My dad, maybe he wanted me to live his dream. I don’t know. He was into rock ’n’ roll too. He played the bass too. He was in a band when he was a kid too.

He’s the one who got me into it. He bought me my first bass when I was ten. He’d listen to his music a lot. The Allman Brothers Band. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Outlaws. He’d listen to it loud when Mom was out of the house.

But when we started rollin’. When Preach came to the band. Dad gave me this little notebook.

He said, “Write everything down, kid. Every gig. Every practice. Every song. Every girl. Every city. Every stretch of road. Write it down, ’cause there’ll come a time, you won’t want to forget.”

And you know, Dad got sick. And then Dad died.

And what did I do?

I went to every fuckin’ Kmart I could find, and I bought up every notebook they had that was the same size and brand and color of the one my dad gave me.

Still got ’em all.

Every one.

Natalie counted them once. I don’t remember how many of them she said there were.

Over fifty.

[Off tape]

I’d like to read them.

Wouldn’t everyone?

So, these guys roll up, yeah?

These fuckin’ guys.

And I’m not ashamed to say, I near-on pissed my jeans.

Tim’s behind the kit so that means Nicky’s standin’ there and this is what he didn’t fuckin’ say all the times he told this story.

He had to hose down our garage floor after, yeah?

And he went home in a pair of my jeans, gym shoes and shorts and it wasn’t just piss he tied up tight in that trash bag and put in our bin, you know?

Pissed himself, shit his pants.

And Nicky is not my favorite person in the world, all these years, his big, fat mouth, you know why, and that shit is not ever gonna change.

But like I said, I nearly lost it too, these scary motherfuckers walkin’ right up to my friend in my own goddamned garage.

“Where’s Ricky?” they said.

And that was when it happened.

We were all so freaked by these motherfuckers showing up, we didn’t pay any attention to Preacher.

“Get gone.”

That was what he said.

Didn’t leave his place behind his mic. Didn’t take his guitar off his shoulder.

Just stood there, looking at them, and told them to, “Get gone.”

“We want Ricky,” they said to him.

“Don’t give a fuck what you want,” he said back. “He ain’t here. Get gone.”

They didn’t get gone, as you know.

They tightened up on Nicky, one of them lifting his hand to point a finger in Nick’s face, and I figure this was about the time he shit his pants.