Geneva

Well, here I am, on my way to the next gig. JD's at the wheel and our manager is crammed a little too close to me. That's okay, he's a queer anyway. Don't get me wrong, it isn't bad. Really. I like what I do and I love what I am, but sometimes things get to you. Whenever I get really pissed at the conditions I live in, I remind myself that this is what I wanted.

I was twelve. I sat at home one hot Saturday afternoon playing records and pounding pencils to the beat. I was obsessed with music. Forget friends and forget school so long as you have rhythm. Too bad my 'rents didn't see things that way. My mom and dad were both Korean and, Christ, were they ever strict. They sent me to this Catholic school full of little blond haired blue-eyed kids who looked at me like I was Freddy Kruger. I'm used to that look now. Anyway, I had the type of 'rents that liked to think that my music had the devil in it. Maybe it did. Who the hell cares so long as it sounds good?

So, I quit school when I was 16 to play in a little band consisting of about 6 lead guitarists, 2 bassists, some guy that swallowed the microphone when he sang and me. I'm not gonna lie. I'm good, especially when you compare me to these numb nuts. I left the band a year later to pursue other openings, but nobody wanted an Asian chick in the band. Great. Prejudiced fucks. I worked odd end jobs to get a little bit of money, but most of that went to booze and weed. C'mon, that shit expands the mind.

After a few more years of getting nothing but gigs where I had to fuck the bar owners to play, I started getting frustrated, angry, and scared. Nobody would give me chance. I found myself sleeping in the front seat of my beer soaked van more and more often, until it just became habit. It was just my drum kit and me. The drum key was always with me. When I had the energy and the inspiration, I played in parks or right outside the van. People would stop, toss coins, even say things like, "She's really good... too bad."

Too bad? Too bad what? I ended up okay. I guess I should thank the guy that gave me my trademark.

So, there I am. It's a little after midnight and I'm catching some cramped sleep in the van. Next thing I know, the passenger door swings open and my feet fall out. I dart awake and let my eyes adjust. Nothing's there. I could have sworn I'd locked that door. I leaned forward really slowly and wrapped my tiny yellow fingers around the door handle and yanked it shut with a shrill creak. Then I locked it. I made sure. I lay back down, but couldn't shut my eyes. I thought about moving the van, but I froze. As I lay there staring up at the roof of the vehicle I saw him. I think it was a he anyway. The face just glared at me through my windshield as I struggled to find my keys. His jaw dropped and huge fangs protruded from his fleshy gums. Before I could scream, he was through the windshield and on me.

Part of me hoped he would kill me. The other part of me hoped he would take my change, maybe rape me then go away. I got a little of both. I had no chance. He overpowered me in an instant and had his way with me. He grabbed one of my hands and placed it on his cock and then grabbed my other hand. I got sick. This was no normal guy. Yeah, he came equipped with the package if you know what I mean, but he had the dual package. He was a he/she. Now, I know that medically this stuff happens, but this guy made me help him fuck himself. Now that ain't normal. He also had ridges all over him. I dunno, like a dinosaur or some shit. It was crazy. It scared the piss out of me.

He proceeded to slam my head against my own snare drum about three times, before I blacked out. When I woke up, my head fucking hurt. I mean, it fucking HURT. The pain made me realize that I was still alive. I opened my eyes and immediately shut them when I little pieces of shit got in them. I tried to move my arms to aid my aching head or eyes and that's when the realization set in…I couldn't move. I was completely wrapped in something, no, surrounded by something. I began to think to myself--Calm down, collect yourself, and breathe. I calmed down, I collected myself, and I inhaled I mouthful of dirt, clay, and sand. My panic turned to frustration. My frustration turned to anger. My anger turned into hunger. My hunger turned into determination and I'll be damned if I didn't claw my skinny little ass out of the god forsaken ground.

Well, the scary fucker was right there waiting for me with a couple of his buddies. Some were guys, some were girls, but all were armed to the teeth. He smiled the most hideous, malicious grin I had ever seen. His mouth seemed to actually stretch from ear to ear and he tossed somebody at me. It was Ryan Niedle. He was one of the 2 bassists from my early teen band. His face had been beaten so badly that teeth fell out when he began to talk, "Geneva, get the fuck outta here," he spat some blood and something stirred in me, "Run, girl..." I was on him before I knew what was happening. I drank the life right outta him.

So, that's how I became what I am now. It's also how I got my trademark. My drum kit is made out of flesh and bone. I made it myself by molding skin and bone together like putty. It's a talent. Nobody cares if you're a 110 lb Asian if you have a kick ass drum kit that "looks" like human body parts and you can play like there's no tomorrow. I'm in a pretty cool band now called Satan's Handbag. I would love to make it big, but for now I'll definitely settle for playing music with other musicians who know what the hell they're doing. Besides, I have all the time in the world.

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