#fixmein45

           Patrick glowered at the screen of his laptop, hitting the F5 key repeatedly on the Google search of his own name. It had been a week since Soul Punk dropped, and the reception was...lackluster, to say the least. With each refresh there seemed to be a new article calling him a burn out, a washed up has-been, a sell-out, a flop, a one hit wonder even, all the insults the industry liked to throw around at anyone not going platinum in their first moments. He scoffed at that last one though, he was more than a one hit wonder and had the record sales to prove it. But, that was back before. He dejectedly hit the refresh button again and the newest headline nearly gutted him. "Stump Just A Pretty Voice With Nothing To Say?" the blue letters danced up from the screen, mocking him, the black text underneath alluding to the fact that he had no writing skills. He had things to say. He had writing skills. He thought of all the midnight chats with his former bassist, rehashing verse after verse, suggesting better words, conceding to artistic defeat when the other really knocked it out of the park.

           He leaned back in the office chair and closed his eyes. He thought of that last album. Folie a Deux. What a fitting name. After all, he'd thought what they had would last forever. But, with every new song, ever lyric sheet emailed to him at 3am when he'd "just happen" to be at his computer he realized that wasn't the case. It would never be the case. He'd been deluded to think so, but that's how it had felt all those years ago in that record store. He was just some punk kid who wanted to play drums. Then, being handed a microphone and told to let it out. He didn't know he had that ability but when someone is looking at you with so much faith...well, the impossible becomes necessary. The doorbell rang from the other side of the house and Patrick groaned, couldn't he get any peace? He pulled himself up and slunk his way to the front door, opening it without looking through the peep hole because why bother when he'd already sunk so low? Maybe it was a crazed fan to put him out of his misery?            "Look my life is in shambles so if you're here to kill me, please hur-" he finally glanced at the visitor's face. The trademark smirk that had broke a million teenage hearts met him.            "Now Patty, things can't possibly be that bad."                        "Pete? But...how? Why?" he choked out, getting more confused with every syllable.

           The other man pushed his way past the now thinner singer, shoving a bottle of champagne into his hand as he crossed the threshold. "Why? To celebrate your album of course."            Patrick turned, closing the door and letting out a half hearted laugh. "Celebrate? That's a real riot, Pete. You must have seen the news. I'm a flop. A has been. A...a talentless hack!"            

           Pete's expression fell as he plopped down into the leather sofa. "Come on, man. You can't believe even a scrap of what those vultures say. Remember all the shit they used to post about me? Every minute I was learning something new about myself."

           Patrick sighed, sitting opposite Pete in a recliner. "I know I know. I just...feel so hopeless. I really thought I could do this on my own. But maybe I just need to quit this all and become an accountant now," he quipped, quoting a line from that Dear John letter of an album. He looked down at his hands, the hands he'd typed those midnight brainstorming sessions with, the hands he'd played guitar leaning into Pete with, the hands he'd cried into when Pete finally said what he'd known since What A Catch, Donnie, that he was leaving.            "No, Pat. You know what you need?"

           "What?" Patrick turned his attention back up to Pete, looking at the out stretched hand he was being offered.            "You need your band."