"Perhaps the only true dignity of man is his capacity to despise himself". Whoa... I think we're getting a little too deep with the quotes. Did you know that rust never sleeps and it's better to burn out than to fade away?

G Mod’s relentless recording schedule included covering other people's songs as well as reviving old demo tapes. He took out his old Neil Young record and demanded that the band perform the classic 1979 rock anthem Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black).

“Record this!” he snapped as he snapped off a piece of beef jerky he had been carrying in his jacket pocket all day.

Like dogs trained through classical conditioning by some dude named Pavlov, the four misfits calling themselves MFUJ picked up their instruments and cranked out a by-the-numbers cover of a beloved song by a legendary songwriter/guitarist using the same robotic recording style that G Mod had used ad nauseum back in the early 80’s when everyone thought nose candy was fun and nobody used protection when they, uh did the horizontal tango. The vocals were thin, the guitars metallic (but in the cold, lifeless sense) and the rhythm section seemed completely off. Of course, perhaps with his mind addled by all those decades of nose candy and unprotected dancing had rotted away G Mod’s sense of what made good music (yes, we know this isn’t accurate medical science here, whatever). He listened to the take, processed it while chewing on the half-finished beef jerky in his hand.

“I think we’re done. The song’s ready for release.”

“It’s terrible…” Tigerman said. “Can I rerecord my part? I can do better than that.”

“No!” replied the manager/producer/jerky enthusiast. “People have come to expect mediocrity from this band, so we give them what they want.”

“You mean we’re not even going to try to get better?”

“What’s the point? You can’t do any better.”

“Well that’s upsetting. I think I’m going to have to tweet about this.”

The tiger creature took out his smart phone and began typing away. Brick placed his guitar back on its rack and walked out of the room without saying a word.

“What’s with him?” asks G Mod as he cracks his knuckles.

“Oh, you know Brick” Slate answered, admiring his own beard. “He’s probably gonna go mope about something or other. You know he’s so ****ing annoying! Why can’t he just accept things as they are instead of constantly acting like a total ***?”

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.”

“Whoa, look at Shadow trying to be all deep.”

“It’s Einstein, you moron,” said the drummer as he exited the studio to try to catch up to Brick.

“Hey! Make sure he doesn’t slit anything with my razor! I don’t want him getting it all dirty with his ***** *** self! Oh Yeah? Well **** you too, Shadow!”

The foulmouthed singer turned to the producer.

“Can you believe that guy?”

“He does have a point. You are one dumb sunova*****.”

“Well, if you say so boss.”

Tigerman shook his head in disapproval.

“You wanna go, furball? Nobody messes with Slate Man! I am the…”

“Shut up, Slate.”

“Ok, boss.”

Meanwhile, in the hallway Shadow stopped Brick in mid pout.

“Are you all right, Brick?”

“Can we not get into this now, Shadow? I’m really not in the mood.”

“It’s just that…”

“I’m not going to hurt myself” Brick mumbled. “You can tell Slate not to worry about his precious little razor. Not that he even uses it, that fat bearded ****!”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Really?” Brick asked as he got a soda from the hallway vending machine. “Did you not hear what we just recorded in there? It’s a joke.”

“Well, I’m not going to say that it was our finest hour or anything but…”

“Why am I still doing this?”

“Brick?”

“MFUJ…it’s become a ****ing joke. We used to have fun doing this. We recorded music that meant something to me. Now…now we’re just going through the motions, and for what? No Money. No recognition. We’re working ourselves to the bone working for that jerk, G Mod, and his new golden boy, Slate. I might as well quit. Yet I can’t. I hate myself, Shadow. I’m not an artist. I don’t know what I am. I’m just a hollowed out husk.”

“Nice to know you still have your sense of humor.”

“You know, that wasn’t good when you said it in that production of Glass Menagerie that you were in a few years ago, and it doesn’t work now. I’m just going to take a quick shower and then go to bed.”

“Whatever makes you happy, Brick.”

The depressed guitarist left the drummer standing there with his half finished orange soda.

Brick locked the wooden door of the bathroom behind him and climbed into the tub/shower combo and slid the plastic divide closed. He switched on the hot water and let the steam saturate the room with cleansing heat. His hair flattened and the aroma of hard water splashed down from the wall. Brick pressed his arms against the tiles and let the water take its course.

“What the hell am I living for?”

After about a minute or so, he began to feel strong surges of activity flowing through his left arm. Brick pulled back. Tiny rivers of electricity pulsed inside the recesses of his forearm. Fear caused him to begin to tremble before eventually he felt the real jolt hit him in the chest, causing him to crumble to the floor. He lay there on the cold, hard porcelain, the burning stream of water crushing him from above. Speechless and hopeless he stared at the ceiling, the steam obscuring the design of the tile, making it impossible to recognize its true self.