Touring. It was either an absolute riot of a time, or a living nightmare, depending on the day. Today was the latter. Digs and instruments strewn about the cramped tour bus, some tossed aside carelessly, created a maze of gear that probably was some sort of workplace safety hazard. Somebody better call HSE.

“Sodding thing,” II mumbled, throwing yet another pillow over his shoulder as he rifled through his bunk, tossing aside an abstract expressionist masterpiece of tangled earbuds. He hated losing things.

Well, anything except his drumsticks – he had spares on spares on spares. But the mask? The stupid, bloody thing he had to wear every single goddamn show? The mask that made his face sweat more than a contestant on The Great British Bake Off? Yeah, that one. Gone. Might as well’ve shoved his mind in a blender and pressed purée.

Did the thing sprout legs and decide to go on holiday to Ibiza while he slept? Wouldn’t surprise him; that thing didn’t exactly remind him of roses. At least the old balaclavas could handle a good ol’ 60°. As he pushed aside a crumpled T-shirt, a sudden noise broke the silence from behind him, making him jump. {{user}}.

“You? I can't catch a break,” II muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.