A harsh desert wind blew across the horizon in front of the group, burning their skin and robbing their vision. The trail curved first one way and then another. "This is worse than a pig trail!", said Tom. The equipment wagon rocked to and fro from the rocky terrain as Chris tried valiantly to hold the reins and steer. In the cloud of dust that surrounded the boys, only Tom, Richard and Chris could be seen. "Where's Scott?" Richard wondered, "Did he fall off a cliff? Was he lay ed upon by highwaymen? Did he find a record store?" Just then Tom noticed that the whine of the wind was growing louder and more pronounced. "What the hell is that?" wondered Tom, "It sounds like...like...FEEDBACK!"
Suddenly, right in front of the boys, a large silver ship descended from the sky. As it landed in the middle of the trail, 2 O'Brien 4X12 cabinets extended from either side of the craft and Scott's voice came booming out at 120db, "HEY GUYS! I FOUND THIS SPACESHIP IN THE DESERT BACK THERE. IT'S GOT ROOM FOR OUR HORSES AND A JACK TO PLUG MY GUITAR INTO!" With that, the air was filled with a flurry of notes that crashed into a whammy bar dive and the door to the ship opened. There was Scott, sitting on a large sofa playing his guitar. As the boys led their horses and the equipment onto the ship, Tom was struck in the back of the head by a cellphone. "Let's get out of here!", exclaimed Tom, "it's agents trying to change dates on our tour and they've got club owners and old people who just want to have dinner and not have to listen to music with them!"
"I'm trying to get us out of here, but the door's stuck!", said Richard, as another cellphone and a rock with a request for Sweet Home Alabama tied to it struck him in the forehead. Chris began to sob uncontrollably, "We're doomed! Doomed!" Scott grabbed his guitar and said, "Don't fret little bear, I have an idea."...
TO BE CONTINUED