Backstage at a dingy dive on the outskirts of Burbank, the lesbian punk band, Life on Mars, a band so obscure even their groupies denied knowing them, was falling apart. Again. 

Their lead singer, Jax, was passed out face-down in a pile of glitter, and the bassist had pawned her amp for tequila money. Only Lola, their drummer, still had her act together, or so she claimed, until she emerged wearing nothing but leather pants, safety pins in her nipples, and wielding a cowbell like it was a magic wand.

“Fuck the keyboard,” she declared, slamming the cowbell against a mic stand. “This is the sound the universe needs! More Cowbell”

The crowd, half drunk biker-dykes, half anime-themed cosplayers on prescription drugs that weren't theirs, cheered like she’d announced free shots. Jax stumbled back onstage, shirt open, eyes glazed, and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, this cowbell is my soul!” She kissed it. Wetly. Too long a kiss.

The cowbell solo that followed was obscene. It throbbed, it clanged, it echoed off the walls in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like bad decisions on cocaine at 3 A.M. 

Someone threw a bra. Someone else threw a prosthetic leg. A couple in the front row began having a threesome with the waitress, but it was so violent that the bar owner had to hose them down.

By the time the song climaxed, Lola had climbed the drum kit and was completely naked, Jax was howling into the cowbell as if it were a microphone, and the bassist reappeared carrying a live iguana. No one remembers how the show ended, only that the police arrived, the iguana was wearing eyeliner, and Life on Mars became briefly, infamously, legendary.