Gretchen was right, Basil was a blithering idiot who couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Ripping off another stretch of duct tape, he could recognize how right she’d been about everything. All the signs were there. Whilst binding a limp Rococo to the folding chair, Basil realized he’d made a terrible decision to let her leave.

Dad was army and a bit of a rolling stone. Dad picked up Mum, a cocktail waitress from Essex, on holiday on the Gold Coast. When they knew I was on the way, Dad did the decent thing and married her. From base to base, we tagged after him until he lost us north of Fort Stewart, Georgia. Rococo was from Essex that was another connection between them.

Lonely nights when Mum was slinging drinks to the Second Brigade, Basil kept himself company playing heavy metal, especially Rococo. My Own Worst Enemy was the soundtrack of his high school years. Every line was a golden thread directly to his soul. Mum said Basil was a daft tosser who wouldn’t go anywhere. She never understood. No one understood Basil like Rococo.

Too Dumb To Stop, the chart topper on Demon Milkshake, was Basil’s anthem. Sure, he bottomed out of college but he was getting by as a limo driver. The fake posh accent helped loads. Rococo joked in Vanity Fair how much yanks dig his put-on public school accent. Looking at his idol unconscious in his storage unit, Basil giggled in anticipation.

He couldn’t wait to tell Rococo’s how his latest masterpiece Why We Can’t Have Nice Things held him together during Basil’s darkest days. There was no way he couldn’t reach out to the one person who always there for him. When he saw the contract to pick up Rococo from the airport Basil knew it was the sign to intercept his coworker and spirit the singer away to discuss the Gretchen situation. Just as soon as Rococo woke up, any minute now.