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The check-in through the gate had gone smoothly, everyone had their passes, bracelets, and maps. They’d get lost…and drunk at least once, that was the Rocktoberfest experience for every band I’d been out here with so far.

“Before you go all feral on us, let me remind you of the peril that awaits you on the other side of those doors,” I said, making sure they were all paying attention. “There is scorching heat, blistering sun, and a million and one things you’ll want to take part in. That’s fine as long as you stay hydrated, stick together, and have a guard with you at all times. You will follow any and all instructions they give you and you will not, under any circumstances, eat or drink any random thing someone hands you. Understood?”

Their voices mingled as they replied, nodding solemnly. At least they had last years’ experience to draw from, so they knew how hot it got.

“Be good and remember the rules,” I reminded Tony as I hugged him.

“That goes for you too,” Pressley cautioned Bowie. “Make sure you get video footage but don’t upload it until you’re back here, we don’t want people looking for you guys. Stay low key and level-headed, avoid issues and come back together. If someone’s mouth starts getting them into trouble, toss them over your shoulder and carry them back if you have to. I’ll take it from there.”

He looked right at Claude when he said it and our drummer stared at his shoes, squirming. Hard lesson, but the last talking to seemed to have set him on the right path, for now, anyway. Turning him loose out there with the rest of the bands would be the real test.

Harley and Scythe followed them off the bus, leaving Pressley and I to handle the behind the scenes work they never saw.

“I need to get a look at the stage. The diagram gives the measurements, but…”

“I know,” Pressley said, cutting me off. “You like to see if for yourself. I’m good here. You go do what you need to do.”

“See ya in a bit.”

There were several stages. I had ours circled on the map. It wasn’t the same one they’d played on last year, on opening day. Not only was this one bigger, but they were playing on the second day of the festival, late in the afternoon, when the heat would be at its highest.

We had Styrofoam coolers. I’d insisted on stopping for them, so we had a way of keeping the band supplied with ice water throughout their performance. Ice we’d get right before. Water we already had on hand. Since there were still a few hours before the official kickstart of the festival, I was able to walk the stage and make notes on where to place the coolers so the guys would be able to get to them.

It bugged the fuck out of me when people assumed that all roadies did was lug equipment around and hit on the groupies the band members didn’t want. The second part happened, sure, but there was more to the first than carrying things. Setting up a stage was an artform. The guys needed to be able to move and trust that when they were in the zone they wouldn’t have to worry about tripping over anything or getting shocked. It was rare but it happened.

Claude’s kit would need to be assembled on one of the rolling platforms they had at the back of the stage. Wedge shaped, they locked in place, allowing the equipment to be rotated out easier, saving on setup and teardown time. I had the time circled for that on my sheet. We’d be there early and waiting so we could get in, get it done and get out of their way. Vance would stay back with the kit, I made a note of that too. Being meticulous had come as a result of fucking up, that’s all there was to it. These days I tried to account for the things that could go wrong so I could prevent them since I was getting too damned old to be rushing around trying to fix disasters.

When I was satisfied that I had all the notes I needed, I headed back to the bus and somehow found myself engulfed in a cloud of bubbles. Wait. I’d heard about this. Some kind of bubble war. We didn’t sign up to take part in the damn thing that I knew of, anyway. I hadn’t seen the guy’s sneaking bubble cannons on the bus, so what the hell?

“Wait!” Somebody yelled.

Good. I couldn’t see a fucking thing but bubbles at this point and swatting at them wasn’t doing any good.

“That’s not him,” someone said.

“Yeah it is!” someone else insisted.

“That’s not Winter.”

“Dude…it’s…”

“Let me save you all the trouble and settle the debate right now,” I said. “I know who you’re talking about and I’m not him, so quit with all the bubbles.”

“I told you it wasn’t him. Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. You told me, you told me, if that’s not him then we gotta find him before he finds us.”

“Sorry dude,” the first one said.

I got a clear enough look at them after the bubbles cleared to recognize Jagger and Johnny of Damaged Saints and Blissfully Immune. Pretty sure they were the instigators behind the bubble war. If they weren’t, their antics would draw others into it before the festival was through, especially if they kept running around blasting unsuspecting bystanders.

I’d never been so happy to see a tour bus in all my days. There were still a few bubbles popping on my shoulders and in my hair when I spotted Pressley outside beneath the awning.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, lowering his sunglasses to get a better look.

“Jagger and Johnny,” I explained. “They mistook me for Winter. That’s not the first time that’s happened to me, we’ve met and the resemblance is strong. They’ve got a bubble war going on. If I were Winter, I’d keep my head on a swivel. I didn’t even see those two miscreants coming.”

“They got us last year too,” Pressley replied. “They know Claude. I think it was Johnny’s band he auditioned for when they needed a replacement drummer. Honestly, I have a hard time telling those two apart.”