The Sunset Strip

Rusty cracked his third beer before Arizona. We're gonna be huge, he slurred, spilling foam on the van carpet. Vince spotted the Hollywood sign and nodded. Their baseist, a stray cat named Lemmy, meowed from a milk crate. Eighty-seven dollars, a demo tape, and no idea what they were doing.

"All right, all right!" Vince the guitarist grumbled. "Lemme, you better take a shower first thing. You smell like kitty litter. Jesus Christ!" (Vince is laid back but sick of driving and it's coming out in his attitude) "It'd be more helpful if you could drive, Cat! Rusty. Where is your head?"

Rusty lifted his head, one eye open. "My head is in the game, man. The game of... what were we talking about?" He cracked beer number four. "Also I can't drive 'cause I'm creatively preserving my energy. For the music. For the art." Lemmy meowed. Even the cat wasn't buying it.

"You're a dick, Rusty!" (Vince said, only half-under his breath) "How about we postpone Lemmys shower and you and i tussle a bit to get it out of my system?"(Lemmy likes the idea of some playtime and isnt at all discouraged by Vince's tone) "Let's rock, brothers!" Lemmy roared in stray-cat speak

Rusty set down his beer. "You wanna tussle? With this?" He flexed a bicep that had never seen a gym. "I've been training. Mentally. Through beer." He stood up too fast, hit his head on the van ceiling, and sat back down. Lemmy hissed. The challenge was accepted.

"I'm not talking to you, Drunky Drunkerson! I'm talking to the Stray Cat you picked up and shoved in a carrier, like an asshole. He's not even that good a base player. Granted, he does a mean job of Stray-Cat Strut, but that's just his bag. He struggles with Geddy Lee" Lemme meowed, "Oh Geddy!"

Rusty blinked. "Oh. The cat. Right." He rubbed the lump forming on his head. "Sorry, Lemmy. No hard feelings." He offered the cat a sip of his beer. Lemmy stared at him with the quiet contempt of a creature who had seen empires fall. Then he drank.

"Oh yeah-yea-yeah! Lemme tell you guys what, what? I can play all that shit, yo. Geddy Lee. Les Claypool. Fuck it man, i'm badass. It get all the pussy. Vince, your buddy Rusty knew what he was doing when he threw me in this carrier, i tell you what!" (Lemmy's kitty tongue slurred from tiny beer)

Vince stared at the rearview mirror. The cat was drunk. The drummer was drunk. He was the only sober one in the van and he wasn't even qualified for the job. "Lemmy just said he gets all the pussy. I need a new band." He pulled onto the 10 freeway. Los Angeles was still four hours away.

(Lemme slurred one final quip, not to be mistaken) "Aw come-on man. I'm just saying it like it is. I'm the feline. Of course I'm the one getting all the pussy! It only make sense, ya sum-bitches! Now hit me with some of that catnip I put in the glove-box. Rusty, do me a solid huh? pass it here"

The van rolled through the desert. Rusty passed out. Lemmy curled in his crate, paw twitching to a baseline only he could hear. Vince turned up the radio and smiled. Sixty-two dollars, a cat with a habit, a demo tape that sounded like a garbage disposal. But the Hollywood sign was getting closer.