“Got something gonna beat the crotch horns.”
“Tough to do, Mick.”
“Fans deserve it.”
“Sure, but won’t people want to see the crotch horns? It was a highlight, man. Place went nuts.”
“Oh, the thing I’m talking about is in addition to all of the bullshit I’ve been doing. Nothing’s getting replaced.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Thumb piano is coming, and all the tom-toms, and the Beast and The Beam: there will be Drums.”
“That’s your moment to shine.”
…
“And Mickey’s Prayer for Peace.”
“Thank you.”
“So what’s the topper? How ya gonna beat strapping train horns to your crotch?”
“Human drum.”
…
“What?”
“I’m going to become a Human Drum.”
“Not that beat-box thing again, man.”
“No, no: advanced poly-fiber drums skins attached at tendril points to my musculature and controlled by my mind.”
“Does this thing actually, like, exist or is this something you talked yourself into seeing? Remember when you had an imaginary roadie named Hot Dog Pete for three years?”
“This is an actual thing. There are Deadheads in DARPA nowadays: I got people.”
“Okay. What is it, though? It’s a suit?”
“Body suit.”
“Tight? Like a wetsuit? You’re gonna run around onstage in a wetsuit?”
“No. It’s bigger.”
“So, it’s loose.”
“It’s attached at certain points and then, in other places, it kinda fluffs up a bit.”
…
“Mickey, do you look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?”
“Not at all.”
“No?”
“A little.”
“Okay.”
“We’re fixing it.”
“Any other problems?”
“When it inflates, if I get pushed over, I can’t get back up.”
“Does Billy push you over?”
“Every single time. Immediately and repeatedly.”
“Yeah.”
…
“I still talk to Hot Dog Pete, sometimes.”
“You gonna make it through the tour, Mick?”
“Even money at best.”
“Best you can hope for at this stage of the game.”
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