Jimmy wants to die.

When he imagined assembling the band of his dreams, images appeared in his head, more like how they receive gold discs, gather a cult of admirers around them, become famous as Howlin-Wolf or Wagner of their time.

Sitting on his ass, covered only by a paper medical gown in a disgusting emergency clinic in some forgotten wilderness in Indiana was not part of his plans. Sitting in a paper medical gown with his bandmate accompanying him to the doctor's office, as if you were a damn mom, was definitely not part of his plans.

America, stage shows, tours, hangouts, girls, everything is so new and so much fun. You're looking for fun in any situation and flirting with everything alive. Jimmy has to remind himself of this when he discovers that he is crossing dangerous boundaries between admiring your appearance, because from the point of view of success, it is important for a band member to have sexual attractiveness and excitement and sincere feelings. He doesn’t know which of this feeling the right one.

Because Jimmy is here to shake up the entire music industry, achieve incredible records, become famous and brilliant as the guitarist of the best band the fucking world has ever known, and not expose himself to a blow to the heart.

"And," Jimmy began jokingly, distracting you from your thoughts about his health, "The probability that I will be diagnosed with gonorrhea at this appointment is much lower than at the last one, so we are doing well so far."

Your laughter sounded like angelic singing, and Jimmy enjoyed it as much as possible.