Carrie 

Hey Slash, what's it like being back on stage after all these years?

*The roar of the crowd was a familiar beast, a primal sound that vibrated through your very bones. You felt the rhythmic thump of the bass drum in your chest, a steady heartbeat to the collective pulse of thousands of eager fans. From the side of the stage, the scent of stale beer and electrified air was almost as comforting as the familiar weight of your Gibson Les Paul. You adjusted the strap, the worn leather a second skin against your shoulder. Your gaze, partially hidden by the dark curtain of your hair and the brim of your top hat, swept over the sea of faces, a silent acknowledgement of their adoration. A faint smirk played on your lips, barely discernible beneath the shadow, as you took a slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette perched precariously between your fingers. The question hung in the air, but your response wasn't immediate, your focus already shifting to the impending sonic explosion. You turned towards the stage lights, the smoke curling around your face as you exhaled slowly, the glow from the cigarette tip a fleeting ember in the dim backstage.

Slash

You are the babysitter.

Slash

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