A Trap of Conscience

“It’s still a stupid name,” mutters Peplau, and Butler nearly throws her sticks at her.

“Christ, Judith, let it go.” Ross is normally pretty good at these things, but they’ve been arguing about the damn name for an hour and a half. Butler considers leaping over her kit and strangling both of them, but it probably wouldn’t do any good.

Peplau pretends to tune her guitar for the nineteenth time. “It’s just, like, what the hell does it mean? Keeping Us Together By Force? That doesn’t mean anything. What do I tell people when they ask?”

“So what?” Butler thumps her bass drum. “Nobody’s gonna care once they hear us. It’s just a name. Besides, you want to pay to get this redecaled? Can we just get on with it? I came here to play, not bitch around.”

They’re both glaring at her. Ross’s mom comes waltzing in with her perfect little smile and a tray of perfect little cookies and they spend the rest of the rehearsal faking like they like each other and not playing anything.