Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson

returns to the table wearing a potent scowl. “They’ve never heard of him,” she says, spitting on the floor. It figures. The band of athletic longhair dudes start to bang out some thirdhand hard rock. The longer we listen, the clearer it becomes these so-called musicians are committing crimes against art. The sight of them playing these instruments makes as much sense as Neanderthals operating sonar.
    We outwait the band as a matter of principle. After their interminable set, I notice them dragging their equipment through a service entrance into the street. I pretend to use the bathroom so I can get a better view. I watch them carefully arrange the drum kit and bass amps in the back of a van. I rush back inside, grip the side of the table so hard the beer bottles rattle, and let it blurt.
    I say: “There’s a van outside full of instruments.”
    I say: “Stealing them from these assholes will be a favor to society.”
    I say: “We’ve got to hurry.”
    We sketch a quick plan and arrive on the scene just in time. The band is loitering on the sidewalk. Their van is loaded with the instruments. Hank waves his arms and calls out to them, launching into his crazed fan routine. “You guys rock!” he says. He somehow keeps a straight face while asking if they have albums for sale and when they’ve got their next gig. Of course the band has neither, but they talk a good game about future plans. Even the driver climbs out of the front seat to explain that they’ve been thinking about changing their name and rattles off some idiotic options they’ve been considering. Hank asks for their autographs and when nobody has paper, he hoists his shirt and insists they sign his stomach.
    Oh, it’s pathetically easy. Markus, Lena, and I casually sneak around the other side of the van. Markus is prepared to attempt a fast hotwire, but the driver has left the keys on the seat. We
pile inside, lock the side doors, and Markus guns the ignition. The engine turns over with a wheezing gasp. The van rattles and we take off with a shuddering jolt. As we lurch down the street, I see the lead singer running down the sidewalk after us, blond hair cascading behind him, arms and legs pumping furiously. But it hardly matters. There’s nothing but clear road ahead.
    Then the engine stalls. Markus jockeys the key and the van frantically restarts. We look up to find the lead singer has thrown his body against the hood, his fleshy fingers clutching the windshield wipers. His lanky hair conceals his eyes but his contorted lips and crooked teeth form a terrifying grimace. “You’re gonna have to run me over,” he shouts.
    â€œDo it,” Lena screams. Markus hits the gas and the guy spins off the windshield like a giant pinwheel. It’s sort of alarming. The instruments buckle and the rear doors fly open. The bass and several amps tumble into the street with a series of rumbling thumps. In the rearview, Hank is getting pummeled by several band members who look like they’re blending his face into the pavement.
    The engine finally catches the correct gear and the speedometer leaps upward. But two blocks later, we hit a red light. Three sedans and an SUV are stopped ahead of us. Markus leans on the horn, but nobody budges. “This fucking traffic,” he groans. I look behind to see the lead singer shambling down the center of the street. His face is bloody. He’s picked up the bass from the asphalt and wields it like a baseball bat. He flails the air and unleashes a series of inarticulate shrieks.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” I shout. “Run it!”
    â€œIn case you haven’t noticed,” Markus begins, but then looks over his shoulder. As we peel out, the singer swings the bass at the flapping back doors and almost knocks one off its hinges. We sweep around the stopped cars and Markus briefly shuts his eyes as we careen down the wrong side of the