The Pisscrunchers crowd exited reluctantly, though exhausted, and as always drenched in a fake mucus that Chuck Drable was trying to get a patent for.
Larry “Loop” Henry, the Pisscrunchers production manager, brought a Sapporo tall boy and a double shot of Jager to the front of house of the Zeppo Music Theater.
He whistled through his teeth at “Cataract” Kyle Kelly, the Pisscrunchers lighting designer from their third show, fourteen Halloweens ago.
The whistle was to get Cat’s attention, but it was also a whistle of awe.
Loop handed the beer and booze to the LD, who immediately took down a quarter of the beer in one gulp.
“I was not really happy that you wanted eight new floor movers,” Loop said, “that deck is packed, and you know those guys are gonna bring five more Bladder dancers than they’re supposed to. Somebody’s cousin, somebody’s neighbor, always wants their 5 minutes of fake fame and they can’t say no.”
Cat looked down at the stage, knowing she’d have to get down there soon and direct the local crew in packing up her gear.
“Anyway,” Loop said, “it was massive tonight. Thank you. Best light show of your life.”
Cat killed the Jager, looked around for a garbage can, then tossed the cup on the ground into a sea of crushed cups and empty beer cans.
“Not even close,” she said, the left side of her lip curling up in what passed for a smile.
Loop scowled.
“Which was better? Camp Crazy was amazing but the lights from the midway sort of took away from it. That theater in Dallas that had all those Lightwave protos? Tell me which show you think was better.”
Cat started to deflect the question, hit the beer again, leaned against the bicycle rack that separated the lighting boards from the crowd.
“It wasn’t for P-Crunch.”
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