“What in the actual world of fuck, Neon?”

Nigel Staccato lifted his gaze up from the table, the beer mug firm in his hand. “Glad to see you’re happy to see me, Freddie,” he mocked emotionlessly, with a degree of depressing, dismissive carelessness that made Frederic freeze up with the insults and sit next to his friend at the bar counter.

“Okay, spill it out, buddy. I am enjoying my dinner, you drunk-call me and offer me your label, I tell you to fuck yourself, you obviously don’t, you sleep it off and now you are still asking me to meet you at the bar, at ten in the morning. And it’s your third beer.” Frederic took a breath, motioning for the bartender, a sad man of tint (Indian, some sort of, most possibly: Hindu, if merely a bartender; or maybe a rich Parsi running a bar? But then again, does Allah not forbid Muslims to drink alcohol? Will I offend him if I do? Why do I give a damn? it’s a bar), whose lifeless eyes dulled away at Neon’s beer that needed refilling. “So I repeat myself. What in the actual world of fuck, Neon?”

“I am offering you a label.” The sad man of tint filled Neon’s mug and slid a full one without asking towards Frederic, who accepted it gladly, if reluctantly. Ah, hell, it’s ten already, for fuck’s sake. “You want a label. Do the math.”

“My math sense,” Frederic observed, sipping the sour, disgusting beer, “is telling me that you are seriously fucked up in the head. Why in the holy world of living fuck did you suddenly decide to sell off your - and, mind it, Pon-3’s - label?”

“Do you want it or not?” Neon continued carelessly, foam on his lips.

Frederic sighed and rubbed his nose. “Okay. Listen. I know something’s wrong.” The beer swished in the glass dumbly. “Something’s amiss. So here: either you tell me what’s up - and if you answer ‘mah dick’ I’ll strangle you with rusty wire - or we keep playing mum-mum, and get wasted, and go to a brothel.” Frederic sipped his beer. “While I’m heavily leaning into the latter, I’m giving you ten secs to explain yourself as a gesture of good-will.” God, the beer is so disgusting…

“No brothels for married men,” Neon dropped grimly. “I’m getting married, Freddie.”

Frederic nodded slowly, the beer swishing and swishing in irritation. “Heh. I thought I’d beat you to that.” Wordlessly, he placed his hand on Neon’s shoulder. “That’s… pretty good, I guess. A sign of maturity and what-not.” Neon shrugged. “I mean, instead of fucking around, you get to earn for a household and bring up kids and what-not.” Neon winced. “Yeah. Can’t say I’m envious, but… you kinda are the one to blame, aren’t you?”

“When I proposed,” Neon said, “I wasn’t really sure what I was doing. I mean.” Gulp gulp. “Vinyl ran off with Octavia to God-knows-where,” gulp gulp gulp, “and I really needed that, I thought,” gulp gulp gulp, “I proposed to Madeline and she said yes and I am getting hitched and my sister is somewhere else with her lover and I am selling the label.” Gulp. Gulp. “Clear?”

“Not really. I get the Vinyl part, but I can assure you that, with Octavia-” Neon waved his hand in the air with a sour wince. “Yeah, not really my business. What I mean is, what with you getting married and all,” Frederic urged, “wouldn’t it be better for you to have a steady source of income?” He gestured. “I mean, I don’t know if they teach you Catholic folks that-”

“I’m an atheist,” Neon countered sharply.

“An Italian atheist,” Frederic marvelled. “Now that’s something. What I mean is, with family comes, you know, responsibility, and you gotta have kids eventually…”

Neon sighed. “Freddie, it’s not about the kids. Maddie works. I have a retching fat bank account. We may not even have kids at all. It’s not the sixties, for hellsake.” Gullgulp.

Frederic sighed. “I miss the sixties.” He elaborated: “All the booze and smoking you can want, and rock’n’roll’s just starting out. Few cars, no traffic jams, and wealthy white men held all the power.” Bitterly, he finished off his beer.

“You weren’t even born in the sixties,” Neon remarked.

Frederic nodded. “That’s the whole point. So. Why are you selling the label again?”

Neon groaned. “I am not selling it. I am giving it away.” An uneasy, fly-flying, bartender-sharking, breath-inhaling, dust-whispering minute passed. “I can’t always live in the shadow of my dad. It’s time I moved on. Now is the time to move on.”

Frederic nodded very slowly, knowing not to disturb the aching bonematter. “What about your sister?”

Neon took a breath. “She has to move on, too. Whether she wants to or not. Hope Octavia… Hope Octavia doesn’t break her down. Hope she helps, because God knows-”

“She will,” Frederic assured. “Neon, she’s… She will help.” I hope. I hope I cured her enough to teach her to cure others.

“Freddie, she’s… Remember when I told you about our dad? He was one nasty fucktard. Vinyl’s messed up in the head, pretty badly.”

Huh. That’s totally a word. “Neon, listen. I don’t know if you know - you probably don’t - but Octavia’s father did… some pretty bad things to her.”

“He had her raped,” Neon said simply.

Frederic paused for a moment, then nodded. “She was very broken. Then I came along, helped her get on with her life. And so she will do to Vinyl.”

Neon looked at his friend hopefully. “Will she?”

Frederic smiled a little smile. “I’m a good teacher. What’s up with the label? Okay, I get it. Building bridges, burning bridges, okay. I get it.” The man nodded to himself. “Why not sell it? Why give it away, and to me, at that?”

“Because you are my friend.” Neon looked into Frederic’s eyes with visible respect and admiration and deep, brotherly love.

Frederic scrutinised the gaze for a few moment, then burst out laughing. “Okay.” He wiped a tear off his eye. “That’s the sweetest load of bull I’ve ever got, but seriously, why?”

“I can’t sell off the company without Vinyl’s permission,” Neon admitted. Also, you’re my best friend.”

“Uhuh.” Frederic watched the tinted bartender take the empty mug away. “How do you plan to hand it over without you sister, genius?”

A devious smirk appeared on Neon’s face. “Easily.”

“Come on, Vinyl, one more time!”

“Tavi, I’m pretty tired…” Vinyl breathed heavily, sweat covering her whole body, her tongue rather numb, her fingers exhausted. The morning was an especially hot one - and how quickly had it grown well into the afternoon? Sure, she was as keen on setting records as her lover, but… “I really can’t, um. any more. For a while,” she added.

“Can’t what?” Octavia wondered deviously, her nose brushing its way past Vinyl’s neck and down to her breasts. Mmm, best boobs are best. “Can’t arch your back, coming all over the sheets, crying out my name in perfect pitch?” she wondered sulkily.

“Uuuuh.” Vinyl rolled over. “Tavi, you are very sexy, but I am exhausted. Really.”

“Come oooon, Vinyl,” the cellist urged. “You can’t spell success without sex.” Angel Octavia raised her finger and opened her mouth. Devil Octavia silently took out a shotgun.

“No, you can,” Vinyl protested idly.

“Yes, you can. No, you can’t. Grammar, Vinyl.” Octavia smirked mentally. Three, two, one-

“I mean, sure.” Vinyl blushed. “No, you can’t.” Wait a minute…

“See?” Octavia jingled with laughter. “All right, Vinyl, what do you want to do?”

“Um.” Vinyl paused, collecting her thoughts. “I thought, um, maybe I ought to get on with my fanfic.” Now this. Is. Awkward.

Octavia managed to suppress a giant grin that was well on its way to her lips. My little nerdie~ “You are writing a fanfic? On what?” Please let it not be ponies or something equally nerdy… Or rather, let it be ponies. Or something equally nerdy~

“Um, there’s this cartoon, uh, and there’s a vampire girl, erm, and there’s a princess-” Vinyl began, reddening by the moment.

“Okay, okay,” Octavia interrupted her with a smile. “I get it. That’s your personal obsession.” Vinyl nodded. “Like latex.”

Vinyl’s mouth fell slightly agape, trying to conjure up some words.

“Don’t worry,” Octavia promised solemnly. “I don’t have a latex suit with me.” Vinyl let out a breath. “Only gloves and underwear.” … … … “Dear?” Blink. Blink. “Damn! Vinyl!” Sigh. “Who would’ve thought that, out of all times, she would faint now?”

“So, basically.” Frederic furrowed his brow, drumming his fingers against the bar counter. The three morning beers - when did the morning grow into afternoon so quickly? - did not exactly contribute to better understanding. “You’re planning a hostile takeover. Over your own firm.”

Neon shrugged. “Something like that.”

Frederic rubbed his forehead deeply. “Okay. So. Again. You’re making me a senior partner, because, according to the bylaws, each senior partner can name a senior partner each year. Then what?”

“Then,” Neon explained again, patiently, “I call for a partner’s meeting. Since Vinyl is AWOL, this will be the two of us. We vote on a new managing partner. You. Two votes for you. A simple majority. Hooray, you are the new managing partner.”

Frederic shook his head violently. “It’s insane.” He looked at his friend. “What about the quorum?”

“The quorum is two partners. I made these bylaws for Vinyl and me. We are the only two partners now. You become a partner. Three senior partners. We hold a meeting. We both vote for a new managing partner. You. Two out of three votes. Hip-hip, Freddie the Managing Partner.”

Frederic rubbing his forehead again, feeling the oppressive heat of the bar wildly. “Okay. I become a managing partner. But Vinyl is still a senior partner. What’s stopping her from naming Octavia another senior partner, holding a meeting and naming her Managing Partner?” Insanity, insanity at its finest.

Neon smirked. “Did you miss the part where I mentioned I made all these bylaws? ‘All of the aforementioned statements and rules apply so long as the firm bears the family name of Immanuel Staccato, the founder’,” he quoted. “All you have to do is rename the firm.”

“Okay, okay.” Frederic shut his eyes. “I rename it, but then… Then none of the ‘aforementioned statements’ will apply, and I’ll have to… pretty much rewrite everything and re-hire all personnel, and re-rent the space. It’s gonna be shitloads of work, Neon. People might lose jobs. One hell of a chaos,” he warned, his mind analysing the risks.

Neon grinned, wildly, evilly, making Frederic stagger back in his seat a little. “Frankly, Freddie…”

Frederic saw it in his eyes: wild, unrelentlessly mad fires dancing around his pupils. The heat emanated by his grin. Madness dancing on a brink.

Neon finished off the beer. “Do I look like a give a damn?” Next Chapter: 6. The Disco Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 58 Minutes