Jet Lightning by Mac Huxley


Jet Lightning by Maccabee Huxley

There once lived a man named Jet Lightning. He played air guitar. He was the greatest air guitar player ever...and when I mean ever, I truly mean ever. No one has ever riffed the kind of air chords Jet Lightning riffed....ever! After every performance the crowd would be on their feet chanting, begging, wishing for an encore.

Jet Lightning toured around the world, dazzling crowds of thousands, if not millions, nay, if not billions.

Some say his talent came from his skinny arms. They said his arms were just two elongated wrists. For no one, not even a doctor, not even a scientist, not even Sherlock Holmes himself, could figure out where his wrist started and where it ended.

That kind of wrist length provided the kind of torque needed to riff a guitar into the next galaxy.

Jet Lightning was loving the success, perhaps a little too much. A close friend of his said, "Hey Jet you may want to cool down on the parties, sex and drugs. You need to sleep."

Jet replied, "I'm a mutha-fucking rockstar!" And then proceeded to do lines of cocaine off a line of fake tits.

After a couple years of success, the novelty began to run its course. People were no longer buying tickets to see him perform. He was old news, he didn't transform or practice his craft. He fell into depression, and began to take even harder drugs. Then one day he took too many drugs, and didn't wake up.

The world was saddened by the news of Jet's passing. His songs skyrocketed to the top of the charts for one week. They even had a tribute performance of his greatest riffs on an award show. Children who didn't even listen to any of his music went to school that week and told classmates, "A legend has died."

The following week, a person said "Did you hear about Jet Lightning?" The other person said, "Who?"

The End. 

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