(no subject)

The banjo strummer sighed and leaned back. He was getting too old for this playing on gravestones shit. He wished they'd let him sit on the grave, lean his back against the headstone. Maybe then his back wouldn't ache so much that he had to get out a heating pad and microwave it for the regulation two minutes every night. He wouldn't sink into a hot bath like it was his grave. Sometimes he swore he could read the engravings with his ass. One day he'd come in to work a little hung over, hadn't been too observant. Now, no matter how tired he was, he always checked to make sure he wasn't about to park his posterior on a cherub. The damn things were sneaky. Always where you least expected them. He strummed a band, and the calluses on his fingers thrummed with the vibration.


Inspiration: "Jacob's Ladder" by Chumbawamba & "Nobody Likes You" by Zombina and the Skeletons (awesome track, by the way)
Story Potential: Who knows? Not me.
Finished Length: ?
Notes: I have absolutely no idea why this banjo player spends so much time sitting on gravestones. Or why he sounds like a Warren Ellis character.