The Open Mic 

The scene at The Red Fox is a typical Tuesday night where the five musicians and three regulars try to keep Lisa, (the one waitress/bartender) employed. Mike is mid-set, pouring his heart into a delicate ballad about “the rain on a yoga mat” (which is really about Lisa), when the ultimate vibe-killer appears.

Enter Willow Jr.: smelling of Shea Butter, wearing a poncho in July, and carrying a djembe that looks like it was carved from a tree he personally apologized to.

Mike: (Finishing a soulful bridge) “And the decibels of her silence… are the loudest parts of—”

Lisa: (Leaning over the edge of the stage, eyes sparkling in a way Mike hasn’t seen in three months) “Hey, Mike! Sorry to interrupt, but this is Willow. He just got back from a silent meditation. He’s inspired.”

Willow Jr.: (Nods slowly, dreadlocks swaying like heavy ropes) “G’day, mate. Proper vibrations in here. Total cosmic alignment. I can feel the rhythm of the source, yeah?”

Mike: “Uh, thanks, but I’m kind of in the middle of a—”

Lisa: “Oh, come on, Mike! Let him jump in. It’ll be a ‘moment.’ Willow, show him what you told me about expressing your animal instincts into something.”

Willow Jr.: (Locking eyes with Mike, deadly serious) “I’ve been to Africer, mate. Saw the source. Heard the heartbeat of the tribes. I don’t just ‘play’ the drum… I become the drum.”

Mike: (Sighing, looking at the expectant smile on Lisa’s face) “Fine. One song. It’s in 6/8 time, Willow. It’s a country folk song.”

Willow Jr.: “Time is a cage, brother. Let’s break the bars.”

Mike starts the intro to his storytelling fan-favorite, “I Found God.” Before he can even hit the second chord, Willow Jr. begins a rhythmic assault that sounds like a bag of hammers falling down a flight of stairs.

• The Tempo: Mike is playing a steady 70 BPM. Willow Jr. is playing at approximately “Hyper-Speed Polka.”
• The Technique: Willow isn’t just slapping the drum; he’s hitting the side of it with a heavy turquoise ring, creating a metallic clink that pierces through the PA system.
• The “Flirting”: Between chaotic drum fills, Willow keeps winking at Lisa, shouting “Feel that? That’s the Serengeti!” while Mike desperately tries to keep his acoustic guitar from being drowned out by the sheer volume of goat-skin-on-wood.

Steve: (From the back of the bar controlling the soundboard, leaning over to James, (Mike’s best friend and number one fan) “I haven’t heard a train wreck that loud since my tour bus hit a train in ‘84. It’s… avant garde I suppose.”

James: (Wincing, holding his ears) “It’s not experimental, Steve. It’s an auditory hate crime. He is murdering my best friends best song”

Mike finishes the song with a defeated strum. The three people in the bar sit in stunned silence. Willow Jr. stands up, dripping with sweat, and gives Lisa a high-five.

Willow Jr.: (To Mike) “Heck ya. You’re a bit rigid, mate. You gotta let the Africer in. Loosen that ‘soul’ bolt, yeah?”

Lisa: (Beaming) “That was so… organic! Mike, why don’t you guys form a band?”

The Music Shop

James: “See, Mike, your problem isn’t the music. It’s the ‘vibe architecture.’ Lisa likes that Willow Jr. guy because he’s ‘global.’ You’re too… local.”

Mike: “Local? James, I’ve moved around. And he’s not global, he’s a guy from Perth who thinks ‘Africer’ is a country and a personality trait.”

James: (Installing a boutique guitar pickup into Mike’s guitar) “Exactly. You need a gimmick. What if you played the guitar… upside down? Or maybe you wear a GoPro on your head so she can see the ‘artist’s perspective’ while you’re sweating through your set? Chicks dig a POV, Mike.”

Mike: “I’m not wearing a helmet on stage, James.”

James: “Fine. But I’m telling you, the songs aren’t enough. You need to look like you just survived a shipwreck. It’s the ‘marooned’ aesthetic. Very hot right now.”

The shop’s owner, Mr. Henderson—a man who looks like he’s made entirely of sweat and disappointment—shuffles over, clutching a clipboard like a holy relic.

Mr. Henderson: “Listen up, boys. Put down the pliers, James, you’re scratching the finish. I’ve decided to do something for the community. I’m sponsoring a ‘Battle of the Songs’ at The Red Fox next month.”

Mike: (Heart skipping a beat) “A contest? What’s the catch?”

Mr. Henderson: “No catch. The best songwriter gets a round-trip ticket to Nashville. We’re talking face-time with the big-league publishers and the suits at the record labels. Real career stuff.”

Mike: “Nashville… that’s the dream. I’ve got twenty songs ready to go.”

Mr. Henderson: “Well, you better make sure they ‘pop’ in the first three seconds, Mike. My son has been watching those fifteen-second videos online—the ‘Song-Toks’ or whatever. He says ‘verse-chorus-verse’ is dead. He says if you don’t have a ‘hook’ that works for a dancing cat video by bar four, the kids just swipe right past you.”

James: “See! I told you! Upside-down guitar, Mike! It’s the only way to beat the swipe!”

Mike looks at his battered guitar. This is it. The Nashville trip is the “Exit” sign from the sticky floors of The Red Fox. But to win, he has to beat a room full of songwriters—and apparently, he has to do it in the time it takes for a teenager to get bored.

The Lonesome Cowboy

The Red Fox smells like industrial floor cleaner and heartbreak. The “vibe” has shifted from “Cosmic Africer” to “Depressing Tuesday.”

Lisa is leaning against the bar, staring blankly at a half-empty jar of Vegemite that Willow left behind. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged.

Lisa: “They just… they just took him, Mike. Men in black windbreakers. Apparently, his visa expired two months ago. He’s been living in the crawlspace above the walk-in fridge, ‘vibrating’ at a frequency that kept him invisible to the government. Until today.”

Mike: (Trying to look sympathetic while internally celebrating) “That’s… heavy, Lisa. Truly. But hey, look on the bright side—at least the Vegemite is still here.”

Lisa: (Sniffling) “He was a seeker, Mike. You wouldn’t understand. Anyway, if you’re here for the Battle of the Songs, don’t bother. The sign-up sheet was full twenty minutes after Mr. Henderson dropped it off. Even the waiting list is full. Mr. Henderson already took the names and sent it to his marketing team.”

Mike: “I’m not even on the alternate list? My life is a B-side of a B-side.”

Mike rushes to the sheet. The list is a nightmare of local “talent,” but one name at the very top stands out in perfectly calligraphed ink.

1. Billie Drake
2. Luna Starlight (Harp/Spoken Word)
3. The Denim Dads (Classic Rock Cover Band—wait, this is a songwriting contest?) … 
4. The Thunder From Down Under (Tribute to Willow Jr.)

Mike: “Who the hell is Billie Drake? And why is his name underlined?”

James: (Popping up behind him) “I’ve heard rumors, man. They say he’s got a voice like Shania Twain. He doesn’t even use a tuner. He just knows.”

The front door swings open with a theatrical thud. Steve walks in wearing a Kiss vest with no shirt underneath and carrying a stack of 8x10 glossies from 1988.

Steve: “Relax, Kid. You’re staring at that Billie Drake name like he is Axl Rose. You want in? I’ll give you one of my slots.”

Mike: “One of your slots? Steve, you can only enter once.”

Steve: (Grinning) “Industry is about branding, rookie. I signed up as Steven Violet the Open Mic host, The Thunder From Down Under, and a mysterious folk-fusion act called ‘The Lonesome Cowboy.’”

Mike: “Steve… that’s three alter-egos. People are going to notice it’s just you in a different hat.”

Steve: “Since I can’t play three sets at once without holographic technology—which James says is ‘too expensive’—you can have the ‘Lonesome Cowboy’ spot. Just don’t let Billie Drake psych you out. I once out-sang a guy in Detroit who had three lungs. You got this.

Mike: I guess I’m The Lonesome Cowboy now. 

Billie Drake

The Red Fox is unusually crowded for a Tuesday. The air is thick with the scent of cheap frying oil and still the lingering aura of a deported Australian. Mike is handed a gadget from James, clutching a small, duct-taped electronics box.

Steve is slumped behind a mixing board that looks like it was salvaged from a submarine. He is systematically destroying a basket of fries, dipping them into a pool of ketchup that is dangerously close to the faders.

Mike: “Hey Steve, I’ve been working on this new vocal pedal. It adds a slight analog delay and some warmth—kind of like a vintage tape echo. Can we look at the signal chain?”

Steve: (Talking through a mouthful of potato) “Listen, Kid. I’ve done sound for a million bands. I did sound for a hair-metal group in ‘86 that played through literal jet engines. I’ve miked up drums, guitars, sitars, and a guy who played the spoons through a Marshall stack. I don’t need to ‘discuss’ your little toy. Plug it in, don’t clip the red, and don’t tell me how to do my job.”

James: “Wait, is that ketchup on the ‘Master’ slider?”

Steve: “It adds ‘saturation,’ James. Look it up.”

The heavy front door of The Fox swings open. The usual tavern light is replaced by what feels like a professional soft-box glow.

Billie Drake walks in. He doesn’t just enter; he manifests. He’s wearing a tailored jacket that costs more than Mike’s dads car, and he’s surrounded by a group of people who look like they stepped out of a high-end watch commercial. One man is carrying a leather guitar case with white gloves; another woman is following him with a camera.

Lisa: (Dropping a tray of empty glasses, her jaw practically hitting the floor) “Is that… who is that?”

Mike: (Frozen with his vocal pedal) “That’s Billie Drake I assume.”

James: (Squinting, unimpressed) “Look at that guy. Who brings an ‘entourage’ to a bar that still has a ‘It’s 5 o’clock somewhere’ sign? And look at his hair. No one’s hair is that symmetrical without a team of architects.”

Billie Drake glides toward the bar. He ignores the stage entirely, but his presence sucks the oxygen out of the room. Lisa is already leaning over the counter, smoothing her hair and offering him the “premium” napkins.

Billie Drake: (Voice like a cello played in a cathedral) “Is the sound-man… available? I have a specific frequency requirement for my lower mids.”

Steve: (Sucking ketchup off his thumb) “Yeah, yeah. Get in line, Fancy-Pants. The Cowboy here was just telling me about his magic box.”

Billie Drake glances at Mike. It’s a look of pure, polite pity—the way a professional athlete looks at a toddler trying to swing a bat.

James: (Whispering to Mike) “Don’t let him get to you. He probably has a guy specifically hired to think for him. It’s all fake, Mike. Stay ‘Lonesome Cowboy’ strong.”

Mike steps onto the pallet-stage. He catches Lisa’s eye; she’s actually looking at him, waiting to be impressed. He taps his new vocal pedal. The light glows a reassuring blue.

Mike: (Into the mic) “This one is called… ‘Always on Your Mind.’”

He strikes the first chord of his guitar. Instead of a crisp acoustic ring, the PA system suddenly blasts a deep, gravelly voice speaking rapid-fire Russian.

Radio Voice: “Vnimaniye! Vnimaniye! Prognoz pogody dlya Novosibirska…”

James: (From the side of the stage, shouting) “That’s the new high-gain pickup, Mike! It’s so sensitive it’s pulling weather reports from Siberia! Just play over it! It adds ‘texture’!”

Mike pushes through the Russian weather report and starts singing. His new pedal is working—his voice sounds haunting, intimate, and professional. Lisa leans in, her eyes widening. For a second, Mike is winning.

Then Steve reaches for the board.

Steve: “It’s too dry, Kid! It sounds like a podcast! You need the ‘Stadium Glow’!”

Steve slams the reverb fader to the ceiling. Suddenly, Mike’s voice sounds like he’s singing from the bottom of a 500-foot well inside a cathedral made of glass. Every syllable echoes for twelve seconds, overlapping until it’s just a wash of incoherent noise.

Mike: (Mouth away from the mic) “Steve! Turn it down! I can’t hear the notes!”

Steve: (Giving a thumbs up) “I know reverb, Mike! I once recorded a band in a gymnasium at a high school! This is the ‘80s ‘Big Room’ sound! It’s legendary!”

At the bar, Billie Drake’s entourage is in hysterics. One of the beautiful women is literally wiping tears from her eyes as the Russian radio voice argues with Mike’s infinite echoes. Billie, however, isn’t laughing. He’s watching Mike’s hands with the intensity of a hawk while typing into his phone.

Mike finishes the set in a blur of feedback and Siberian temperatures. He walks off the stage, defeated, as Lisa goes back to polishing a glass, the “moment” officially dead.

Billie Drake detaches himself from his group and glides over.

Billie: “Mike, right? Truly… fascinating set. The juxtaposition of the Cyrillic broadcast against the sub-frequencies of the reverb? Bold choice. Very ‘post-modern.’”

Mike: “It wasn’t a choice, Billie. It was a disaster.”

Billie: “Don’t be so modest.” (He pulls out a high-end smartphone and starts typing rapidly) “That bridge you played—was that an Em(add9) moving into an Am(C5)? The way you voiced that… what was the fingering again? I’ve never seen anyone use the harmonics quite like that for the low end.”

Mike: “Oh, uh, thanks. Yeah, it’s just something I messed around with to—”

Billie: (Still typing, eyes on his screen) “Fascinating. Really. ‘Flick of the finger.’ Got it. Well, keep it up, Cowboy. You’re a real ‘original.’”

Billie turns back to his entourage, his phone already tucked away. He’s basically “downloaded” Mike’s best trick before Mike even got a chance to record it.

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. Steve, usually as stagnant as the puddle in the basement, is suddenly scurrying around like a frantic roadie.

Billie Drake takes the stage. He doesn’t have a vocal pedal; he doesn’t have Russian radio interference. He has a pristine, vintage seafoam-green Telecaster that looks like it’s never felt the touch of a sweaty palm.

He starts a bouncy, rhythmic strum—a sun-drenched, “island-vibe” progression that sounds suspiciously like “I’m Yours” had a baby with a sunscreen commercial.

Billie: (Singing with a breezy, effortless lilt) “And the ocean is a blue-sky-window… and my heart is a coconut… yeah, yeah…”

Steve: “Now THIS is songwriting!”

Steve begins flicking the light switches behind the bar manually, creating a strobe effect that makes the dusty Fox look like a low-budget Ibiza. He’s even found a handheld fog machine from 1991 and is blasting it directly into the back of Billie’s head.

Lisa: (Leaning over the bar, chin in her hands, eyes glazed over) “He’s like… a human sunrise.”

Billie finishes his song with a perfectly timed wink. The room erupts. Even the regular who usually sleeps through sets is clapping. Billie glides off stage, handing his Telecaster to a man in a suit as if it’s a discarded tissue.

Lisa grabs Mike’s arm, her voice a frantic whisper.

Lisa: “Mike! Mike, you were talking to him earlier! He seems so… accessible. Can you do me a huge favor? Can you ask him to follow me on the Gram? I want to DM him a video of my latte art… but I don’t want to look desperate.”

Mike: (Feeling his soul shrivel) “You want me to… ask the guy who just stole my chord voicing to follow you? Lisa, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even manage his own phone. He probably has a Vice President of DMs.”

Lisa: “Please? For me? You’re so good at talking to ‘musician types.’”

Mike retreats to the corner where James is trying to dismantle the Russian-weather-radio-pickup with a butter knife.

James: “I saw it, Mike. The betrayal. The phoniness of it all. It was disgusting. But I’ve got a solution.”

Mike: “Unless that solution is a time machine, I don’t want to hear it.”

James: “Better. Don’t ask him to follow her. Instead, we create a fake private profile. We’ll call it… ‘The Anonymous Drake’ or ‘Billie Latte Lover.’ You follow her, you DM her, you tell her she has ‘it.’ You build her confidence, and then, when she’s at her peak—BAM—you reveal it was you the whole time.”

Mike: “James, that is literally ‘Catfishing.’ It’s creepy and it will 100% backfire.”

James: “It’s not catfishing, it’s ‘Digital Romanticism.’ Plus, it’s the only way you’re getting into her inbox without looking desperate. Do it, Mike. Be ‘Always On Her Mind.’”

Bill Lonesome Cowboy Drake

Lisa is propped up against her headboard in her pajamas, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. She’s still humming that “Coconut Heart” song by Billie. Suddenly, her phone buzzes.

New Follower: @BillDrakePersonal_Real

She taps the profile. Her brow furrows.

The Profile Breakdown

• Bio: “Just a guy who loves tunes and the grind. Privacy is everything. Music is life. No DMs unless it’s about coffee.”
• Following: 30
• Followers: 0
• Follow List:
• McDonald’s (Because even rockstars need a McDouble?)
• Jason Mraz (Naturally)
• Barack Obama (Gotta aim high)
• The Toronto Maple Leafs (A sign of true suffering)
• The Newmarket Girls Soccer Team (James clearly forgot to scrub the “random suggestions” list)

Lisa: (To herself) “Bill? He called himself Billie on stage… maybe ‘Bill’ is his ‘I’m-just-a-regular-guy’ name? And he follows the Leafs? He is deep. He understands heartbreak.”

She looks at the zero followers.

Lisa: “It’s so exclusive. He probably denies his followers every hour to maintain his ‘aura.’ And he followed me? Not even Mike?”

She hits ‘Accept’ and ‘Follow Back’ with a trembling thumb. She doesn’t notice that the profile picture, while blurry, looks suspiciously like a photo of Billie Drake taken through the window of The Red Lion.

Meanwhile, at James’s Apartment

Mike is pacing back and forth while James sits at his laptop, glowing like a mad scientist.

Mike: “James, give me the laptop. Why did you follow McDonald’s? Why is his name ‘Bill’?”

James: “Bill is relatable, Mike! It’s ‘Old School.’ And the McDonald’s follow establishes him as a man of the people. It grounds the brand. Look! She just followed back! The fish is on the hook!”

Mike: “We’re going to jail. We’re actually going to social media prison. If she finds out it’s us, I’ll have to move to ‘Africer’ just to escape the shame.”

James: “Relax. Now, we send the first DM. Something subtle. Something ‘Billie.’ I’m thinking… ‘Your latte art has a rhythmic soul. We should vibe.’”

Mike: “If you send the word ‘vibe,’ I am smashing your router. Plus, you shouldn't be doing the talking. This is for me, right?”

7 hours later

The sun is peeking through the grime of James’s apartment window, hitting a stack of empty pizza boxes and Mike’s bloodshot eyes. James is standing in the doorway, putting on his “Guitar Galaxy” name tag and looking far too chipper for a man who just committed digital fraud.

James: “Still at it? You look like you’ve been through a war, Mike. Or a very long prog song.”

Mike: (Rubbing his face) “James… She’s incredible. We didn’t even talk about ‘coconuts’ or ‘vibes.’ We talked about growing up in small towns, and how she wants to open her own cafe, and how she actually hates the smell of the IPA at The Fox. She’s funny. She’s actually funny.”

James: “Great! So tell her it’s you.”

Mike: “I can’t! She thinks I’m a sensitive, wealthy guitar god who follows the Toronto Maple Leafs for the ‘metaphorical suffering.’ If I tell her I’m the guy whose guitar plays Russian weather reports, she’ll block me into the next dimension.”

Mike’s phone buzzes. It’s Lisa.

Lisa: I’ve never talked to anyone like this. It’s weird, I felt like you were just another ‘industry guy,’ but you’re so… grounded. Can I tell the girls at work we’re talking? They’re going to die.

Mike freezes. He looks at James, who is currently trying to find a matching sock.

Mike: “She wants to tell people. If she tells people, the real Billie Drake is going to find out some ‘Bill’ is impersonating him, and I’ll be sued before lunch.”

He starts typing frantically.

Bill (Mike): Wait! Lisa, listen… we have to keep this between us for now. Our ‘us-ness.’ It’s private. It’s sacred.

Lisa: Why? Are you worried about the paparazzi? Lol.

Bill (Mike): Exactly. The paps. And my management. They want me to maintain a certain ‘mystique.’ But honestly? I want to surprise everyone. Let’s keep this our secret until the Battle of the Songs. I want to reveal our connection to my friends and the whole room right there on stage. It’ll be… legendary.

Lisa: Oh my god… like a movie. Okay. Our secret. I won’t even tell Mike. See you at the next open mic?

Mike drops the phone on the coffee table. He feels like he’s just signed a contract with the devil written in emoji.

Mike: “I just promised her a public ‘reveal’ at the contest. I have to win that contest as the Lonesome Cowboy, and then somehow… reveal I’m Bill? Who is actually Billie? Who is actually me?”

James: “Look at it this way: you’ve got two weeks to become so famous that she doesn’t care you lied. Now, get some sleep. You’ve got a ‘Lonesome Cowboy’ rehearsal at noon, and Steve says he found a bale of hay for the stage.”

Intellectual Property

The Red Fox is buzzing. There’s a new poster on the door: BATTLE OF THE SONGS – 7 DAYS AWAY. The air is unmasked with the scent of uncleaned beer taps and urinals.

Mike and James push through the doors. Mike looks like he’s aged five years in six days. His thumbs are literally trembling from “Bill-ing” until 4:00 AM every night.

James: “Stay cool, Mike. You’re the Puppet Master. The Digital Don. You’ve been in her head all week! You’re basically her boyfriend, except for the part where she thinks you’re a guy who owns a seafoam-green Telecaster and a guy with a lot of resources.”

Mike: “I can’t keep the stories straight, James. Last night I told her ‘Bill’ was allergic to tacos. If she sees him eating a taco, the whole empire crumbles!”

James: “Then don’t let him order the tacos. It’s a small price to pay for love. Look, there she is. Go do the ‘wingman’ check.”

Mike shuffles up to the bar. Lisa sees him and her face lights up with a secret, glowing energy that Mike knows—with a sinking heart—is entirely for “Bill.”

Mike: “Hey, Lisa. You look… rested. Listen, I talked to Billie Drake after his set last week, like you asked. Did he ever end up adding you on the Gram?”

Lisa: (Biting her lip to hide a smile, leaning in close) “Oh… he did more than add me, Mike. He followed me from his private account. ‘Bill.’ It’s very exclusive. He’s… he’s not at all who I thought he was. He’s so sensitive. He told me he feels ‘trapped in a cage of his small town.’”

Mike: (Internally: I said that? That’s so cheesy.) “Wow. Trapped, huh? Sounds… expensive. So, you guys are hitting it off?”

Lisa: “He’s incredible. But he asked me to keep it a secret. He’s worried about his ‘image.’ So don’t tell anyone, okay? Especially not Steve. He’d try to sell the story to Hit Parader.”

Right on cue, the front door swings open. Billie Drake enters, looking like photo suite filters in real life. He sees Lisa and glides over, flashing a smile that could solve an energy crisis.

Billie: “Lisa, darling. A pleasure to see you again. I was thinking about that… uh… ‘latte’ you made me at the end of the night last week. Truly inspired work.”

Lisa: (Cold as a Saskatoon winter) “It’s just coffee, Billie. And please, call me ‘Lisa.’ We aren’t on a first-name-darling basis.”

Billie: (Blinks, confused) “Oh. Right. Well, I noticed you didn’t follow me back. My assistant said the request to follow you is still ‘pending.’ Perhaps the algorithm is… unkind?”

Lisa: (Giving him a look of pure pity) “I’m sure your ‘assistant’ can handle the rejection, Billie. I’m just not really into ‘public’ personas right now. I prefer something a bit more… private.”

She gives Mike a secret, knowing wink. Billie Drake looks like someone just told him ‘Colgate White Strips’ have been discontinued.

Billie: (Turning to Mike) “Is she… alright? Did I misread the ‘vibe’ last week?”

Mike: (Swallowing hard) “Oh, you know how it is, Billie. Girls. It’s a mess. A gilded, coconut-scented vibey mess.”

Billie: (Narrowing his eyes) “You can smell my coconut-scented hair wax?”

The Red Fox falls into a hush as Billie Drake takes the stage. He looks particularly smug tonight, his seafoam-green Telecaster gleaming under Steve’s aggressive strobe lights.

Billie: “Thanks, everyone. Before I play, I want to share something special. I spent the last week in a high-stakes session with my legal team and some top-tier producers. We just cleared the IP on this progression today—formally registered with the Copyright Office. It’s a fresh sound. It’s… the future of Billie Drake.”

Starts strumming.

James: (Grabbing Mike’s arm so hard he leaves bruises) “Mike… those are your chords. That’s the ‘harmonic trick’. He’s playing with your soul and he’s got a certificate to prove it!”

Mike: (Numb) “He copyrighted a feeling, James. How do you go after a guy who has a ‘Legal Department’ for feelings?”

Billie strikes the chords. Without the Russian weather radio and Steve’s “Cathedral of Doom” reverb, the progression is breathtaking. It’s catchy, sophisticated, and sounds like a million dollars—literally.

Lisa: (Leaning over the bar, eyes misty) “Oh my god. Mike, do you hear that? It’s like… I’ve heard it in a dream, but better. Something about those specific notes… it speaks to me on a level I can’t explain.”

Mike: “I… yeah. It’s familiar.”

Lisa: “It’s more than familiar. It’s pure. Billie is so deep. To come up with something that complex but also so simple and just ‘register’ it? That’s a real artist. A true business man.”

Mike’s phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a DM to Bill.

Lisa: Bill! This song is making me feel things. It’s making me think of our talk last night.

Mike looks at the stage, then at his phone, then at Lisa’s adoring face. He is being cuckolded by his own musical genius, filtered through the man he is currently impersonating.

James: “We have to escalate, Mike. Seven days until the Battle. If he’s registering your chords, you need to register a vibe. We need to go to the music store tomorrow. I’ve got an old pedalboard that can make your guitar sound like a crying whale. He can’t copyright a whale, Mike. It’s a force of nature!”

Steve: (Walking by with a plate of wings) “Kid, you see that? That’s how you write a hit. You make it legal. Now, get ready. You’re up next, but honestly? It’s like following a hurricane with a leaf blower.”

The Picture

The back room of Guitar Galaxy is where gear goes to die. It smells of dust, ozone, and failed experimental jazz. James is digging through a crate of cables that look like a nest of black snakes.

James: “Aha! Found it. Mike, behold: The Glitch-O-Matic 3000. It’s a prototype pedal from a Japanese company that went bankrupt in the 90s because the pedal ‘had too much personality.’ If Billie tries to steal your chords again, this thing will eat his signal and spit out white noise.”

Mike: (Holding the rusted metal box) “James, I don’t want to ‘eat his signal.’ I just want to be me. But I don’t even know who ‘me’ is anymore. Am I Mike? Am I the Cowboy? Am I Bill?”

Buzz-buzz.

Mike pulls out his phone. A notification from Lisa.

Lisa: I’m feeling so brave right now because of what you said about ‘inner beauty.’ I want you to see the real me. No filters. No bar uniform. Just… me.

[Attachment: 1 Image - Tap to View]

The thumbnail is a blur of skin tones. Mike’s heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped bird.

James: (Peeking over his shoulder) “Whoa! Is that a ‘full-frontal’ disclosure? Open it, Mike! This is the ‘Inner Beauty’ payoff! We’re in the endgame now!”

Mike: (Slamming the phone face-down on a stack of amplifiers) “No! No, James! I can’t. I’m not Bill. If I look at that, I’m not just a liar—I’m a creep. She thinks she’s sending that to a soulmate in a ten-thousand dollar jacket. She’s actually sending it to a guy who’s currently hiding behind a crate of used bongo drums.”

James: “It’s just a photo, Mike! It’s digital data!”

Mike: “It’s her, James! And she’s being vulnerable to a liar.”

Mike leans his head against a stack of Tama Rockstars.

Mike: “I have to end it. I have to kill Bill. But if I just delete the account, she’ll think he ghosted her. She’ll be devastated. And if I tell her the truth… I lose her, I lose the Fox, and I probably lose my guitar-string discount at this store.”

James: “You can’t kill Bill yet! The Battle of the Songs is in six days. You need her to think everything is normal. Just… keep the phone face down. Be a gentleman. A lying, deceptive, identity stealing gentleman.”

Mike: “How did I let this happen?”

Kill Bill Vol. 3

Mike is sitting in his bedroom, surrounded by crumpled-up lyric sheets and the blue light of his phone. He’s holding his guitar, but he’s playing it so softly it sounds like a secret.

He looks at the “Tap to View” image from Lisa one last time. He doesn’t tap it. He just stares at the blurred thumbnail with a mix of reverence and crushing guilt. He starts typing.

Bill (Mike): Lisa… I saw the photo. You are… breathtaking. Truly. Seeing the ‘real you’ made me realize something. I’ve been living too much in the noise. The fame, the industry, the seafoam-green expectations… it’s all too much.

Lisa: Oh Bill… I was so nervous. I’m glad you liked it. What are you saying?

Bill (Mike): I need to go where the signal can’t find me. I’m entering a camp out in the high wilderness. No phones. No DMs. Just me and the mountain. I’ll be back next Tuesday—the night of the Battle. I’ll see you then. Keep our secret safe. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

Lisa: Camping in nature? That’s so brave. I’ll be counting the minutes. I’ll be at the front of the stage waiting for our ‘reveal.’ Go find your peace, Bill. I’ll be here.

Mike hits “Power Off” on the phone and slides it into a sock drawer. He feels like he just buried a friend.

He picks up his guitar and strikes a dark, brooding chord—something with a lot of tension, maybe a Dm(maj7).

Mike: (Singing softly)

“You sent a picture,

A blur of scripture…

But I’m a ghost,

I am the host.’

I’m sharpening the blade to end the lie,

Watching the digital hero die…

This is Kill Bill, Volume Three.”

James: (Poking his head in the room, holding a bag of Ketchup Chips) “Is that a new one? It’s a bit dark, Mike. Where’s the coconut? Where’s the ‘coconut heart’?”

Mike: “The coconut is dead, James. I’m the Lonesome Cowboy now. I have six days to win that contest and find a way to tell the girl I love that I’ve been gaslighting her from my sock drawer.”

Battle Of The Songs

Next Tuesday arrives. The bar is transformed. Steve has gone “all out” for the Battle of the Songs. There are hay bales on stage for the “Cowboy” vibe, but he’s also hung a disco ball for Billie Drake.

Steve: “Listen up, losers! The Battle starts in one hour! I am up 2nd and 4th, so don’t expect to win this thing. Mr. Henderson from Guitar Galaxy is here with the judges. The prize is a one-way ticket to Nashville and a meeting with people who actually matter! First up in the bracket: The Lonesome Cowboy!

Mike: (Adjusting his fake mustache and duster coat) “Where’s Lisa?”

James: “She’s at the bar. She’s wearing a new dress and she keeps checking her phone… You look like a depressed sheriff, Mike. Go get ‘em.”

The atmosphere at The Red Fox is electric, though that might just be the frayed wiring on Steve’s disco ball. The room is packed, but for Mike—hidden behind the oversized brim of his “Lonesome Cowboy” hat and a mustache that keeps itching—there is only one person in the crowd: Lisa.

She’s standing behind the bar, wearing a dress Mike hasn’t seen before, clutching her phone and looking toward the door every thirty seconds, waiting for a “Bill”.

Mr. Henderson: “Alright, settle down! First up is… uh… The Lonesome Cowboy. He’s got a hat, he’s got a duster, and he’s got a lot of feelings. Don’t throw anything at him until he’s done!”

Mike steps onto the pallet. He looks at Lisa. She looks right through the Cowboy, her eyes scanning the room for a superstar.

Mike taps the Glitch-O-Matic 3000. Instead of an upbeat feel, the guitar emits a haunting, weeping sound. He launches into the minor-key tension of the song. The room goes dead silent. Even the Denim Dads stop talking about their new gear.

The judges—three guys in suits who look like they haven’t smiled since the ‘90s—actually lean forward.

Mike: (Singing from the gut) “I’m sharpening the blade to end the lie… watching the digital hero die…”

As the final chord fades, the room erupts. It’s the best thing anyone has heard from Mike before. Billie Drake, standing in the wings, looks physically ill. He realizes he can’t copyright a “soul-shattering confession.”

Instead of stepping off, Mike signals Steve to keep the lights down. He looks directly at Lisa.

Mike: “This next one… this one is for the girl at the bar. And it’s not from the Cowboy. It’s from the guy behind the mask.”

He starts into a spoken word piece. No more metaphors. No more “Bill.” Just the truth.

Mike:

“I followed the Leafs so you’d follow me back,

I watched your life through a digital crack.

I’m not in the mountains, I’m not in the high,

I’m the guy in the sock drawer, telling a lie.

I’m Bill, I’m the Cowboy, I’m Mike—take your pick,

I’m a heart-broken loser with an identity trick!”

The crowd is in a frenzy. The judges are scribbling “10/10” and “GENIUS” on their clipboards. They think it’s a brilliant conceptual piece about the modern era.

Lisa, however, is not cheering.

The realization hits her face like a physical wave. The “Bill” who understood her soul—the guy she sent that photo to—isn’t a sensitive rich kid. He’s the guy who’s been tipping her twenty-five percent and playing Russian weather reports for three years.

Lisa: “You… you creep!”

Her hand reaches for the half empty bottle of Vegemite on the bar. In one fluid, athletic motion—the kind of aim she developed from years of dealing with rowdy drunks—she hurls it.

Mike: (Mid-bow) “Lisa, I didn’t look at the picture. I can explain—”

CRACK.

The bottle connects perfectly with the “Lonesome Cowboy” hat, sending the fake mustache flying into the front row. Mike’s knees buckle. The stage (the pallet) creaks as he collapses onto the rug that smells like 1974.

Mr. Henderson: (Leaning over Mike’s unconscious body) “Well, Kid… good news and bad news. The good news? You’re probably going to Nashville! The bad news? Lisa just called the cops and James is currently trying to eat your phone.”

The Final Score

Mike is slumped in the back of the police cruiser, his “Lonesome Cowboy” duster bunched up around his neck like a heavy blanket. Outside, the muffled roar of The Red Fox is still audible, but it doesn’t sound like cheering anymore. It sounds like a coronation.

The officer in the front seat, a guy named Murph who Mike knows from the music store, turns up the volume on his handheld radio. He’s patched into the bar’s internal feed.

Mr. Henderson’s Voice (through static): “Alright, settle down! The judges have calculated the scores through the chaos! It was the closest battle in Fox history. Mike—aka The Cowboy—pulled an incredible 29 points, even with the ‘assault and battery’ deduction!”

Mike: (Muttering to the plexiglass) “Come on, God… tell me I won. Tell me the pain was worth it.”

Mr. Henderson’s Voice: “But with a perfect score of 30… the winner of the Nashville trip, the copyright king himself… BILLIE DRAKE!”

The bar erupts. Mike can hear Billie’s seafoam-green Telecaster let out a celebratory squeal of feedback.

Murph (The Cop): “Ouch. One point, Mike. That’s gotta sting more than the stitches you’re gonna need.”

Through the back window of the cruiser, Mike sees the back door of the bar swing open. Lisa is standing there, breathing hard, holding Mike’s phone in one hand and a bag of ice in the other.

She sees Mike in the back of the car. For a second, their eyes lock. She doesn’t look angry anymore—she looks exhausted. She walks over to the car, and Murph rolls down the window just enough for her to speak.

Lisa: “Billie just told me he wants me to go to Nashville with him as his ‘Creative Consultant.’ He says he wants to ‘explore the synergy’ of my latte art and his brand.”

Mike: “Lisa, I—”

Lisa: “Don’t, Mike. You lied about the Leafs. You lied about the ‘High Wilderness.’ But honestly? Your ‘Kill Bill Volume 3’ song? It was better than his. You won the room, Mike. He just won the ticket.”

She drops the phone into Mike’s lap through the gap in the window and passes him the pack of ice.

Lisa: “By the way, I deleted that photo. And I blocked ‘Bill.’ But I didn’t block Mike… yet. Get a lawyer, Cowboy. And maybe a new hobby.”

As the cruiser pulls out of the gravel lot, Mike looks back. He sees James running after the car, waving a Nashville travel brochure he found in a dumpster.

James: (Faintly, in the distance) “Don’t worry, Mike! I’ve got a plan! We’ll busk our way to Tennessee! We’ll start a podcast! It’s not over!”

Mike leans his head back against the cold plastic seat. He’s got no Nashville ticket, no seafoam-green guitar, and a looming court date for “impersonating a future celebrity for romantic gain.” But as the car hits the main road, a melody starts humming in his head.

It’s not catchy. It’s not a 15-second hook. It’s a slow, rhythmic beat that sounds exactly like a police siren in the key of G-minor.

 

Almost Two Weeks Later

The air in Mike’s apartment is thick with the scent of stale coffee and the repetitive, melancholic strumming of his acoustic guitar. He’s deep in the weeds of “Welcome Back,” a track that feels more like an excavation of his own psyche than a song.

The sudden, sharp buzz of the doorbell cuts through the music like a blade.

Mike opens the door to find a courier handing over a certified envelope. No small talk, just a signature and a retreating set of footsteps. He rips it open.

The document is formal, but the message is simple: Lisa and Billie have officially dropped the identity fraud charges. The weight that has been crushing Mike’s chest for two weeks doesn’t disappear instantly, but it shifts. It’s no longer a lead vest; it’s just a heavy backpack. He stares at their names on the paper—the people he hurt, offering a silent, legal olive branch.

Before he can process the legal relief, his phone vibrates. It’s Steve.

Steve: “Tell me you’re sitting down. One of the judges from the last showcase? They didn’t just like you, Mike. They reached out. There’s a talent scout from a major indie label hitting the Open Mic tomorrow night, and the judge personally asked for you to take a prime slot.”

Mike: “Tomorrow? Steve, I… I can’t. I haven’t even been to the grocery store in ten days.”

Steve: “Listen to me. The world thinks you’re a fraud, but this guy wants to hear the music. This is the pivot. You show up, you play and you let the songs speak for the mess. If you stay in that apartment, the mess is all that’s left.”

Mike looks at the guitar resting against the couch and then at the deadbolt on his front door. The “incident”—the shouting, the cameras, the look of betrayal on Lisa’s face—plays on a loop in his head.

• The Fear: Outside that door, he is a headline. A cautionary tale of a guy who stole a life to talk to a girl.
• The Hope: Inside that envelope is a second chance he doesn’t feel he deserves, but desperately needs.

Mike: (Voice cracking) “What if they boo me off the stage before I even hit the first chord?”

Steve: “Then at least you’ll be standing on a stage when it happens. Pick up the guitar, Mike. See you tomorrow.”

The room goes silent again. Mike picks up his pen and looks at the lyrics for “Welcome Back.” He crosses out a line and writes: “The fame we’ve been faking, those rules we’ve been breaking.”

He has 24 hours to decide if he’s going to be a hermit with a clean record or a musician with a scarred one.

The Guitar Galaxy

The transition from the hermit-hole of his apartment to the neon and chrome of the music store feels like stepping onto another planet. Mike is rocking the “incognito artist” look: a low-slung ball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a hoodie pulled tight, despite the mild weather.

He slips through the front door of the shop, the familiar scent of lemon oil and vacuum tubes hitting him like a shot of adrenaline.

James is behind the counter, mid-riff on a vintage precision bass, when he spots the suspicious character lurking near the drum kits. He grins, recognizing the slouch immediately.

James: “Man, you look like a bank robber who lost his way to the vault. Get over here.”

He reaches under the counter and pulls out a hardshell case. With a click of the latches, he reveals a pristine vintage Martin guitar. The wood glows under the shop lights—a professional’s tool, understated and powerful.

James: “I’ve been holding this for you. It’s got that dry, woody punch. Perfect for that ‘I’ve seen some things’ sound you’re going after. And listen, I’ve been thinking… we take this guitar, we hit the I-75, and we don’t stop until we see the Batman building in Nashville. We get you a writers’ round at The Bluebird, we film the whole thing, and we send the clips to Lisa. She sees the hustle, she sees the heart, and she realizes the fraud was just a preamble to the real thing.”

Mike runs a finger along the mahogany back of the Martin, but he doesn’t pick it up yet. He looks at James, his eyes visible for a second over the rims of his shades.

Mike: “James… I can’t. The Nashville dream, the grand gesture to win her back? That’s the old Mike. That’s the guy who tried to shortcut his way into a life he hadn’t earned. I’m not chasing her anymore. I have to move on, for her sake and mine. If I go to Nashville, it has to be because the songs are ready, not because I’m trying to buy back my reputation.”

The shop goes quiet for a beat. James looks disappointed, but he nods, respecting the weight of the realization.

Mike finally lifts the guitar out of the case. It feels balanced, honest.

Mike: “I’m playing the Open Mic tomorrow. Steve says there’s a talent scout coming. It’s the first time I’ve been on a stage since… well, since everything. I’m terrified, James. I don’t need a road manager right now—I just need a friend in the front row who knows the truth. Can you be there?”

James: (Slapping the counter) “Try and stop me. I’ll bring the heckler-repellent and a fresh set of strings. You bring the tunes. Deal?”

Mike: “Deal.”

Mike picks up the new case, feels the weight of the Martin in his hand, and heads back toward the door. As he steps out, he adjusts his cap.

The Red Fox

The atmosphere at the Red Fox is different tonight. The air isn’t charged with the frantic energy of a stunt; it’s heavy with the quiet, terrifying reality of a man standing in his own skin.

Mike walks through the door carrying the guitar case. No Stetson, no rhinestones, no “Lonesome Cowboy” persona. He’s just wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s wearing a costume, which makes him feel completely exposed.

He heads toward the bar to check in, and his heart nearly stops. Lisa is there, setting up a tray of drinks.

Mike: (Stunned) “Lisa? I thought… I thought you were halfway to Tennessee by now. With Billie.”

Lisa looks up. Her expression is a complex map of tired and relief. She sets the tray down and leans against the brass rail.

Lisa: “Turns out Billie’s ‘vision’ for my career involved a lot of ‘cross-promotion’ with three other girls he had stashed in a hotel in Mississauga. He wasn’t looking for a partner, Mike. He was looking for a fleet. I walked away before we even hit the border.”

Mike: “I’m sorry, Lisa. Truly.”

Lisa: “Don’t be. It opened my eyes. And for what it’s worth… I’m the one who talked him into dropping the identity charges. I told him if he went after you, I’d make sure those other girls found out exactly what his ‘contracts’ really looked like. He folded pretty fast.”

Mike is speechless. The person he hurt the most just became his silent protector. He goes to reach for her hand, but a voice cuts through the tension like a bright, tuned E-string.

“Um… excuse me? Are you Mike?”

Mike turns to see a girl standing there, looking like she’s trying to disappear into the collar of her denim jacket. She’s undeniably beautiful, but there’s no swagger in her posture. She’s clutching the neck of an old gig bag like a security blanket.

She looks at Mike with a kind of quiet awe, her eyes bright but darting nervously toward the stage.

Ronda: “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just… I saw you play at the Battle of the Songs. When you played, it was the first time I felt like someone was actually telling the truth up there. It gave me the courage to finally sign up tonight. I’ve never played my own songs in public before.”

Mike: (Softening) “Really? That’s… that’s a big step, It’s a lot easier than I make it look, and you picked a good night to start. What’s your name?.”

Ronda: “I’m terrified,” she admits with a small, shy smile that lights up her face. “I mean, I am Ronda. Rhonda Reinhardt. I figure if you can come back here after everything you’ve been through, I could at least stand up there for three songs. I’m playing right after you. I… I hope you’ll stay and listen?”

Mike: “I wouldn’t miss it. Just breathe through the first verse. You’ll be fine.”

Ronda gives a tiny, grateful nod and wanders off toward a quiet corner to tune her guitar, her movements careful and unassuming.

Mike turns back to the bar. Lisa is busy organizing the citrus tray. She isn’t throwing looks or making comments; she’s actually being perfectly professional. But she’s working a little too fast. The “clink” of the glassware is just a decibel too loud, and she’s avoided making eye contact with Mike since Ronda mentioned she was “inspired” by him.

Mike: “She seems nice. Just starting out.”

Lisa: (Without looking up) “She seems lovely, Mike. Very lovely, I’m sure. And clearly, she has excellent taste in music.”

Mike: Was that a compliment? Wow Lisa. In the three years I have been playing here I have never heard you say anything so… complimentary.

She wipes a spot on the counter that’s already dry, her movements sharp and efficient.

Lisa: “You should probably go check your tuning. Steve’s looking for you, and that scout from the label just ordered a double espresso. He looks like he’s in a hurry to be impressed.”

The tension is a thin wire stretched between them—Lisa’s protective wall is up, fueled by the realization that while she was saving Mike from serious charges, the rest of the world was busy falling in love with his “truth.”