NINETY-SIX

Mickey’s fingertips were bleeding, but that’s how he knew it’d been a good night. Even watching the janitor sweep up the remnants of his guitar gave Mickey a pleasurable chill, the kind of sensation he hadn’t felt in years on the road.

He looked around at the straggling clientele at Stubbs’, the trickle of drunk Baby Boomers stumbling out, waving at him, thanking him with incoherent yells.

Mickey wanted to weep, but instead gulped the beer in his hand, despite the pain in his wrist.

He was back, and couldn’t wait to sing it to the world.

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