R.I.P. Dimebag Darrell

The remaining members of Damageplan are pale and shaking in the cramped office of the Alrosa Villaniteclub. The club owner sits behind the desk, open shirt with hair plugs coiffed to a near-pompador. He stretches his lips down across his teeth and exhales. Without looking up, he says -

"Sheesh, I don't know what to tell ya, guys. The contract said that you'd play until 1:30 and it looks like you played... let's see... five minutes. I just don't know what to say." "Wha...? You mean...? THEY FUCKING KILLED OUR GUITAR PLAYER, MAN!" "Geez, ya, I saw that. Phew. ... But the contract does say 'until 1:30'. I mean, I obviously can't pay you." "DUDE THE FUCKING GUY KILLED FOUR FUCKING PEOPLE! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???" "I understand that but you have to understand where I'm coming from. I mean, sheesh, I have people who paid 8 dollars a head for a night of live music and you play for five minutes? What am I supposed to tell my customers? I like you guys but I have a business to run." YOU TELL ME HOW THE FUCK WE'RE SUPPOSED TO PLAY WITH A DEAD FUCKING GUITAR PLAYER, YOU FUCKING FUCK!" "Hey, thats not my problem. I agreed to provide the venue and the sound system. It's your job to provide whatever musicians you'll need. I mean, let's be reasonable." "I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS!" "Listen, we've always had a decent relationship and you've usually been very professional. I don't know what you were thinking tonite but ... let's do this - I'll take care of your bar tab and I'll put you back on the books for April 19th. But I'm going need more than just five minutes. "ARE YOU .....? ... FUCK! SO YOU"RE....I MEAN.... SHIT! (pause) Is that a weekend night?" "It's a Tuesday." "Uh, fuck. Alright." "Great then. I'll take care of the bar tab. Just make sure you pay Jerry for the chicken strips. You can close that door on your way out. I got a lot of paperwork here. Thanks guys."