"What the hell went down back there?"

"Man, I don't know."

"Mirror got killed by those goons."

"Like, I'm feeling the least."

"Are we like from out in space?"

"That Scary cat was wigged out, man."

"Hook up the record player."

The cats spun the platters. These grooves were way out. Confusing but solid. It was like bebop rock'n'roll from some unknown foreign culture. No corny razzmatazz. They each had their favorite side. They fought over which side to play next, even after they had whirled the discs about 50 times.

"How are we gonna get these riffs?"

"Work on your chops, man. You'll get it."

"I can't play this stuff!"

"Try, tin ear. Do it for Mirror."

"Why are we doing this?"

"I don't know, man, but like I think its important, somehow."

"I'm hip."

The combo would spin the wax over and over again, playing along on their axes. These cats did some serious woodshedding. They didn't show up on Bleeker Street for weeks and they didn't gig. They just jammed along with those 78 rpm records.

Eventually they stopped spinning the wax and just played their instruments. They had learned the tunes. It didn't sound exactly like the records, but it was close. They were in tune with the melodies and they knew the riffs inside and out. They were digging this jive.

"We need to gig and lay down these grooves for all the cats, man."

"We need a name for this combo."

"The Scariens!"

"You've flipped your wig, Jim. That J. Edgar cat knows about this Scarien jive."

"Man, the heat will show up when we gig."



"Our new name."


"Sneiracs. That's Scariens backwards."


"I'm hip."

"Real flip, daddy-o."

The cats made the scene on Bleeker Street down at the park. Old friends fell in and some new faces made the party. Roaches and empty wine bottles started to pile up. It was a warm September evening. Perfect weather for an outside party. Chick's reefer connection strolled up grinning like the weasel pimp he was.

"Where have you vipers been?"

"We've been woodshedding a while."

"What for?"

"Putting our act together, man."

"We're the Scariens, man!"

"Don't listen to him. He's got it backwards 'cause he's high. We're the Sneiracs."

"The Sneer Ax? What the hell is that?"

"No, man. The Sneiracs."

PJ started pacing around and ranting about saving the world from evil mutant spacemen. Every hipster in the park was laughing, thinking PJ was putting them on. Berets were falling off cats' conks. PJ was going on about evil black magic and spacemen stealing the souls of earth people. Even the pensive and somber cats were busting a gut.

"Hey, PJ! Give me a drag off whatever you been smoking, man!"

"Wake up!" PJ screamed at the winos checking out all the commotion.

"Wake up!"

"Cool it, PJ. Before they come take you away, man."

The Sneiracs pulled out their instruments and ripped through their repertoire. Normally sedate beatniks stared gaping at the cats playing crazy new cosmic sounds. And there was a cool chick sitting in front of the combo with her back turned to them. She had long golden brown hair that looked vaguely familiar, but no one recognized her at first. She had on a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and no shoes. Her body swayed with the music. Everyone else in the park sat motionless acting like Dracula had just made the scene. They seemed to get real nervous every time PJ would scream.


"They have stopped laughing," the cool chick said to Bud.

"Is that you, Mirror?!?!"


"What happened to you?"

"Don't worry, Bud. I'm fine. You need to meet Mr. Scary at the center of the universe."

"Like, what's happening?"

"You must play the songs. All Scariens are musicians but all musicians are not Scariens. You must play the songs," she insisted.

"Baby, you're too surreal."

"Have faith. Touch my hand and try to feel the magic, the energy."

Bud reached over and touched her hand. Indeed, some kind of weird vibe or energy was there. He felt it. He got confused and wondered if he was falling in love with this chick.

"Far out."

Mirror got up and walked away. The Sneiracs were too nonplused to follow.