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“Hey, bro!” shouted the scruffy-looking guy as he rushed towards Aaron Hunter. “Can I quickly stick this flyer for my band’s next gig in your window before you start work for the day? We play tonight.”

Aaron glanced at the youth, taking note of the Green Day T-shirt that the slightly overweight man wore underneath a standard issue black leather biker jacket. Juggling the keys to his store - a drumming academy called Skin Trade - between his powerful hands, Aaron beckoned the young man to step a bit closer with a subtle nod of his head.

“Get your breath back, man,” said Aaron calmly. “It looks like you just caught me before I opened up. Perfect timing, dude!”

Pocketing the key fob into his tight, faded jeans, Aaron stretched out a hand to accept the miniature poster that the out of breath juvenile rocker was waving at him like a flimsy fan.

“So,” he continued, taking the flyer from the spikey-haired punk who was bent double in front of him, “you’re in a band? Are you guys any good?”

Aaron’s dark hazel eyes scanned over the promotional material, smirking at the band’s name, The Sexy Pistols. Raising an eyebrow while reading the remaining details of the concert venue, the punk rock aficionado hoped that the rest of the group were slightly more attractive than the panting musician standing next to him, otherwise the crowd may have to sue them due to false advertising.

“Yeah, I’m in a band, I play the drums like you,” replied the youth, who was probably no more than twenty years old. “We’re not too bad. We’ve pretty much only been playing in garages and church halls up until now, but this is our first real gig. I’m so buzzed up!”

Aaron smiled at his new acquaintance while watching the flushed red cheeks of the enthusiastic youth slowly return to their normal, pasty colour. The vampire’s heightened sense of hearing could feel the budding rock star’s heart rate settle back down to its regular rhythm as the unfit musical marketeer regained control of his breathing. The drumming tutor remembered the day when he’d played his first proper gig, reminiscing how terrible his band were. But quality didn’t matter; it was all about the enjoyment, the rush of adrenaline that surged through his pumped body when he nervously took to the stage with his friends. Nowadays, Aaron was effectively a semi-pro, and his band, Breaking Bad, had played numerous shows around the pubs and clubs of Harper Rock, but he still got that tingle of excitement down his spine when he adjusted his drum stool and readied himself to play.

“There’s nothing like that buzz of playing, man,” said Aaron. “You never get bored of that rush.”

A quick burst of air drumming erupted from Aaron’s otherwise still frame as he beamed brightly at his fellow musician. A huge grin from his counterpart let Aaron know that the pair shared a similar passion.

“I take it from your band’s name,” added Aaron, “and from your cool T-shirt, that you guys play a bit of punk?”

There were many musical genres for worshipers of sound to believe in, but only punk rock had the one true sonic god. There were many prophets, like heavy metal, the blues, and occasionally a bit of classic rock or indie, but only punk could claim the title of a deity.

“Yes, sir,” answered the exuberant youth, his hand messing with the waxy spikes that adorned his head. “We love punk, which I why I came here to give you a flyer. We’ve seen your band play. You guys kick ***!”

“Why, thank you!” said Aaron, acknowledging the compliment with an overblown bow.

Dipping his eyes back towards the bright yellow-coloured flyer, its thick, black lettering standing out against the sunny background, Aaron posed a question to his new best friend, pointing at the words on the sheet as he spoke.

“This venue, The Hell Hole, whereabouts is it? It says Newborough, but I don’t think I know where it is.”

“Ah, shoot!” exclaimed the frustrated young punk protégé. “We must have forgotten to put the exact address on the flyer. It’s really close to the bank and the transit station. You can’t miss it, I promise.”

The university was down in the Newborough district of town, so there was always a reasonable student crowd to tap into, which made it a perfect area for a music venue, but it annoyed Aaron that he hadn’t heard of the place. So much for having his finger on the city’s musical pulse!

“Well,” said Aaron, “I’ll still stick your flyer in my window. I’m sure that folk will find it. They just need to follow the hypnotic sound of the drums, right!”

Aaron smiled again, whipping out his keys from the frayed pocket of his jeans. He unlocked the front door to his business premises before turning to face the fresh-faced kid. From the back pocket of his figure-hugging trousers, the drumming teacher withdrew a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter, flicking out a single stick and popping it between his lips.

“Do you smoke, man?” asked Aaron, lighting his cigarette while waiting for a reply.

“Yes,” replied the youth, “yes I do.”

“I thought so,” said Aaron, taking a lengthy drag on the glowing, orange-ended cylinder before gently releasing a steady stream of smoke out into the cool air like a laid-back dragon. “Smoking’s bad for you. It’s why you got out of breath so quickly.”

Aaron winked mischievously, spinning slowly on his heels, ready to head into his place of work.

“I’ll put your flyer up now, and maybe I’ll see you later. Now head back to your buddies and prepare for the big one tonight.”

A night out to this new club, The Hell Hole, could be fun, thought Aaron as he hung up the poster. It was always worth checking out somewhere different and fresh. You never knew quite who you might bump into.

The working day passed by with few noteworthy incidents. Although Aaron’s drumming academy was ticking over rather nicely, and there was a steady flow of enthusiastic pupils filled with dreams of rock-stardom, the tutor never found himself being rushed off his size twelve feet. That was exactly the way he liked it. When it came to work, Aaron preferred to be paddling in the tranquil lake, having enough spare time to fool around listening to music or catching up on the latest edition of his favourite comic books, as opposed to swimming furiously against the tide in a stormy ocean.

The first couple of budding musicians to visit Aaron were the incredibly cute Thompson twins, Tom and Joe. With their rosy-red cheeks, and a pair of killer smiles that could melt the most gargantuan of icecaps, and change the views of even the most bigoted of beaver-haired climate change deniers, the dynamic drumming duo were a pure joy to teach. The eight-year-old students were as keen as mustard, aching to impress their school friends with radical rhythm patterns and fanciful drum-fills. They very much reminded Aaron of himself at their age when he wanted to play in the school band, or march in the St. Patrick’s Day parades back in New York.

The downside of the delightful double act was their annoying mother, Alannah. She was the epitome of the pushy mother, desperate for her beloved cherubs to be the best musicians that the world had ever heard, whatever the cost. Blood, sweat, and tears were her holy trinity. She had the tact of a drunken, randy rhino that was judging the “Miss Hippopotamus 2016” competition, blurting out ridiculous and often downright offensive phrases that would make an old Irish dockworker from the Meatpacking district of New York blush. How on earth her adorable sons had not developed into a terrible, tearaway twosome was beyond Aaron’s comprehension.

Michelle Young was a different character altogether. Her only child, a scruffy-looking kid named Gary, was one of Aaron’s first pupils. The shabbily dressed fifteen-year-old had been receiving lessons for over five months now, but had made very little progress, yet Michelle never criticized his lack of application or raw talent. The troubled woman simply brought her teenage son to his weekly appointment, sat patiently at the back of the practice room while the teaching session unfolded, then spilt her life story out to Aaron. It was like pouring emotional milk over Aaron’s bowl of morning cereal. If only the apathetic Gary could be so reliably rhythmic as his metronomic mother.

Aaron never had himself down as a psychiatrist, yet somehow he was playing not only the drums, but also the role of Michelle’s counsellor. If her downloading sessions were in someway cathartic and helpful, then it was fine with Aaron. He would have also appreciated someone with a friendly face and a shoulder to lean upon many times, so the affable rocker wasn’t going to turn a deaf ear on the woman in her hour of need. She moaned about most things in life, but most notably her recent divorce from “Richard the ********” as she so elegantly liked to call her ex-husband. However, the one key area of her bitching barrages to which Aaron could really relate were her views on music. It was certainly a topic more up Aaron’s street than tales of her cheating ex’s exploits.

Michelle must have been in her mid-forties, although her well-weathered face probably made her look older than her true age. She continually banged on about her love of 80’s hair-metal, about her Van Halen and Def Leppard albums, about her Jon Bon Jovi posters that adorned her bedroom wall like works of art at the Louvre in Paris; about how Tony, her then teenage boyfriend, was so amazing for loving all the same stuff. Then along came grunge, Michelle’s nemesis, killing hair-metal, invading from Seattle like a marauding Viking warrior armed with a fuzz pedal and a baggy jumper. Tony started listening to gloomy dirge, and their relationship fell apart, from Nirvana to Samsara in one sweep of the musical brush. Michelle had trawled the club scene throughout the 90’s for a replacement, eventually settling upon Richie, prior to his metamorphosis into the aforementioned Richard the ********.

Maybe Michelle’s story was not just a tale of musical evolution, but was a metaphor for life in general? Everything changes; things move on, tastes adjust to whatever is deemed to be the flavour of the month. It was fair to say that life as a vampire had evolved greatly over the last few months in Harper Rock. Following the collapse of the Masquerade, the humans were fully aware that vampires existed. The question that ran constantly through Aaron’s mind like a greyhound caught in a perpetual loop chasing an uncatchable rabbit was whether or not his clients knew that he was a vampire?

Aaron decided to stay a little later than usual at his business premises and get a bit of the paperwork tidied up. That really was the most evil and boring of tasks known to mankind. He urgently needed a secretary! Hanging around at Skin Trade into the early evening did mean that Aaron needed to get his *** in gear quicker than normal if he was going to make it to the club and watch the new band, The Sexy Pistols. The affable drummer chuckled at the name as he reread the flyer. They’d better be worth the effort of a trip to an unknown venue.

Firing off a few text messages to the usual suspects in case they fancied heading out for the night, Aaron grabbed his coat - a black leather biker jacket, of course - and made his way through the front exit. He paused, scouring over the mini poster that he held tightly in his hand as he locked up his premises. A few folk had casually glanced at the flyer in his window while wandering by during the day, but there wasn’t a huge amount of interest. Acting like a ticket tout, Aaron had pointed a few potential customers, who had drifted in throughout the day enquiring about lessons as Christmas gifts, towards the local gig. He’d handed one over to Michelle, on the off chance that she may want to get out of her wretched house for the evening. Maybe even Gary should go, pick up a few drops of inspiration and perspiration from the band? The teacher shook his head, screwing up his cheeks.

“You guys should have been handing these flyers out days ago,” muttered Aaron under his breath. “That’s how you drum up some real interest, get the hype machine going.”

Stuffing the bright yellow slip of paper into his jacket pocket, Aaron made his way across town towards Newborough, the home of The Hell Hole. The musician was still bemused as to how he hadn’t actually heard of the place. Something just didn’t sit quite right in his mind. Where, precisely, was this cool new club, and why was he totally unaware of its existence until today? His questions were hopefully about to be answered. A trail of discarded flyers littered the pavement, forming a paper version of the Yellow Brick Road, guiding the way to the mysterious venue.

Aaron’s sturdy boots swept across the pavement, kicking several yellow paper flyers a few inches into the air like crispy leaves that had recently fallen to the ground during an autumn storm. That was a hell of a lot of printing that had seemingly gone to waste. Either that or the guy handing out the flyers was a huge fan of 1930’s magical musicals. Maybe the flying monkeys had been released, and were causing havoc on the streets of Harper Rock?

“Follow the Yellow Brick Road,” muttered the musician in a comical voice. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Follow, follow…”

Aaron’s semi-tuneful interlude was cut short as his shimmering hazel eyes glanced around the corner of a grubby old stone building, and caught sight of a familiar face. Visually sorting out the human chaff that was milling around the side exit of what appeared to be a converted warehouse, Aaron’s keen eyes focused on the shaft of recognizable wheat that was hovering by the dimly lit door.

“I should have known he’d be here!” said Aaron to himself, a broad smile oozing across his stubbly face.

It was abundantly clear that the drum tutor was about to reach his destination; the telltale signs were all there. Firstly, the trail of flyers was coming to an abrupt end just up ahead. Secondly, the distinct rumbling of music was seeping out into the cool night air like sonic smoke drifting away from a bonfire of crackling speakers. Finally, one of Harper Rock’s cool kid socialites, Kaspar, was hanging out of a doorway, cigarette in hand like a wizard’s glowing wand. The checklist was complete.

Despite the fact that Aaron, a self-confessed music aficionado, had never heard of the new venue, The Hell Hole, it came as no surprise to the drummer that his old friend was already here. Kaspar always seemed to be in the know. Networking was definitely paying dividends for the son of the famous singer. Hopefully, Kaspar would be able to share the details of this mysterious new addition to the city’s nightlife with the intrigued teacher. Tapping a couple of his fingers onto the inside of his wrist, Aaron wandered purposefully towards Kaspar.

“I see that you have your finger on the pulse, dude!” exclaimed Aaron. “You’re one step ahead of me, I didn’t even know this place existed until today!”

Aaron’s lack of knowledge about the club was still annoying him. It was like having an itch on the sole of your foot after you’d just laced up your Dr. Martens boots. Who opens a brand new nightclub without a bucketful of publicity and promotion first? However, the fact that Kaspar was gracing the venue helped to soothe the irritation. If the KasMan thought that the place was worth checking out, then it was probably going to be at least half decent at worst.

“Good evening, buddy,” said Aaron. “So, how’ve you been keeping?”

Aaron slapped his friend across the shoulder, leaning in for a casual man-hug. Old-fashioned handshakes were so… old-fashioned. Having said that, the punk always tried to be polite, and wouldn’t dive into the personal space of somebody that he didn’t know, so he offered the more traditional greeting of a handshake to the as yet unknown man standing next to Kaspar.

“Hey there, I’m Aaron,” he announced, projecting a hand of friendship in the direction of Kaspar’s colleague.

A blast of what could only be described as musical dirge bellowed out of the club’s door like the grimy fumes from the chimney of a Victorian era factory, as the band inside launched into another song. Almost involuntarily, Aaron screwed up his face as if he were sucking on a particularly bitter lemon.

“Wow!” said Aaron, his large hands muffling his ears. “It sounds like Harper Rock’s finest are on stage tonight!”

The musician chuckled to himself rolling his eyes in an over-exaggerated manner, before continuing to speak, not really affording the pair much of an opportunity to respond to his initial questions and actions.

“How did you guys find out about this place?” he added. “I swear I cannot believe I didn’t know about this place. It all seems a bit weird to me. I really need to up my game!”

The fingers of Aaron’s left hand slowly curled as he brought his palm towards his ear, brushing away a few loose strands of thick, dark hair that had fallen across the side of his face. It was probably a subconscious reaction to Kaspar’s words, allowing Aaron to listen more attentively to what his friend was saying. The singer’s response was very much as expected: he was looking for the next big thing, keen on keeping his finger firmly on the pulse of the local entertainment scene.

Aaron had his charismatic acquaintance down as a bit of a thrill-seeker, always striving to be that one special step ahead of everyone else to give him the edge. It wasn’t that Aaron saw the socialite as some kind of egomaniac, desperate for attention, but more as the cool kid on the block who liked to keep abreast of all the developments in the local community. Kaspar was like the hub in the centre of Harper Rock’s social scene wheel. It was no surprise that the KasMan already knew about this place.

A pair of inquisitive eyes scanned over the old building that had been transformed into Harper Rock’s latest club. There was still something bothering Aaron about the whole scenario, a puzzling little niggle that the drummer couldn’t quite put his finger upon, despite Kaspar’s brief overview of the venue. Maybe, once they all went inside, the fog of curiosity would disperse and everything would become much clearer.

“I guess we all have to start off in a place like this,” said Aaron, “although I’m sure that you are pretty buzzed up about strutting your funky stuff on a bigger stage. When does your tour kick off, man? Get me some backstage passes and I’ll consider doing a bit of work for you!”

A huge grin swept across Aaron’s face, his sparkling caramel eyes radiating an affectionate admiration for his friend’s achievements, coated with a cheeky, almost mischievous overtone. Although the prospect of working with, or rather for Kaspar did hold a certain appeal, Aaron enjoyed his humble business, and the freedom of being his own boss. Sure, the drumming school didn’t generate a massive amount of income, and Aaron was never going to be on the cover of Time magazine about to be interviewed as the entrepreneur of the year, but he was happy with his lot. Nevertheless, he’d park the offer squarely in the “maybe” section. Never say never seemed like a reasonable stance to take on the subject.

“And you, Louis,” added Aaron, momentarily switching his focus to the other man, “are you part of the KasMan’s entourage? Are you hitting the road with him?”

A strong hand darted up to Aaron’s stubble-covered chin, his fingers scratching at the coarse facial hair as if he were in deep contemplation. In certain ways, perhaps the musician was? He was definitely interested to hear about Kaspar’s forthcoming plans, the cities and towns that the singer and his band would be visiting if and when their tour started rolling into action, but he was also constantly wondering about the club that was in his immediate vicinity.

Although Aaron was concentrating on the discussion at hand with his friend and the newbie, Louis, the killer’s natural instinct was to be alert at all times, to be prepared like an eager boy scout. Even though this fledgling venue, the Hell Hole, had only just opened, Aaron would have expected to notice a few familiar faces drifting in and out of the club. There was a “crowd” in Harper Rock that was into music, a bunch of folk that could be seen regularly around town in all the usual places. Other than Kaspar, all the patrons who were wandering in and out of the door to steal some fresh air or grab a quick cigarette were complete strangers. Maybe Aaron really was off the pace, or maybe there was something more to his casual observation?

The mention of the classic AC/DC song brought an instant smile to Aaron’s face. He couldn’t help but think of the movie, School of Rock, and the young kids jamming along with Jack Black. Maybe the drummer needed a lazy night in front of the TV soon to catch up on a few old films or box sets that he’d recently missed? Then again, there was always something to do around Harper Rock to eat into Aaron’s time. Relaxation seemed to be a luxury nowadays. It was a good job that he was immortal, having what effectively amounted to an endless supply of time. He could watch TV later. Tonight was all about the music and the friendships.

Scratching the back of his neck, Aaron followed Kaspar through the nightclub door, listening and making mental notes of the words uttered by Louis. Presumably, thought Aaron, the sarcastic sidekick was some kind of human thrall, under the spell of Kaspar’s charm? It was handy, bordering on essential, to have a human on your team. Whether as an extra pair of eyes around the city, or simply to act as a source of fresh, bloody nourishment, a bewitched human could serve many purposes. However, it was fair to say that one without an arsey attitude would always be preferred. A cute one was a real bonus!

The trio made their way passed a few revellers who looked like they had already consumed a few too many shots of tequila, and were greeted by an announcement from a scruffy, longhaired youth on the stage ahead of them.

“We’ve been Wrecking Ball, you’ve been amazing!”

The singer raised both his arms, his slender frame illuminated by a rack of spotlights directed at the stage. There was a muffled applause from the crowd, except for a small group near the front of the stage who erupted into rapturous cheering, drooling over the words of the band member. More than likely, they were friends and family of the band that had just completed what seemed to be a distinctly average set-list, judging by the lukewarm reaction of the audience.

“Wrecking Ball?” heckled a punter just in front of Aaron. “More like Ball Bags!”

A small gathering of identically dressed partygoers - standard issue generic rock band T-shirts, tight-fitting black jeans, and chunky boots acting as their uniform - began to giggle at the heckler’s taunt. It was blatantly obvious that they hadn’t been impressed by the outgoing band’s performance. Aaron tapped the guy who’d just called out on his shoulder.

“Hey buddy,” he asked, “I take it these guys weren’t setting the stage on fire tonight?”

The young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing an old Megadeth T-shirt, turned to face Aaron, flicking his greasy hair away from both ears, exposing numerous studs and rings.

“Man!” replied the heckler, rolling his eyes like a pair of spinning Catherine wheels. “These guys sucked balls, never mind being called Balls! But the next band will be on in a couple of minutes. Some punk kinda band called The Sexy Pistols. Apparently, it’s their first proper gig… lambs to the slaughter!”

The metal fan laughed loudly, an almost sinister tone to his exuberant giggling. It was as if his sole purpose for being out tonight was to give hell to fledgling bands. Aaron patted the man on the back, offering a cheeky smile as he spoke.

“Let’s hope they are better than the last sorry lot!”

Aaron refocused his attention on Kaspar and Louis.

“It looks like the next band are on any minute. The drummer of this next outfit is the dude who gave me the flyer for this place. I think that we are in for some good old fashioned punk!”

The enthusiasm etched across Aaron’s face was evident for all to see. It didn’t matter if The Sexy Pistols sounded like a bunch of drowning kittens or the next Green Day, the fact that they were about to get up on stage and strut their stuff was all that concerned the music lover. To Aaron, music shouldn’t be about popularity and pleasing the masses, it should be about expression, about having fun, about opening up your soul and letting everything flood out. Maybe that was why Aaron and his band were still playing gigs in Harper Rock rather than signing multi-million dollar contracts and selling out arena tours?

Aaron’s attentive eyes darted around the nightclub floor as the crowds started to mill around the front of the stage in anticipation for the next band’s arrival. Yet again, the fact that there were so few, if indeed any, familiar faces irked the drummer. The small group of unknown youths who were whooping and cheering so loudly for the last band had dispersed. Their replacements were an additional throng of unfamiliar bodies, total strangers in Aaron’s mind. Some had typical punk-type hairstyles, spiky with streaks of colour, while others had the usual chains and rings attached to belt-loops on their jeans. It was cliché city out there. Maybe they were just another bunch of friends and family who had been shipped in for the evening to offer their support?

As Aaron’s hazel eyes continued to drift around the room, he wondered if the whole place was full of a rent-a-crowd mob, hired especially for tonight’s concert. You could buy fake followers on Twitter to make you seem more popular and important; could you do the same for a local gig in Harper Rock?

“Hey, Kaspar,” said Aaron, “this may seem like an odd question, but do you actually recognize anybody in here?”