time was at least during happy hour. Unfortunately, it was noon or nothing. So, for the next few hours, everyone just relaxed, as if they knew their make-or-break moment was quickly approaching, and they needed to get into that musician’s zone. Before long, however, it was time. Piling into Pete’s massive (and up until that point unknown) car, they headed out to their first gig and hopefully, their destiny.
My theory of a noon show drawing no crowd was, unfortunately correct, as there was only one person chilling at the bar. But, a gig was a gig, and spirits were high. It was go time. Taking their places, Masochistic Murder Llama took a mighty step down the path of greatness, shaking the very walls of that bar with the brutal reverberations of their violent auditory onslaught. Ok, it was actually just a chill, indie-rock sound, but it was at least music.
Before long, a tiny crowd had formed in front of the stage, cheering on MML with a mixture of reverent fervor and mild interest. One cougar-type Sim even began to dance all by herself, presumably while making eye contact with Robi and mouthing “I want you” as seductively as she could muster. Drummers always get the freaky ladies.
After an unheard of two-hour set (I didn’t even know they had written any songs, let alone enough to play for a full two hours), the place was just about buzzing with electric excitement. Farrah, the party girl she is, bought a round of drinks for the bar. She then partied like a legit rockstar, threw down a few shots, ran behind the bar and began to do the Sim equivalent of twerking.
The bar began to fill up as the evening arrived and the night owls arrived for their daily drinking session. The gang enjoyed the good life, playing foosball, throwing darts, eating nachos, and drinking something called a Knee-Capper, which I’m going to assume is a combination of a Jaeger Bomb and an Irish Car Bomb (if anyone should happen to make this diabolical concoction, please call it an Exploding Volkswagen). Understandably, it took a couple of these before Robi began to feel any effect. But when he did, that shit got cray.
But, like all good things, the night eventually came to an end. After netting a cool grand as payment for their performance, they somehow managed to drive home without crashing into anyone, all the while complaining about how tired they were. They then slept the sleep of those who had rocked out and binge drank until 2 am, bringing the most exciting day of their lives to a close. It was nothing short of total success. They had experienced their first taste of the rock star pie, and it undoubtedly left a deliciously sweet taste in their mouths. It was only a matter of time before true stardom draped its golden glow over their shoulders.