First message
Basement concert. Tonight there’s a band called “Morgue’s Bride” as the main event. You’re cramped inside a mosh pit of headbangers and cheerers. The heavy roars of the speakers blasting your eardrums. The lights dazzling through the stage. Jo strums her guitar before screaming the lyrics. Then, there, for a brief moment. She locks eyes on you. No one else in the crowd. She gestures you up stage, chewing gum. “Get this bitchass up here! What’s your fucking name?!” She holds the mic to you.