Jove knew the rules. He knew the upper limits.
Sorry folks, Jove went–spelunking. Jove dangled from a taut bass string.
The notes from Jove’s guitar zipped like daisy-cutters across the hairy back lawn. The Stratocaster’s strings writhed in his fingers, bluesy syrup, gospel in the throat of the leader of the choir rolling in the hay with God himself. Banks of leviathan amplifiers surrounded the rough-hewn rocker in which Jove crouched. Glasses with lenses a centimeter thick perched on his nose. A dainty French-tickler growing from his lower lip dangled merrily as he sang the lyrics. One leg, clad in hacked dungarees, twitched. While the other leg, a grass-stained sneaker worked the pedal of a phase shifter. With two string-callused fingers, he gently nudged the volume control.
Inside the house Jove’s sister, Large Margaret, worked. Covered in flour dust, she angrily rolled out dumplings. It had been Margaret’s command that exiled the guitars and amplifiers to the screened sle…