One morning Tim walked out of the bunk area of the bus with a blanket wrapped around his midsection. In the kitchen, Lars, Matt, and Branden were drinking coffee. Lars looked up first.

"For the last time," Lars said. "Put clothes on. I'm sick of looking at your nutsack." He leaned down and breathed in the rich scent of his coffee. "I've been looking at your nutsack on tourbuses for fifteen years, dude, and I'm over it."

Matt frowned. "What's wrong?"

Tim gripped the blanket tighter. "I haven't had sex in four months."

Branden raised his eyebrows. "You want me to have Spike introduce you to some nice girls?"

"Does she know any slutty girls?" Lars asked. Matt shot him a dirty look and Lars held up his hands innocently. "Just to look at."

"No, I mean..." Tim sighed. "I mean I didn't catch anything, okay? I shouldn't have some monster STD."

Lars' eyes widened. "Something's wrong with your dick?"

Matt kicked him under the table. "You probably just have a heat rash or a UTI." He stood up. "I have some lotion and antibiotics in my bag."

Tim dropped the blanket. He had six tentacles, three on each side, hanging from the area just below his waist on the front of his body. They were the same color as his flesh, but with lighter-colored suckers all along the underside. The tip of each tentacle was rounded. They hung nearly to the floor, and moved with an eerie wave, as if they were being ruffled by a slight wind.

The three men at the table were silent for a long moment.

"Dude," Lars finally said. "You have tentacles." He leaned forward and squinted. "That's not an STD; that's some fucking X-men shit."

Branden gasped. "Do you have powers?"

Matt rolled his eyes and walked to Tim's side. He touched one of the tentacles lightly, and it twitched.

"Can you control them?"

Tim nodded. He lifted the tentacle Matt was nearest and waved it back and forth. "It's weird," Tim said. "It's like an arm, but not."

"And they just appeared?" Matt asked.

Tim shrugged. "They were there when I woke up."

Lars drained the rest of his coffee and banged his cup on the table. "And again I'm looking at your nutsack. Why does this keep happening?"

"I have tentacles!" Tim shouted, his face turning slightly pink. "You can have nudity issues some other time! Like when I don't have fucking tentacles!"

Matt put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "Calm down. We're off today. I'll call a doctor."

Because of the tentacles, Tim couldn't fit into any of his pants, so Matt lent him a pair of his, since Matt was bigger. Tim folded the pants down at the waist and let his tentacles hang loose, and wandered into the kitchen shirtless to get his own cup of coffee. Branden and Lars were lounging on the couch watching a cooking show on television.

Tim picked up the pot of coffee only to find that it was empty. "Bastards," he muttered, and he began making another pot.

"So I Googled 'tentacles'," Branden said. "I didn't find anything helpful." He lowered his voice. "And also I'm scarred for life."

"You can still perform, can't you?" Lars asked. "You can tuck those things in your pants. It'll be fine."

"Yeah," Tim said as he measured out the coffee grounds. "I'll just be a fucking freak."

"I'm telling you, you can probably fight crime with those things," Branden said. "By the way, Bert's visiting tonight."

"Cool," Lars said. "We can play Halo."

Tim groaned as he filled the coffee pot with water. "I can't stand that guy."

Branden looked over at him. "He's probably said three sentences to you in his entire life."

Tim dumped the water into the coffeepot and turned it on. "Too bad one of those sentences wasn't 'Sorry I threw up on your shoes'." He walked over to the lounge area and sat on the couch in front of Lars and Branden. On the television screen, a woman wearing a silk dress was making a stew. Tim let his tentacles stretch out on the floor beside him. He stroked one experimentally. It was soft, like new skin.

"Seriously, man," Tim continued. "I don't know how you were ever in a band with Bert. He reeks of pot and practically pisses Jack Daniels."

"He's an acquired taste," Branden replied. "And deep down he's a nice guy."

"I told you about the blow job incident?"

Branden nodded.

"The blow job incident?" Lars asked.

"The last time Bert visited," Tim explained. "I walked in on him blowing our bus driver. He has a gorgeous wife at home and he's gonna suck off our fat bus driver?"

Matt walked into the room. "Don't say that about our bus driver. He could hear you and it would hurt his feelings." He sat down on the floor next to Tim.

"You're a nice guy, Matt," Lars said, ruffling his hair. "You're such a nice guy I'm surprised your wife didn't reproduce by implanting her eggs in your abdomen and biting off your head."

"Not like Lars' wife," Tim said. "She reproduced by coming over to my house and getting drunk."

Lars kicked the back of Tim's head.

"Hey!" Tim said. "No abusing the man with tentacles!"

"Speaking of that," Matt said. "I got a doctor to come to the hotel first thing in the morning."

Tim nodded.

"And I'll keep Bert away from you," Branden said.

"It's cool," Tim said. "But yeah, maybe I can get my own room or something."

When they got to the hotel, Tim tucked his tentacles into his pants, and borrowed an oversized shirt from Lars just to be sure no one could see the odd bulges at his waist. They carried their bags into the hotel lobby, where Matt arranged for them to have an extra room so Tim could be by himself. Lars and Matt would share one room, while Branden and Bert would share another.

Tim looked around the crowded lobby and thought, not for the first time, how grateful he was that they didn't seem to attract crazed fans. As they stood at the front desk, the only sign that they were a successful band was a tall man with a sleeve tattoo who nodded at them and yelled, "Sup?" as he passed. Though it was possible he was just drunk.

Matt walked Tim to his room and followed him inside, appraising the area as if he was Tim's bodyguard and was checking for electronic bugs.

"I'm fine," Tim said finally. "Go hang out with the guys."

"You should hang out too," Matt said.

Tim shook his head. "I'm not showing my tentacles to Bert fucking McCracken." He turned to Matt. "I need some alone time anyway. It's cool."

Matt slapped him on the shoulder and pulled him into a half-hug. "Call me if you need anything."

Once Matt was gone, Tim turned on the television to the digital cable's Alternative Uncensored all-music channel, then booted up his laptop. He had a few e-mails about Hellcat Records business that he dealt with promptly. He checked up on some friends onMySpace and Facebook , leaving a few messages. Then he returned some phone calls, and made a surprise call to Greg at Machete, who had a habit of relapsing into prescription drug abuse if he didn't feel like Tim was on his ass about it. Greg sounded okay, but Tim called his girlfriend just to be sure.

He called his mom and his brothers. One of his nephews had a birthday coming up, and Tim had bought him a guitar, but he didn't want his brother to let him open the package until the party. Toward the end of that call, he got a call waiting from Raja of Detroit Public Works, a new band out of San Francisco that Tim wanted to sign. He loved their sound and was looking forward to working with them, but he didn't have the heart to tell them that the actual Detroit Department of Public Works was going to sue Hellcat if they didn't change their name. He decided it could wait, and made an appointment with Raja to record some demos at Tim's home studio in August.

The next call came from Branden, inviting Tim to lunch, but Tim said he wasn't hungry. He alternated between watching mindless television, reading a detective novel Matt had lent him, and fielding a handful of phone calls, all business-related. He dozed off sometime in the late afternoon, and was awakened by a phone call from Lars, telling him to get ready for dinner.

"I'll just get room service," Tim told him.

"Is this about the tentacles?" Lars asked. "Because we're all pretty much over that."

"Thanks," Tim said. "I'm glad you're over the disturbing growth on my body that doesn't affect you at all."

"Suck my dick," Lars replied casually. "Call me if you need anything, okay, man?"

"I will," Tim promised.

Tim ordered a light dinner and tipped the guy who brought it twenty bucks. He ate most of it in front of the television, then switched it back to the music channel and lay down on the bed.

Between Hellcat, Machete, recording, touring, and friends and family, Tim didn't get much alone time. Even when he was at home between projects, there was usually a friend spending the weekend, his nieces and nephews playing in the backyard, or a late-night phone call asking him to bail Rob Aston out of jail.

And Hellcat could have drama like high school sometimes. When there was an issue or argument among a Hellcat band, Tim was usually the first one to get everyone together and give them a speech about unity and brotherhood, including the touching story of his own detox at Matt's house in 1990, until whoever was arguing agreed to apologize just so Tim would stop talking about pissing himself in Matt's bathtub.

But now, when Tim was the one with the problem, his first instinct was to withdraw.

Tim turned off all the lights in the room except the dim bedside lamp, closed the shades, and lay back down on the bed. He slowly removed his shirt and pants. The tentacles were still there, pressed against his body, their suckers warm against the skin on his hips and legs. He flexed them individually, and each one lifted off his skin and stretched out. After a quick glance to double-check that the blinds were closed, he experimented with them a little. He tried to see how high he could lift them, and easily got them parallel to his body, hovering above him like thick, fleshy, marionette strings.

He was even able to stretch them nearly to his head, resting them on his chest and shoulders. The sight of the underside of the tentacles made him gasp. The pale suckers could all move independently, and and when he ran a finger over one it gripped him with a strength he wasn't prepared for. He released himself immediately, but the sensation left his heart racing. He lowered his tentacles back down and watched as each one gracefully rested on his body.

They were disgusting, he would admit that, but they were oddly beautiful too. The skin on the front of them was soft, and the small suckers were so delicate, yet so strong. It reminded him of 1990, of pissing in Matt's bathtub, so drunk he was hallucinating spiders crawling up his arms. Then he pitched forward and vomited blood in his lap, and Matt said, "Okay, now we're going to the hospital." Matt rinsed him off, wrapped him in a blanket, and lifted him up like he weighed nothing, which he probably did.

He remembered at the time feeling old, half-dead, washed-up. In his memory, choking on a hospital bed with a tube down his throat, he was wrinkly, burned, used.

But in reality he was 24. He was a kid. A nurse took out the tube and wiped the vomit off his arms and legs with wet wipes. His skin was soft and smelled like babies. But his hands still shook every time he tried to get Matt's attention. He tried to speak, but could only gag. Finally, through dry, chapped lips, he managed to say, "Matt..."

Matt looked up from his magazine, surprised that Tim was still awake.

"Matt," Tim said. "We're starting a new band. And this time it's forever." And then his stomach cramped, his head ached, and he started crying, broken but confident, delicate and strong.

Tim lifted one of his tentacles and wrapped it around his left wrist, feeling the suckers tug gently at his skull tattoo. It had been almost twenty years since he'd stopped drinking and they'd formed Rancid.

One reviewer had referred to their first single, "Last One to Die", as boastful, bragging that they were the only punk band of their generation to endure. But to Tim it was an ominous song. Eventually all his Hellcat baby bands would either fall apart or move to major labels. And one day Lars or Matt were going to miss too many of their kids' little league games and want to call it quits.

Twenty years ago Tim had almost died. He had, if he was being honest, tried to kill himself. So he made a promise of forever. And he was afraid of what would happen when forever ended. He was scared to death of being alone.

There was a knock on the door. "Just a second!" Tim called out. He put on Matt's pants, making sure to tuck each tentacle down one of the legs. He grabbed a twenty out of his wallet, pushed the room service cart to the door, and opened it.

"Thanks, man," Tim said, handing the guy the twenty.

Tim looked up to see that the person in the doorway wasn't a hotel employee, but was rather a short man with long, ratty black hair, wearing a pair of shorts, and a t-shirt with fist-sized holes in it.

"Bert," Tim said.

Bert tucked the twenty into his pocket, then launched himself across the threshold, pulling Tim into a hug. Thinking immediately of the secret hidden in his pants, Tim fought Bert off him.

Bert pushed the room service cart into the hall and shut the hotel room door behind him. "Tim fucking Armstrong. It is so good to see you." He walked into the room and flopped down on Tim's bed.

"Why aren't you at dinner with the guys?" Tim asked.

"I told them I had wet poo," Bert explained. "But I don't really. I just wanted to visit you."

Tim walked over to the bed and stood beside Bert. "It's cool of you to visit, Bert, but I'm kind of sick, so I don't really feel up to -"

"Where are you sick?" Bert interrupted. "Me and Alison took this reflexology class, so now I know all this shit like how to touch your feet so your headache goes away, and this spot on the inside of your butt that gets rid of joint pain."

Tim sighed. "I am not letting you touch the inside of my butt."

"Of course not," Bert said, rolling up into a sitting position. "You're a classy guy, Tim Armstrong." He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed a joint.

"Don't smoke that in here," Tim said immediately.

Bert frowned, but returned it to the pack without further comment. "Cigs okay?"

"If you give me one."

Bert took two cigarettes out of the pack, lit them, then passed one to Tim. Tim took the empty soda can he'd been using as an ashtray and put it on the bed between them. Tim leaned against the nightstand, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Bert.

"So what do you want?" Tim asked.

Bert smiled at him, his face stretching into a Grinch-like grin. But it collapsed quickly, and suddenly he looked almost shy. "When I was eight," he said. "My friend at school copied his Operation Ivy CD for me, and it changed my life."

"And now I feel old," Tim muttered.

"It completely changed how I viewed music, and religion, and politics," Bert continued. "It made me realize what type of musician I wanted to be."

Tim nodded.

"And I just wanted to officially thank you." Bert lept off the bed and began moving toward Tim.

"You're welcome," Tim said as he put out his cigarette in the soda can. "I'm glad we could be a positive influence on you when -"

He was interrupted by Bert pulling down his head and pressing his lips to Tim's. Tim pulled him off immediately, and held him out away from him by the shoulders.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tim sputtered out.

"Thanking you," Bert said with a smile.

"Send a fucking card." Tim pushed him once, hard, in the direction of the door, but Bert only stumbled.

"If you're not homophobic, you'll kiss me," Bert argued. "If you are homophobic, that means you're not comfortable with your sexuality, which means you're gay, which means you should kiss me."

"I'm comfortable with my sexuality," Tim said. "You just look like you have hepatitis."

"Everyone else kisses me."

"I'm 43 years old. Peer pressure doesn't work on me."

Bert walked up to Tim and patted him on the shoulder. "It's cool, man," he said. He dropped his spent cigarette in the soda can. "Another time maybe." He patted Tim's thigh.

Bert froze with his hand still on Tim's thigh, and his eyes widened. Tim took a step sideways, out of his reach, but the damage was done.

"Dude," Bert said reverently. "Is that your dick? It's fucking huge! Let me see."

Bert lunged for Tim's zipper, but Tim took another step away.

"Come on," Bert said. "You can't have a dick that big and not let me see it."

"It's not my..." Tim began. "It's none of your business. Go back to Branden's room before I punch you."

"Show me your dick," Bert demanded, grabbing the waistband of Tim's pants.

Tim punched him in the jaw.

Bert staggered back and caught himself on the edge of the bed. "Weak."

"I went easy on you," Tim said. "Because you gave me a drummer. Now get lost."

Bert surprised Tim by rushing at him, pulling him forward, and knocking him onto the bed. Tim was strong, but Bert was clingy, and by the time Tim had torn one of Bert's hands from the waistband of his pants, Bert had his other hand shoved down the front of his pants.

They didn't move for a moment.

Tim closed his eyes.

"That's your dick," Bert said, his hand gently cupping Tim's flaccid penis. Bert moved his hand a few inches to the right and gripped the base of one of the tentacles. "What the fuck is that?"

Tim opened his eyes and pulled Bert's hand out of his pants. "They're tentacles, okay? I woke up today and I had six tentacles."

"Six?" Bert sat up. "Dude, you gotta show me. Are you fucking serious? Six tentacles!"

Tim reluctantly pushed his pants to his knees. He lifted each tentacle out of his pants legs and curled two of them up, so Bert could see the underside.

"Holy shit," Bert said softly.

"It's not a big deal," Tim said. "I'm seeing a doctor tomorrow. I'm sure they can be surgically removed."

"Removed?" Bert's mouth fell open. "No way, man. I mean, come on, how many chicks have you fucked with those already?"

"I've only had them a day."

"So what? Twenty? Thirty?"

Tim scowled. "Even if I was sick enough to do that, where would I find twenty women -"

"You're Tim Armstrong!" Bert shouted. "You should have pussy coming out of your ears!"

"Nice image," Tim muttered. He pulled up his pants, carefully tucking his tentacles inside.

"Wait, wait," Bert said, holding out his hand as if to prevent Tim from running. "Cancel the doctor. My friend has a camera, and I know this really nice group of sluts in L.A."

Tim sat up. "I'm not making porn."

"It's okay," Bert said. "I have masks."

Tim stood and walked to the other side of the bed. "You are a sick motherfucker, Bert. This is why I don't ever want to hang out with you."

Bert frowned. "Don't say that. You're my first musical hero, ever since elementary school."

"I'm not that old!" Tim yelled. "Now will you get the fuck out already?"

Bert took a step backwards, his body seeming to deflate. "Fine." He turned and made his way to the door, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob and looked back.

"You know," Bert said. "My parents made me be in choir, but it wasn't until I heard 'Sound System' that I knew I wanted to sing."

Tim sighed and walked to the door. "Oh, for fuck's sake, you filthy fucking hobbit." And he kissed Bert on the mouth.

The kiss didn't last long, and their lips barely parted, but when it ended neither of them moved their heads away.

Bert licked his lips, his face so close that his tongue grazed Tim's mouth. "Tell me to leave," he said, his voice barely a breath.

"Leave," Tim whispered.

"You don't mean that," Bert said with a sly smile.

Tim looked down at Bert's lips. "I really do," he said. "You smell bad."

Bert tucked his thumbs under the waistband of Tim's pants, grazing the base of two tentacles. "I will let you do anything to me." Bert raised his eyebrows. "Anything."

"I'm straight," Tim said, but he didn't push Bert's hands away.

"And you can still be straight tomorrow." Bert shoved one hand further into Tim's pants, gripping the shaft of a tentacle. "Be honest. Of every girl you could booty call right now, not one would go for this."

"And you would?" Tim asked skeptically.

Bert undid the button and zipper on Tim's pants. "Give me five minutes before you punch me again." He lowered himself to his knees, bringing Tim's pants along with him.

Bert grasped the base of the tentacle nearest Tim's groin and ran his hand down to the rounded tip, his fingertips teasing the suckers but not pressing hard enough to elicit an automatic gripping reaction. He put the tip in his mouth, suckling gently at first, then drawing it in as deep into his throat as he could.

Tim moaned and grabbed at the wall for purchase. It was nothing like a blowjob, but almost as intense, with the sensitive skin and twitching suckers responding to each bit of pressure. He was half-hard in an instant.

Bert released his mouth's grip on the tentacle and sat back on his heels. "You haven't punched me yet."

Tim grabbed Bert by the hair and pulled him closer. "Put it back in your mouth."

"I'll do more than that. Bed," Bert said, and Tim moved toward the bed quickly. Bert followed behind him, taking off his clothes as he went. Tim lay on his back and took in the view.

"You have stupid tattoos," Tim said.

Bert knelt at the foot of the bed. "Says the dude with a spiderweb on his scalp."

Tim smiled. "Fuck you. My spiderweb is badass."

Bert looked up at him with a wicked smile. "Don't insult the guy who's about to suck your tentacles."

Tim closed his eyes, still smiling. "You have great ink, Bert. I especially like the stick figures and decapitated heads - oh."

Bert had taken another tentacle into his mouth and was stimulating the suckers with his tongue. Tim struggled not to moan too loud, but when Bert took another tentacle in each hand, he couldn't help but let out a low, steady groan. Bert stretched one arm up and let his hand encircle Tim's dick, but Tim pushed him away. Whatever this was, he didn't want it to end with a crappyhandjob.

Bert pulled off the tentacle he was sucking and said, "Be right back." He went into the bathroom and emerged with the hotel's sample-size bottle of lotion.

"Turn onto your side," Bert said.

Tim obediently rolled onto his right side, careful not to pin any tentacles uncomfortably beneath him. "What's that?"

Bert slid into the bed facing Tim and uncapped the bottle. "Lotion," he said.

"For what?"

Bert tapped the bottle on his palm to release a dollop of the lotion. "To lube my ass. Are you fucking new here?"

Tim put his hand over Bert's. "That's oil-based. It breaks down latex."

"What latex?"

Tim raised his eyebrows. "You really think I'd have sex with you without a condom?"

Bert rolled his eyes. "It's not sex. It's a tentacle."

"It's skin on skin," Tim said. "The same risks apply." He took the lotion bottle out of Bert's hand and tossed it to the other side of the room. He leaned over to his bag and rustled around a bit before getting back onto the bed, holding a condom and a packet of KY.

Bert grabbed the KY from him. "Thought you were straight."

"It comes in the ten pack of condoms," Tim said.

Bert tore open the packet and spread it on his fingers. "How long does it take you to go through a ten pack? Two days?"

"A few months if I'm not seeing someone," Tim replied.

Bert reached behind him and began spreading the lube over his body. "If I was you I'd get so much pussy," Bert said. "I'd be dead from syphilis ten years ago."

"I'm surprised you're not dead from syphilis ten years ago." Tim ripped open the condom, then eyed it warily. "You sure you want to do this?"

Bert bit down on his lower lip and groaned. "I got two fingers inside myself right now. Wrap one up and hand it over."

Tim chose the tentacle that looked long enough to reach around Bert's body and carefully stretched the condom over the edge of it. The tentacle's end was thicker than an average penis, and covered in suckers, so the condom looked odd, but remained in place.

Bert inched himself closer to Tim, and Tim drew in an audible breath as their naked bodies met.

Bert shot him a dirty look. "Don't shove a tentacle in my mouth and then get all prissy on me now."

Tim tried to relax, but it was odd feeling someone else's dick against his thigh when he'd never even thought about fucking a guy before. He tried to tell himself that this didn't count as fucking. It was just this tentacle thing making everything weird, and then BertMcCracken, king of all that is weird, had to show up...

His train of thought was interrupted as Bert shoved the end of his tentacle inside him, just slightly, just enough to turn Tim's brain to static.

"Can you push with it?" Bert breathed out.

Tim concentrated on the tentacle, and managed to push it an inch or two inside of Bert. Despite the condom, Tim's nerves were buzzing. The tightness against the tentacle's suckers were sending shocks of pleasure through the tentacle and up to his groin. Bert shifted backward, taking it deeper, and Tim was pretty sure he was going to completely destroy Bert's intestines, but when he tried to warn him it just came out as a moan.

Bert put his hand on the shaft of another one of Tim's tentacles. He stared up at Tim's eyes, his wet lips slightly parted, and whispered, "Put it on my dick?"

Tim hesitated. He didn't have sex with guys. But then, he didn't usually have tentacles either, and there was really minimal risk, and god damn he disliked BertMcCracken.

Tim slid the tentacle between their bodies and wrapped it around Bert's erect dick. The suckers flexed and tugged gently at the delicate skin, and Bert's body jerked. Tim loosened his tentacle's grip.

"No, no, that's good," Bert said. He closed his eyes and panted softly as Tim moved his curled tentacle up and down the length of Bert's dick.

Bert wiggled his ass. "Put it in me more."

"I'm gonna kill you," Tim said.

Bert smiled. "Don't flatter yourself." He took Tim's tentacle in his hand and pushed it further inside of him.

"Now do it harder," Bert said, his voice shaking. "Get me hard, on both ends, fuck me hard." He bent his head against Tim's chest and choked out a moan.

Tim grabbed both of Bert's shoulders, because fuck it, if he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right. He thrust one tentacle inside Bert's ass in a steady rhythm, and used the other tentacle to jerk Bert off roughly, letting the suckers pinch at his skin as the very end of the tentacle caressed his balls.

Then he used one hand to lift Bert's chin. Bert's eyes were closed and his face was screwed up in what could be pleasure or pain. Tim hesitated, but thought, fuck it. He was a gentleman. He pressed his lips against Bert's softly. Bert moaned into his mouth, bit down on his lower lip, and came on Tim's stomach.

Bert's moan turned into a series of deep breaths, which turned into a series of violent coughs, which clenched his ass around Tim's tentacle painfully. Tim pulled out slowly, and removed his other tentacle from around Bert's dick. Bert rolled onto his back, sweaty and still coughing.

"That was so fucking hot," Bert croaked out. He pushed a mass of his tangly hair off his forehead. "What do you want me to do for you?"

Tim reached into his bag and took out a pair of boxers. "Go away," he said.

Bert reached up, wrenched the underwear out of Tim's hand, and tossed it on the floor. "They can say a lot of shit about me," he said. "But I always reciprocate." He leaned up on one elbow, facing Tim. "What are you into?"

"Women."

Bert reached behind him and pulled his hand up to reveal a sticky, split condom. "Lost your condom in me."

"I'll get my shots tomorrow," Tim muttered.

Bert pulled himself up into a sitting position and wedged himself between Tim's legs. "Put your knees up."

Tim snorted.

Bert tilted his head and gave him a devious smile. "Trust me."

There used to be a guy who'd come to almost every Operation Ivy show, smoke crack in the bathroom, and then try to touch Jesse's ass, and Tim honestly trusted that guy more than Bert McCracken.

But then Bert had one tentacle in his hand, and was licking the suckers wetly, leaving behind trails of saliva. The suckers gripped and caught on Bert's tongue, but he just licked harder, and Tim put his knees up.

Bert moved the tentacle from his mouth to Tim's ass, and Tim cried out as he was assaulted by his own soaking wet, twitching suckers. The smallest movement had his delicate skin trembling, and he grabbed Bert by the hair. "Fucking..." he gasped out, "Do something."

Bert responded by wrapping his mouth around Tim's dick, and Tim let out a half-gasp/half-moan, as if he'd been holding his breath waiting for this. With one hand still pressing the tentacle against Tim's ass, Bert moved his other hand to the base of Tim's dick, and began working his tongue in rhythm with both hands, lapping and sucking, jerking and pressing. Tim tapped Bert on the shoulder to tell him he was close, and Bert slid off his dick, only to slide down, push the tentacle out of the way, and lick a hot trail from Tim's balls down over his ass. Tim pitched forward, grabbed Bert's hair again, and came on his own stomach.

Tim collapsed backwards and tried to catch his breath. "Holy shit," he panted. "That's..."

Bert crawled back up to the top of the bed, lay down beside Tim, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tim looked over at him. "There are not even words for what you just did."

Bert smiled. "You're welcome."

Tim pulled one of the sheets out from under him and used it to wipe off his stomach. "You can stay here if you want," he said. "But you have to put underwear on."

"Branden'll be wondering where I am." Bert reached over the side of the bed, retrieved his pants, and took his pack of cigarettes out. He lit two and handed one to Tim.

Tim took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. "You know what my problem is?"

Bert grabbed the soda can ashtray from the nighstand and propped it up between them. "Does it rhyme with Bert McCrackalakin?"

Tim ashed into the can, but his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. "I pull away from the people I love."

Bert looked over at him and smirked. "You should spend more time with the people you hate."

Tim smiled. "Maybe I should."

They finished their cigarettes in silence, and as soon as Bert dropped his into the can he stood up and started getting dressed. Tim sat up on the bed and put out his own cigarette.

Bert pulled his torn-up shirt over his head and ran a hand through his ratty hair. "So you gonna be in L.A. once the tour is done?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "Got some bands I'm scouting."

"Gimme a call," Bert said.

Tim nodded.

Bert turned and headed for the door.

"Hey, Bert?"

Bert turned around. On the bed, Tim was leaning up on one elbow, completely naked, pale and muscled in all the right places, unself-conscious about his tentacles, spread out around him like shallowly-breathing snakes.

"When were you born?" Tim asked.

"Eighty-two."

Tim considered this for a moment. "When you were eight, when you first heard Op Ivy, we were already broken up."

Bert smiled. "When I found out, I cried. Thought I'd never get to see my favorite band."

"That's funny," Tim said, though he wasn't smiling.

Bert looked down at his feet. "Life is funny, man." He looked up and gave Tim a half-wave. "I'll see ya'."

Tim stood up and cleaned up the condom wrapper, lube wrapper, and cigarette butts that would hint he wasn't alone tonight. He tugged the damp sheet out of the bed and lay down underneath the blanket. He turned off the bedside light. He wasn't sure at first why he didn't want to close his eyes, but then he put his hand to his chest and felt his pulse. His body was still humming. He pulled the blanket up to his neck and listened to his own breathing until he fell asleep.

In the morning, the tentacles were gone.

They played the final few shows without incident. The guys forgot about Tim's odd growth quickly, and they focused on putting on solid performances. They drove all night after Hamburg, so the night of the Toronto show, they had enough time to move their things into their hotel rooms and take some time before the show. Tim was sharing a room with Lars, who collapsed on one of the beds as soon as they walked in. Tim went to take a shower.

He was just getting out of the shower when he heard his phone ringing outside. "Could you get that?" he called out, and he heard the ringing stop. He dried himself off, put on pants, and walked into the room just as Lars was hanging up.

"Was that Raja?" Tim asked. He'd sent her and her bandmates an e-mail about possible alternative band names, and was expecting a moody call from them any minute.

"It was Bert McCracken," Lars said. He handed the phone to Tim and sat back down on the bed. "He said he's pregnant with your alien squid babies and to call him later." Lars yawned and lay down on the bed. "Wake me up when it's time to go."

Tim leaned against the wall with his phone, went into the "received calls" list, and saved the most recent number under the listing "filthy hobbit, LA". Then he texted the number, "Contained in music somehow more than just sound." He put the phone down and picked out a shirt to wear, and as he was pulling it over his head his phone beeped to indicate a new text message. "From filthy hobbit, LA: Just a second where we're leaving all this shit behind."

"How's August 5th?" Tim texted back.

"I'll cook," came the reply.

"I'll get vaccinated," Tim texted back. "See you then."

About an hour later they got to the venue. There was the usual bullshitting, scrounging for snacks, and complaints to techs. Tim stood at the edge of the stage and watched the preliminary set-up.

Almost twenty years ago, while Bert was eight years old and listening to Operation Ivy for the first time, Tim tried to kill himself. He was a kid, but he remembered it all, choking on the dryness in his throat, trying to make Matt listen to him, crying so much he wasn't making sense. He was a kid, and he thought his life was over, but it was just starting.

Tim closed his eyes. He could hear his guitar being tuned, and it was more than just sound. However far away he felt from people sometimes, he knew he could always go on stage and leave all this shit behind.

He tucked his thumbs in the front of his jeans, and felt the familiar curve of his hip and the line of his waist. He smiled, and walked over to talk to his friends.