A contest with a pot of 3 @steembasicincome shares + SBD payout, where everyone wins? You're in the right place!
Dear fictio-holics friends, after the success of our previous irriverent story, I decided that our iconic and deranged band, the Tortillas de Pelo, will keep us company also during week # 13 so ...prepare to pull out the true rocker in you!
So far, I distributed more than 45 SBI shares through the contest. On a more technical side, recently getting the required STEEM for the 3 @steembasicincome shares is totally not a joke as, at the moment I'm writing this article, a STEEEM is equal to 1,50 SBD. But don't worry! I will still maintain the 3 SBI pot till I can, which makes this contest one of the best ongoing ones!
- Don't forget the NEW RULE: 1 of the 3 @steembasicincome shares.. will be rewarded by you! Just post a comment in which you nominate your favorite contribution and add a short explanation (obviously, you can't vote for yourself!).
Things that please the Bananafish mighty god!
- Sustaining, commenting and upvoting each other as a true group of friends and fiction lovers.
- Respecting the 500 words limit.
- Posting your own article.
- Voting your favorite story.
- helping our contest & workshop to grow by giving it some visibility.
And now.. let me introduce you today's story!
Little Jazz and Lot of Hair in New Orleans
What the fuck is doing a punk-rock band like the Tortillas de Pelo – a bunch of idiots who think a jam session is a type of orgy –in New Orleans, the homeland of jazz? You won’t believe it, but this is the simplest part of the whole story.
There’s no doubt that the Tortillas play like dogs. The fact is that "play like dogs" is still too euphemistic to describe the kind of noise that this band of demented produces: a concoction between an alpenhorn’s bellow, played by a crack whore, and the fornication of a pigeon with a dying elephant.
The only consequence can't be other than their chronic broke-ass status.
The money made in Saint Judas was drying up faster than their beer reserves and they quickly needed an idea, before their musical independence was jeopardized. In case the band couldn't self-sustain anymore, the alternative would have been to go back working as clerks in the filthiest sex shop of all New York, property of a third cousin of Machete.
That’s why - in front of the chance of a payment that, for once, was not limited to the booze during the concert - Mendoza did not hesitate to sell the Tortillas as refined jazz musicians and to conclude an engagement for a wealthy cocks’ private party in Louisiana. This was not before having sold to the organizer, a certain Madame Laveau, a whole amount of references, later confirmed by an old alcoholic xylophonist in debt with Mendo for a couple of favors.
After all, what did it take to learn a bit of fuckin’ jazz? They would have had plenty of time during the long trip aboard their rusty van to try something.
The Chevy left The Big Easy behind, spinning along Interstate 10 as a suppository stuck in a well-oiled colon. Mendoza stood thoughtfully at the back of the van, laying his back on his Marshall tube amp and using a tangle of wires like a pillow. From the window, the monotonous landscape did not show much of the bayou beyond the trees, beckoned only by a group of herons.
The singer thought back to that absurd weekend, all those hours of travel just to be thrown out from the sumptuous farmhouse immediately after their first song "Spiderman has hemorrhoids". He did not understand: the arrangement in a jazz fashion should have worked. Fortunately, they had not left empty-handed from that party of pricks. Machete had stolen a strange mask that had all the appearance of being ancient and very precious.
In fact, readily resold in the French Quarter, the mask had yielded them a nice nest egg. Everything that had happened after the sale of the object was very confused in his mind and had to do with Cajun boudin and cracklins, sailing in rivers of Brandy and Gin. He also remembered anatomically confused female details and, in the chaos, the blissy and sweaty face of Tres Culos, who was watching him clinging to a huge seventy-year-old-heavily-made-up lady like a lemur to a baobab.
He smirked… this was part of a true punk-rocker’s life, too. The fresh air filled the van and laid a regenerating feeling of unrealized adventures on his tired face and... fresh air?!
"Tìo Billy... for the dangling Jude’s nuts! Tell me that TC is there in front close to you"asked the singer, his voice imperceptibly trembling.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Mendo? Isn’t he there with you, farting as usual? " In answering, the drummer's voice had lost courage and momentum while something was becoming clear even for a Machete in the grip of his obsessive-compulsive riffs: Tres Culos was missing.
The sound of the nailing Van recalled a moan. The same prolonged moan that, at that moment, not far from the interstate 10, filtered through the basement of an old ruin among the cypress trees of the bayou.
Join the fun! Here is how this contest works:
An unfinished fiction story or a script is posted.
You finish it with your own post or a comment in the comment section. A limit of 500 words is recommended.
YOU WIN! 3 @steembasicincome shares to the writers with the best ending + SBD payout between all the participants who won't get one of the 3 shares.
It's so simple and, most of all, we'll enjoy our fiction ideas!
Nothing is mandatory here, but voting and resteeming is highly appreciated!
What's next?
If you like this contest..SPREAD THE GOSPEL! I'm grateful for your resteeming and word of mouth. Everything helps to help us grow together!<\center>
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