lars lasher’s blistering solo atop the twelve foot marshall amplifiers brought the sold out crowd at the yankee stadium to a fever pitch. the deafening roar of the crowd had turned into one constant “hhaaaaaaaa” and for the first time in his life lars had the feeling he had finally made it. his hit single “toker’s fog” had scaled the charts like a starving socialist up the berlin wall and his brief affair with gweneth paltrow had guaranteed his face on the cover of teen beat magazine. “you want more?!” lars screamed into the microphone as the feedback from his flying v curled the toes of animals for miles. lars jumped from the towering amp with a flying round-house kick as he tore a lick off the nine thousand dollar guitar. the pain shot up his spine as he hit the stage sending a shockwave through his 23 year old frame. the doc had told him that anymore amp jumps might result in permanent paralysis. but fuck it, this was rock-n-roll. he grabbed the lighter fluid and sprayed his guitar to the delight of the screaming cheerleaders in the front row… “five minutes lewis, then its lights out” his father said through the locked bedroom door. “okay pop.” lewis climbed back up on his desk with his sister’s tennis racket, “i can’t hear you new york!” "hhaaaaaaaa!"