The Return of Flash Fiction Friday

I’m getting this in just under the gun this week, but here’s my “entry” in this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck Wendig: That’s My New Band Name.

My band’s name, per this site, was “Possessed Success”.

Not my best work, but I’m just trying to flex my muscles again as my new job now includes much more creative writing.

Enjoy & Happy Friday!

Possessed Success were a shitty band.

Possessed Success was a shitty band.

I’m no good at verbs of being – especially as it relates to groups of things like bands or assholes – and this group of guys was definitely a little from column A, a little from column B.

Shane (the guitarist) had started Possessed Success when his old band, Orthogonal Unorthodox, had split up over religious differences. It seems you can’t have a speed-metal band with a Catholic lead singer (go figure). At least *they* weren’t able to figure it out.

The rest of the new band came from similar backgrounds: endless squabbling over cash and transportation and booze and venues that eventually ended in burned bridges and failed friendships. The drummer, Knox, even got kicked out of his apartment (though, to be fair, that probably had something more to do with the fact that he’d slept with the guitarist’s sister).

“What? She said she knew him. How was I supposed to know that knowledge was sibling-dependent? For all I knew it was carnal!”

Possessed Success was as much a barbaric yawp or wishful thinking as it was a functioning band. Mostly it was just an excuse to shred really loudly in an abandoned warehouse over on the west side.

“I’m pretty sure they filmed an episode of that zombie TV show here,” Shane had mentioned on their first night of practice.

“Walking Dead,” Jimmy interjected.

“I thought we were Possessed Success,” Knox pointed out to no one in particular.

Once the pleasantries and chit-chat were out of the way, they rattled off some old Megadeth and classic Metallica (pre-Black Album *only*) and shook the girders for more than an hour. It didn’t seem to matter to any of them that no one could meedly or squeedly like Mustaine or howl like Hetfield. It only mattered that they weren’t at home or at work or fighting. Not with family, not with friends (especially girlfriends), not with old bandmates or building managers or anybody else.

The three of them against the world.
They were possessed.
They’d find success.
They were: Possessed Success.
[Cue Flaming Logo and Gong crash!]

When they were here in the (relative) quiet that came from deafeningly loud music, nothing else mattered (except, maybe, arguing over whether they should play “Nothing Else Matters”).

And that’s how/when the fighting started.

Shane said “Yes” to the question at hand.

Jimmy, the singer and bassist, said “No”. Those Sting-tooled types could be typecast as tools just like Sting. The shoe certainly fit.

Knox pointed out that “Lars killed Napster. Plus, he’s like a complete tool.”

“Isn’t that like saying the same thing twice,” asked Jimmy.

“Your mom asked for it twice,” Knox responded and was promptly hit with the butt end of the mic stand.

Retaliation with drumsticks and forty five minutes of sweaty expletives and ridiculous wrestling followed. The melee was over when Shane’s brother tossed everyone PBR’s to cool them all off.

“I never thought I could diffuse a situation with a brain grenade, but they’re a lot less violent than the real thing.”

“Anything is less violent than the way these two pussies fight,” Shane interjected.

The next round of brawling kicked off by that comment was bloodier than the first and, also, much wetter and foul-smelling, thanks to the addition of the beer.

Once everyone decided they’d rather be drunk and happy than sober and slapped, morale improved. But only just a little.


“So,” someone sighed, “is this it?”


“I guess so,” two others answered in unison.


“Y’all are all ridiculous.” This was Shane’s brother. He slipped out the back narrowly avoiding a shower of beer cans being rained down upon his head.

There were all ridiculous. A bunch of dumbies worthy only of ridicule. So they did the only thing that came naturally: they got drunk, played one last song and promptly broke up.

The final tally:
No shows
No t-shirts
No songs
No groupies
12 cans of beer
4 hours of lost time

They possessed no success, Possessed Success, only proving how elusive it can be to reach your dreams.

Great band name, though. They were (was?) possessed of such high hopes.

Until next week (or I write again)!

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