The garage studio still smelled like yesterday's amps—warm, metallic, a little dusty—but the table in the middle was all business: manila folders, typed contract pages, pens, and three mugs of bad instant coffee the manager insisted on making. Rory sat cross-legged on the office chair he'd stolen from his parents' guest room, spinning it once before stopping himself and trying to look like a normal twelve-year-old conducting normal band-business.
Kurt and Krist sat across from him, slouched, legs stretched out, eyes flicking across the paperwork. The manager—mid-thirties, tired but loyal—stood behind Rory like a referee who knew something ridiculous was about to happen.
"Okay," Rory said, tapping the papers. "That's everything. Copyright splits, publishing splits, performance splits. Standard three-way partnership plus manager share."
Krist flipped a page. "This looks… equal."
"Yeah," Rory said. "Because it is."
Kurt looked up sharply. "You're not taking more?"
"No."
Krist scratched his head. "Dude, you wrote half the riffs, arranged everything, practically bullied me into tuning right. And…" He pointed at Kurt. "You literally made him graduate high school."
Kurt winced, embarrassed. "Okay, not made. But, like… you did help me pass English. And science. And math. And whatever that other one was."
"Social studies," Rory supplied.
"Yeah. That."
The manager raised a finger. "For the record, equal splits at this stage are rare. Very rare. Almost unheard of."
Kurt leaned forward. "Rory, seriously. You should take more. You're the drummer, the arranger, the idea guy—"
Rory shook his head. "We're a band. A team. Teams split everything equal."
Krist sat back. "Come on. There's no way you actually believe that."
Rory shrugged, casual. "I do."
Inside, his thoughts ran in two timelines at once.
I'm giving away nothing. The EP will make pocket change compared to what's coming. Dad's July stock sale already made us stupid money. Next year's spreads will be even bigger. Ten-year window, guaranteed returns. And then the '87 crash… I'll be ready for it this time. And the Gulf War markets? Automatic profit.
Outwardly he just smiled like a kid who had no idea how money worked.
Kurt sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I don't feel right taking equal."
Rory grinned. "Get used to it, Kurt. We're doing it this way."
Krist pointed at him again. "You're twelve."
"And?"
"You're twelve and you're talking like a union boss."
Rory shrugged. "Someone's gotta."
The manager chuckled under his breath. "Look, boys… I say let the prodigy have his philosophy. Equal splits avoid fights later."
"I'm not gonna fight," Kurt muttered.
"You say that now," Krist said.
Kurt punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Shut up."
Rory slid the papers toward them. "Just sign."
Kurt hesitated another second, but the idea of arguing more made him visibly tired. "Fine. Fine. Equal." He reached for the pen, scribbled his name across the signature line with his messy, looping handwriting.
Krist signed next, neat block letters, then slid the pen to Rory with a little sigh. "You better not regret being this generous."
Rory didn't hesitate. "I won't."
He signed with small, precise handwriting—too precise for a kid, but nobody ever questioned it.
The manager collected the papers with a satisfied nod. "Congratulations. You're officially a band with a legally structured partnership."
Kurt leaned back in his chair, grinning. "This feels real now."
Krist stretched. "Real real."
Rory bounced his heel lightly, trying not to show how happy he was. "Speaking of real… Now we need something else."
Kurt perked up. "What?"
"A title. What are we calling the EP?"
Krist sat forward instantly. "Oh! I've got one. 'Beef Hammer.'"
Kurt twisted his face. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know. Sounds heavy."
Kurt shook his head. "Nah, nah. What about… 'Dead Fish Dance'?"
The manager blinked. "Why?"
"Because it's weird," Kurt said, like that explained everything.
Rory laughed. "No. Try again."
Krist snapped his fingers. "Okay okay okay, how about 'We Smell Terrible'?"
Kurt actually considered it. "Maybe too honest."
Rory let them rattle off more.
"'Grunt Machine'?" Kurt tried.
"'Meat Parade'," Krist added.
"'Moist Universe'?"
"'Irritable Youth Syndrome'?"
The names kept getting worse.
Rory rubbed his forehead. "Guys. We need something that sounds like us. Something raw and stupid but good-stupid. Something that actually fits the music."
Kurt squinted at the ceiling, trying to force a genius moment. "Uh… 'Razor Something'? 'Noise Something'?"
Krist nodded. "Yeah. Something with an edge."
Rory watched them spin their wheels for two full minutes, then just said it:
"Fecal Matter."
Kurt froze.
Krist blinked.
The manager stopped mid-paper shuffle and looked up like he misheard.
Kurt leaned forward slowly. "Say it again."
"Fecal Matter."
Something flickered across Kurt's face—recognition, memory, something deeper. The name hit him like a chord he'd already written somewhere in himself.
Krist made a face. "Dude… gross."
Kurt shook his head immediately. "No. No, wait. It's perfect."
"Perfectly disgusting," Krist muttered.
"It feels like… me," Kurt said. "Like us. Like the music is rotting but alive. Like something wrong but catchy. You know?"
Krist stared at him for a second, then shrugged. "Well… if you're into it, I guess it fits the sound."
Rory smiled. "So that's a yes?"
Kurt nodded. "Yeah."
Krist lifted a hand halfway. "Yeah, okay, fine. Fecal Matter. Whatever."
The manager wrote it down. "EP Title: Fecal Matter. Great. Fantastic. I can't wait to tell distributors."
Kurt laughed. "They'll hate it."
Rory shrugged. "But they'll remember it."
Kurt pointed at him, grinning. "That's why you're the brains."
Krist added, "And the tiny dictator."
Rory threw a pen cap at him. "Shut up, Krist."
Krist caught it, laughing. "Make me."
They all leaned back then, the tension gone, replaced by something warm and electric. The contracts were signed, the title decided, the path set.
Rory looked at the two of them—Kurt tapping rhythm on the table, Krist humming one of their riffs absentmindedly.
His band. His friends. His future.
Equal shares? Easy. I'll make more money than I can ever spend anyway. But this—this band—this has to start right. Tight. Fair. Solid. They're worth that.
Kurt nudged him with his foot. "Hey. Earth to Rory."
Rory blinked. "Yeah?"
"You good?"
Rory smiled. "Yeah. I'm great."
Krist stretched again. "So… next step?"
Rory tapped the contract pile. "Next step? We release the loudest EP Seattle's ever heard."
Kurt grinned. "Fecal Matter takes over the world."
Rory smirked back.
You have no idea how close to true that is.