There is some discordant feedback emanating from the general direction of Dogtown. It turns out that big concrete structure where most of Grooveyard was living was not in fact concrete, but actually fondant. And the recent, err, Candyland detonation seems to have taken it out as well.

The gaggle of unicorns that's turned up randomly seem to like the taste of the rubble, though, so that's probably well sorted. And the band's back out of cryogenic storage again (all except the drummer who, it seems, was made entirely of candyfloss) although the instruments are a bit sticky. Oh, and the granite pedastals to bedrock for the monitors are still solid as anything. Guess that's where we'll rebuild.

We'll start with a small strawbale structure that will eventually be the control room for the new studio. But in the meanwhile, it'll house the band while they work out what they're doing next, figure out a genre. The autumn sun's rays filter softly through the ruin.

Ah, here it is. The trusty old sign. We prop it out front. Grooveyard's in the market for another drummer.

I put down the paper after reading about Unicorn problem, the sheer number of rainbows has been slowing down traffic. Even if his last plot didn't really work out, I can't shake the feeling that Aeshma is up to something.

"Hans," I say to my lab assistant, "I know what we're going to do today."

"What's that boss?"

"I have a plan to keep Aeshma under control. We'll recruit a secret agent, perhaps an Ocelot, give him an awesome secret agent hat and call him "Agent O". We give him some high tech equipment and have him hound Aeshma's every move."

"Uh..." Hans looks up at the ceiling briefly. "Are you sure that's an original idea?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

"Just me."

"Just you? What happened to everyone?"

"They all moved away."

"Everyone? But this is Sang Sacré! Why would anyone want to leave?"

"You know how it is. Real world issues. Family commitments. The economy. The housing bubble hit Sang Sacré pretty hard. One by one, they all left."

"And now it's just you?"

"Just me."

Sniff sniff. I came in here a few weeks ago, but I just couldn't think of anything, I'm sorry.

I come here from time to time, but I never comprehend.

Laga, did you ever go back and read the thread from the very start, preferably in one sitting? It's, well, I think it is Buffista Island, if it could actually inhabit the Buffyverse, with some other fantasy-verses bleeding through now and then.

ETA: There is even more backstory to it than I realized. I think I only read "origin" thread as linked in the header, then went to the start of this thread, but there is a zip file of previous threads. And re-reading the origin, is making me weep because we are still living scattered across the globe rather than close and snug together as we should be.

There's a challenge. I now intend to go back to the beginning and also read other threads. When I next have a day when I need to lie down for ten hours!

There is a sort of rumbling sound with intermittent gunfire coming down the road. Oh, no, not gunfire, it's just the tour bus backfiring. Grooveyard is home!

As the various band members fall out of the bus and stumble in sundry directions, (and isn't that a different drummer than the one they left with?) a quick inquiry reveals that someone (some *unspecified* one) thought that if modifying the diesel engine to use biofuel was good, modifying it to use octarine was better. And it turns out that making a tour bus run on magical particles surprisingly has the effect of making it, well, unstable through time. Thus extending the tour run rather further than expected.

On the plus side, there are some really nice vintage wines that are going to be available at Milo's shortly. And there are a few muttered apologies; apparently the shoulder pads trend in the eighties is the fault of someone on the bus. Details do not seem to be forthcoming, something to do with Taylor Kitsch wearing nothing but hockey pads.

Anyway, the band is back! And it seems that since the population is low upon their return, the only possible thing to do is to play. Play, and see if they come.

So the band will take a little time to get clean, in more ways than one, and then there will be a concert under the stars. A come home concert.

different drummer than the one they left with

Was there a bizarre gardening accident?

Oh, Grooveyard's back! That's what I hear. Nice to wake up to. I feel like I've slept for more than a winter. Now where's the cat got to?

"Sitt."

Reluctantly I remove the ice pack from my forehead. "Yes, Achmed?"

Achmed the Clever, my faithful houseboy, is standing at the foot of the recliner I've been occupying for I don't know how long. He has a mug in his hand and is frowning. Slowly he tips the mug over to show me the interior. At the bottom of the mug is a dried reddish-brown stain. "He said he would put them in the sink to soak when he was done, sitt. He is not doing that."

I plop the ice pack back on my face. "I'm sorry, Achmed. Has he stopped leaving them under the couch?"

"Yes, sitt, he is at least doing that. Though I didn't find this one until I moved the cat."

"Oh, dear."

"It's not the dirty dishes I mind so much, sitt, but his special coffee-blood blend is very difficult to clean once it's had a chance to--"

"Clot is the word you're looking for."

"Yes, sitt."

"I will start rinsing them out myself, Achmed. It's my fault Bob's here, and you didn't agree to look after him."

"Thank you, sitt. Tetta Fatima reminded me you were a reasonable employer."

I yanked the ice pack off. "You brought your Grandma Fatima into this?"

Achmed was getting too good at evil grins. "Merely for advice, sitt."

I hid behind my ice pack again.