Candy teetered atop the amplifier, but she kept the tempo steady on the open G5. Frets buzzing beneath her fingers, the thump of each bass kick, and her sister’s siren wail made standing steady all the harder. Chord change, and back again. The song came to an end, and she kicked a hole through the amplifier.
Searing, white hot pain.
Shouts from backstage.
Guitar feedback. A fallen snare rattling against the floor.
Six staples later, her leg was mangled and her candy apple red wedges were stained with crimson.
“Poor form, Candy,” the bassist said. “Poor form.”