It was as if an invisible hand, born of elation, had lifted the dismal drapery of the world clean off.

No longer did the smiles of passersby appear unsightly and noxious, nor did the busy clamor of the street irritate her with its noise as it so often had.

Instead, wherever Aster seemed to look she saw things in a new light, embellished with a heightened vividness.

Even the dull winter sky hanging above her like a plain of dreariness seemed revitalized by this new emboldened palette, appearing instead like the silvery plumes of heaven.

Aster gazed intently at the roiling clouds while she listened to Sylvia, whose frantic chirps sounded as if she were being serenaded by birdsong.

“This is where they recorded the score to 'Return of the Zorgs!'” she squealed in delight. Beside her was a brass plate on a brick façade embossed with the name “Cherry Lane Studios”.

Further to her right stood Floyd, his face rosier than ever, mashing his finger frantically into a buzzer below the name-plate.

“Jesus, give them a chance to respond,” chided Cecil, crossing his arms anxiously.

He looked periodically back at the street, the exceedingly narrow width of which brought the slowly passing vehicles within arms length of the band.

He was no doubt insecure of appearing any degree the vagrant which Floyd had, and crimsoned every time Floyd would increase the pace of his button mashing.

Marion stood behind them, in completely opposite spirits. He too, like Aster, had been placed in an exceedingly good mood by the incident befalling the shop, and seemed unable to wipe the stupid grin which sat upon his face.

“You gotta lighten up, Cecil. This is the big time!” he joked, patting Cecil on the back.

Cecil frowned darkly.

“You weren't in there. You didn't see what Sylvia and I saw.”

Marion turned towards Sylvia and saw that she could hardly stand still. A radiant sunbeam of a smile was spread across her good-natured face while her peppermint bow bounced back and forth in time with her hops.

“Seems to me like she loved it.”

Cecil's scowl intensified.

“Not like I'd know. There were so many people in that store I couldn't even make it to the register. They were even climbing into the attic for God's sake.”

“Where Aster lives?”

“Yes. It was fucking madness. I mean, they tore the door off!”

Marion nodded along as though he understood the gravity of it, but the stupid grin which enlarged on his face as Cecil said this declared clearly that he did not respect the significance of it.

“It's not all bad though, right? I mean, shouldn't we be happy to have that many fans?”

“There's a difference between fans and lunatics, Marion. Fans do not shear a door off its hinges or steal merchandise. I mean, Christ, one of them took Sylvia's bow!”

Marion turned once again to Sylvia, confirming that the bow which bopped atop her head was indeed crisp and new.

“We might just be a new type of popular, man. You know, like how the girls went crazy for Johnny Vallerie back in the day? They'd always lose it when he'd shake his hips,” he said, demonstrating.

Cecil looked away in disgust.

“I'd rather be appreciated for my work than for my image,” he gave tersely, not looking back.

"You know what I'm confused about, though— who spilled the beans? Johnny and us were the only ones who knew anything about it," Marion said, looking suspiciously around at his bandmates.

Sylvia, overhearing, shot a knowing glance at Aster, who quickly averted her eyes in terror.

If they find out, how am I going to explain where I got the idea to record him?! she thought, panicking.

They hadn't heard the broadcast however, and did not know of Aster's recorded phone call to him or Willie Cooper's recitation of said call which featured heavily in the broadcast.

"The engineers," Aster put meekly, taking this chance to cover. Sylvia joined in.

"Yeah! Whose to say they didn't sell out to the paper for a pretty penny?"

Cecil looked at both of them thoughtfully.

"...That could be it. Johnny himself probably blabbed about it."

“Lucky for us,” Marion laughed, grinning.

Suddenly, a thought came to him.

“Say, if you guys are here, then who is looking after the shop? The crowd was still there when we left.”

“Mareby-Roquefort,” Cecil groaned.

Marion's grin folded into a mischievous smile.

“I don't know what Floyd expects considering Sylvia and I barely survived. The entire shop is going to be in ruins when we get back.”

“You think? Maybe they'll carry him out to the street and give him a good whacking too,” Marion cackled.

Cecil finally looked back at him, confused.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

At last, a crackle of static came forth from the intercom. Floyd nursed his sore finger.

“What is it?!” a deep voice yelled.

“Hello sir, it's Floyd Childress— er, Albion Floyd Childress. I was wondering if you could spare some time to—”

“Go away! Go!” the voice barked, then the intercom went silent.

The group hushed momentarily, before Cecil spoke up.

“What did you expect?” he said, looking at Floyd incredulously. “I was irritated just watching you.”

Floyd frowned and turned in defeat to Aster.

“I'm deeply sorry, Miss Aster. I told you that our chances were slim.”

“We're in Cherryaire, do you know how many other studios there must be?” Marion said in exasperation. “Let's just go find another, we don't have time to waste!”

“No,” replied Floyd resolutely. “He is the one.”

Marion looked at him in disbelief. “Huh? Are you serious? You said you wanted to get a single out immediately.”

“Marion's right. I'm sure there are many—”

Aster stepped up to the intercom, and laid her finger upon the button.

“Miss Aster?” Floyd asked, startled.

Static came forth once again.

“Listen, I will call the police if you do not cease immediately!” the voice yelled angrily.

“Are you really so busy that you can't spare a minute for the best thing to ever happen to your studio?” Aster replied curtly.

“...Excuse me?”

“Do you keep up with the radio? Have you listened to Willie Cooper today?”

“Yes, I know all about your single. I've also seen first hand what you all are and am not comfortable with allowing you in my studio. Good day.”

“Come on man, Floyd is the one who fell from the ceiling!” grumbled Marion.

Aster scowled.

“Kinda ironic you record jokes for a living but never thought to record yourself,” she exclaimed abruptly.

“Miss Aster!” guffawed Floyd, while Sylvia snickered deviously. Marion and Cecil looked on dumbfounded.

The intercom remained silent. Then after a minute, the front door opened.

A solidly built man exited, taller than even Marion, wearing a look of great vexation across his face. His pomaded hair was full and colored with streaks of pepper gray. He wore smartly coordinated dress clothes which hugged tightly against his physique.

“I am doing you the honor of requesting once more— politely— in person: please leave at once.”

Aster approached the gate.

“We can record it in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes, are you kidding?” whined Cecil.

The man did not believe Aster either.

“You destroyed the ballroom in ten minutes.”

He looked with particular disdain upon Floyd as he said this, scrunching up his face in anger. Noticing him, he spoke.

“If there's any advice I can leave you with it's to stay away from that man! Absolute lunatic. I mean, falling from the ceiling like that. It's a wonder nobody was killed!”

Floyd had no rebuttal. He averted his hopeful eyes from the man upon the steps and to the sidewalk, where a pathetic look of shame seemed to diminish his figure into little more than a heartbroken shadow.

Aster grew furious at seeing this and drew up against the gate.

“If you're so afraid to let us inside, then just wait 'til you see what we can do outside your studio.”

The man appeared genuinely alarmed.

Cecil, horror-struck, attempted to move Aster from the gate.

“Aster, what are you—”

“Good luck getting anybody to show up for their session when there's a festival in the way! You ever heard of harsh noise?!” she exclaimed, growing increasingly excited.

Cecil and Marion attempted to retrieve her from the gate while Floyd profusely apologized in a meek, faltering way.

The man looked upon Aster and her wild eyes as she was drawn away, and felt as if he was staring through a fence at a ferocious dog. He could see in those eyes that this would not be the end of it, and that she meant every word she said. Regardless of how confused and worried her bandmates appeared, he knew first hand of their insanity and knew that a festival of God-only-knows-what would bring itself to his doorstep like a plague.

“Fine,” he said sharply. Cecil and Marion, taken aback by this, let go of Aster.

“I'm taking lunch right now— my assistant is in the control room. You have one hour to get whatever you need done. One hour exactly, you hear me? I will not hesitate to call the police.”

Aster's scowl relaxed.

“That's all we need,” she muttered, trying to conceal a small smile.

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you!” clamored Floyd, falling before the gate as the man unlocked it.

“I'm sure he's introduced you,” he said sarcastically, gesturing to Floyd as he led the band up the steps. “I'm Vincent Theodora, the lead engineer here and producer for Cherry Lane.”

Floyd beamed at this mention and rushed ahead of the group like a schoolboy.

“I have indeed told them all about you, sir! No one captures a joke quite like you!”

Vincent did not look at him and continued on with a stern expression.

He approached the green-lacquered wooden doors, stately and embellished with the studio's name upon their glass panes, and held them open for the group.

“Please,” he said courteously as he ushered the group inside, all the while guarding against any outward display of affability.

Aster looked intently upon the studio's placard hanging above the door frame and felt her heart flutter. Even from the doorway it was immediately evident that this studio was of far higher quality than the hole-in-the-wall they had used to record with Vallerie.

As Vincent led them through the entrance they passed by several offices, a break room, and a kitchen.

So this is what a professional studio looks like? she thought, becoming giddy.

“This is Studio A, Studio B, and lastly— Studio C,” Vincent Theodora announced, reaching the end of the hall. Before him stood a simple metal door, made even more unassuming by the nondescript nature of the hallway of which it was tucked within.

He opened the door and Aster's heart leapt.

Before her lay a vast expanse of a room, with a ceiling that couldn't have been any less than thirty feet tall. Within this massive space existed every manner of recording equipment and instrumentation that Aster had ever dreamed of using.

“Now this is what I'm talking about!” Marion yelled, his voice echoing out into the large room, though in a pleasing, musical manner owing to the soundproofing which adorned the walls and ceilings.

“Hell of a studio to record comedy in,” Cecil said offhandedly as he entered which Vincent frowned darkly at.

“We record score films here as well.”

“Yeah, like the Zorgs!” Sylvia exclaimed, delighted to have one more reason to bring up the factoid.

Aster beheld the sight before her like a masterwork— or rather, like the blank canvas a masterwork would be born upon.

For some reason, the room seemed to call out for her to enter. It seemed to wish to tell her that it desired her within, as though its space was as safe as a mother's bosom.

As she stood there, Aster touched upon the glowing, warm sense of electric delight she had held close all morning— the fact that her authorship of Johnny Vallerie's single had at last become known.

She relished the thought that at this very moment the entire artistic and journalistic apparatus of Peppermint Plains and Cherryaire was scrambling to make sense of it, and that they would soon come to know who she was.

Taking a deep breath, she grinned and looked once more upon her blank canvas, ready for vengeance.