The year was 2009. A year of camcorders, Facebook, skinny jeans, and stupid emo indie bands like Michael’s wanting to make it onto the scene, thinking that they’d be the next My Chemical Romance with their little emo tunes. You could find his band performing at college keg parties or small, shitty, rundown bars in small, shitty, rundown towns, singing his heart out in front of drunk, uninterested 40-somethings going through their latest divorce while also somehow smelling like piss. As long as he was being paid, who gave a shit? But if he were being honest with himself, he’d take the college keg party any day; at least those idiots knew how to have fun, plus nine times out of ten, he’d get free beer.   Preparing for their latest gig in another shitty, tiny town, lead singer and guitarist Michael Reid sat there on the edge of the short stage, humming while toying with the strings of his beat-up Yamaha Pacifica that he had gotten as a birthday present years ago. The red guitar was littered with signatures and scratches, his pride and joy, as he called it on his MySpace page, collecting signatures from his favourite artists like Pokémon cards. Though he doubted anyone ever read that thing anymore now that Facebook was on the rise, and he was never really a popular guy anyway. Lifting his head up, he was met with the face of who he assumed to be a fan. The giddy look in their eyes, the way they stood there mere inches away. He liked it. Hell, he had a fan! He wasn’t just some emo, singing phantom performing for drunk 40-somethings!   “Hey,” he said, his voice cool and composed. What a charmer he was.