The Holes and John Smith

In a neon‑lit lounge perched on Mars’ Grand Canal, a down‑on‑their‑luck Earth‑born combo tries to keep the music playing for a mixed crowd of tourists, spacemen and native Martians. Their manager, the eight‑foot‑three “Goon‑Face” with needle‑black eyes, makes it clear that without a bassist the gig—and their pay—will vanish within minutes. The band’s morale hangs by a thread as they scramble for a replacement while the salty, stale air of the canal drifts through the candle‑lit cocktail room.

Suddenly the doors thunder open and a massive, midnight‑black bass‑fiddle—shaped like a twisted hourglass—rolls in, ridden by a tiny, match‑stick‑thin stranger with wet blue eyes and a wild mop of sand‑colored hair. The surreal newcomer offers a bizarre glimmer of hope, but his appearance only deepens the mystery of the Night‑Room’s demanding patron and the precarious future of the struggling musicians.