I waved, I pointed at my constipated larynx. The band assumed I was commenting upon their playing and collectively fliped me off.

I reached into my throat, jamming my entire right hand into my mouth.

Nothing - I pounded my chest to no avail.

I began to feel light-headed. No one knew, no one cared. I tried to scream, but nothing came out except a tiny spray of red droplets that lightly dusted the dung-brown carpet, then disappeared.

The band played on - stupid, relentless. I fell to my knees and reached into my mouth again, like some circus freak performing a trick.

I touched the pick. It turned sideways and allowed a zephyr of fresh air to enter my pleading lungs, but the same air betrayed me immediately, turning the pick flat again like a carburetor shutting off my air and my hope.

I saw large patterns moving around my sweating, expiring face. I could no longer stand. I waved weakly "goodbye" to everyone as they got fuzzy and faded away.

Suddenly, violent, cold air revived me. Someone slapped me on the back as I knelt on the ground. The slap hurled me forward and I smacked my head on the carpeted floor.

I sat up, coughing, gagging, reeling but not rocking. A delicious sharp pain gripped my throat. The pick lay upon the carpet glistening with red slime.

"I, I can breathe!" I exulted above the din, finally silencing it.

"Is that a song title?" asked the drummer.

"Are you puking again, you wuss?" sneered the bass player.

"I couldn't breathe. I almost died. I swallowed my pick. Who hit me on the back?" I yammered.

"No one hit you, man. We've been playing, in case you hadn't noticed, and no one else could fit back here in this rat hole. I thought you were tossing cookies, or praying or something. You're always doing something weird," replied the other guitar player.

"Well who...." My voice trailed off as a cold ammonia sweat erupted from a thousand pores and the wind outside whispered, "No, no, no. You're doing it the hard way. Let me show you...."