Read Online The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion by Chris McCoy - Free Book Online Page B

been with each other’s lovers, there’s no sense yapping at each other about it.”
    Skark turned to me. “Hold on and try not to get any blood on the couch. There are no decent upholsterers where we’re going, which is an unending source of irritation for me. I can’t even think about how I would redo the interior design of the bus without feeling woozy and overwhelmed.”
    For the briefest moment, the bus became still, hanging in the air above the In-N-Out drive-through, and I heard Officer Welker one more time: “Put that bus back on the ground. License and registration. Where are those license plates from? The Yarkson Cloud? What is that? Is that a state I don’t know about? Some East Coast place?”
    The engines roared and the bus shook like it was about to come apart at its joints.
    â€œThere’s still time to get off if you want,” said Cad. “Space is no easy place to visit.”
    â€œIt’s fine,” I said. “I’m looking for someone up there.”
    â€œAlways good to have a goal,” he said. “You’re stuck with us now, young Bennett.”
    The front of the bus jerked sharply upward, as if doing a wheelie. Through the window, I could see currents of power running over the bus and changing color from blue to green. On the other side of the windshield, stars blinked like ocean phosphorescence.
    â€œWelcome to the tour,” said Cad.
    And with that, we shot into space….
    BANG!

In the hours following my departure from Earth, I learned that the Perfectly Reasonable, the one billion sixteenth greatest band in the universe, had been in America because they were looking for a record deal anywhere they could get one.
    â€œWe drove this bus to every record company in Los Angeles and dropped off old demos,” said Skark, filing one of his fourteen fingernails into a sharp point. “Nobody responded, no doubt because they found our sound confusing. You see, we can do anything—a cappella, dream pop, reggae fusion, Tropicália. It’s the natural instinct of humans to want to categorize everything , but that is quite impossible when it comes to my band, and I refuse to be categorized by something as asinine as just rock. The goal should always be to move an art form forward.”
    Skark used his fingertip to extract the cork of a wine bottle, removing it with a twist and flicking it aside.
    â€œBut we’re broke, so we need any record deal we can get,” said Cad.
    â€œIt’s not my fault that the cost of travel has gone up. Inflation is bad everywhere,” said Skark.
    â€œIt is your fault all our other labels dropped us,” said Cad.
    â€œI admit no such thing. Foreign businessmen have no patience when it comes to nurturing genius.”
    â€œI think it’s more that they have no patience when one of their artists has stopped writing songs and is spending all his money on Spine Wine,” said Cad.
    â€œOh, shut up,” said Skark.
    â€œIs that what the wine is called?” I said, pointing to the bottle Skark was holding. “Spine Wine?”
    â€œAh, sweet siren Spine Wine,” said Skark, wistfully looking over the bottle. “Friend, lover, inspiration, companion. That is its name.”
    Skark explained that Spine Wine got its name from the tingle felt at the base of the neck upon drinking a great deal of it—provided the imbiber had a neck, which was by no means common among all alien races. Made from the triangular grapes of the Blado Constellation, Spine Wine was expensive because it was meant to be an after-dinner drink—a small glass helped with digestion following a large meal—though apparently there were also cheaper blends, the existence of which Skark dismissed with a wave of his hand.
    Spine Wine was also what Driver had made me drink when I got on the bus, but I hadn’t consumed quite enough to get the treasured tingle.
    â€œIf you drink