It was a Tuesday morning—but for Rory's parents it felt more like a turning point. Rory's father sat at the kitchen table, a long print-out of transactions in front of him, eyes a little red from staring at numbers too closely. His wife—Rory's mother—leaned against the counter, sipping coffee and watching him roll his shoulders.
"Okay," he said, exhaling softly. "It's done."
She raised an eyebrow. "You really sold everything?"
He nodded, pushing the paper toward her. "Every last one of the stocks we bought based on what Rory said back in April. I pulled the triggers this morning."
She sat down and scanned the list: five companies, five initial investments of $20,000 each. The returns were… staggering.
Caledonia Mining (CMCL) – initial $20,000 investment. He sold it this July 1985 for $75,480,000 return.
MDU Resources (MDU) – initial $20,000. Sold this July for $1,138,600 return.
Hormel Foods (HRL) – initial $20,000. Sold this July for $369,400 return.
Franklin Resources (BEN) – initial $20,000. Sold this July for $272,800 return.
BHP (BHP) – initial $20,000. Sold this July for $159,800 return.
She blinked. "Seventy-five million… and change?"
"Yeah." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Seventy-five million, four hundred eighty thousand. Plus the others: about one point one million, three hundred sixty-six thousand, three hundred sixty-six, no wait—one point one-three-eight million, three hundred sixty-six thousand… then the others add up. In total, we're looking at roughly $77,420,000 from all five."
Her hand went to her mouth. "This… this is unimaginable."
He leaned forward. "I know. I know. But remember what we talked about in April? Rory says these investments looked like they'd take off. I trusted his sense. We set it up. We left it alone."
She nodded slowly. "You did. And now…" Her voice trailed off. "We need to tell him."
"Yeah," he said. "And we have to ask: what does he want? Because this changes things."
They sat in silence for a beat. Then she asked, softly: "What reward do you think he wants? He's twelve, but he's no ordinary twelve-year-old."
He smiled wryly. "He's asked for guitar gear, trips, whatever he wants. I think we let him choose. But maybe we guide him a bit. We give him freedom, but not chaos."
She sighed, leaning back. "We have to be careful. He asked to keep things quiet—he doesn't want the spotlight."
"Right," he said. "Which means we tell him in person. Tonight. Just the three of us. No press. No fanfare."
She reached over and touched his hand. "Thank you—for believing in him. For believing in that April conversation."
He shrugged lightly. "I believed in him. Hell, he believed in it. I just followed his lead."
The garage pulsed with a low hum as Rory adjusted the hi-hat and flicked a switch on the CD player. The first chords of "Downer" filled the room — simple, acoustic, rough around the edges, but the melody already carried weight. Kurt leaned against the wall, bass in hand, while Krist tuned carefully, eyes flicking to Rory's poised hands on the snare.
"Alright," Rory said, voice calm, casual. "We're gonna ride through the set. Start loose, tighten as we go."
Kurt smirked. "Loose is basically my middle name right now."
"Yeah, yours and mine," Krist said, thumping a finger against a string.
The first track ran fast, the acoustic chords bouncing, gentle strums pulsing in sync with Rory's light kick beats. They weren't perfect yet, but the timing felt alive. Rory leaned in, striking the snare with crisp weight. Kurt matched his rhythm with clean, jangling chords, subtle dynamics lifting the song. Krist's bass cut through — round, steady, confident.
"Not bad," Rory said, shifting to the next song. "Bambi Slaughter."
The room erupted. Rory's sticks hit the kit like thunder, shifting between weight and urgency, the CD's outline giving them a guide but leaving room for their own instinct. Kurt's voice rasped slightly as he played along, pulling raw emotion from the chords. Krist threw in syncopated bass runs, adding tension where Rory punctuated with rolling snare fills and tom accents.
"Dude," Kurt said, strumming a quick power chord, "your drums are insane."
Rory smiled, keeping it smooth. "You keep up, you'll be insane too."
They leaned into "Spank Thru." The song felt like a live wire. Rory's hands moved like lightning, landing hard on the snare, crashing cymbals with sharp bursts, sometimes holding a note with deliberate weight before racing again. Kurt's guitar rasped over the drum hits, jagged but melodic. Krist matched Rory's rhythm with a patient groove, filling space with slides and muted notes.
"Shit, this part," Kurt muttered mid-song, hammering a distorted chord. "It snaps."
"Exactly," Rory said, keeping a controlled grin. "Let it snap, don't fight it."
By the time "Anorexorcist" rolled in, they were synced. Rory alternated between rolling fills and hard-hitting backbeats, a mix of Bonham-style drive and raw instinctive flair. Kurt experimented with off-beat strums, leaving gaps for Rory to accentuate. Krist's bass pushed the groove forward, bouncing between restraint and punchy runs.
"Keep it loose, don't overthink," Rory called. "Feel it, let it speak."
Kurt laughed. "Every time you say that, it sounds like some Zen shit."
"Zen shit works," Rory quipped, sticking a quick fill into the transition.
Mid-practice, the CD played snippets of the other songs — "Rehearsal Tape #1" and "Bleach Baby" — letting them anticipate transitions and improv around them. Rory's drums guided the melodies, pushing Kurt and Krist to explore space and dynamics. On "Bleach Baby," the new track, Rory's drumming was sharp, hard, yet fluid, driving a groove that felt like a raw, youthful surge. Kurt leaned into jagged chords, experimenting with tension and release, while Krist's bass hummed low and insistent.
"This one's sick," Krist said, pausing for a breath.
"Yeah, man," Rory replied, snapping a quick rim shot. "We've got something here."
The session ran like clockwork, quick transitions, bursts of laughter, clipped advice.
"Dude, the middle section?" Kurt asked, pointing. "Try hitting that chord staccato, see if it locks with the kick."
Rory smacked the bass drum once sharply. "Got it. Let's run it."
Krist grinned, muttering under his breath, "I swear this kid's insane… and somehow it works."
Hours passed in bursts. They tightened the edges, sharpened the riffs, polished the grooves, but never lost the raw, casual energy. Even mistakes became part of the song's voice — Rory hit a cymbal wrong, Kurt skipped a chord, Krist double-checked a note — all met with laughter, quick adjustments, then back into the flow.
That evening, the living room held a quiet contrast. Dinner was laid out; plates steaming, the smells of roast and vegetables mingling. Rory sat with his parents, calm, hands folded on the table, as if he'd just come back from a casual day.
"So," his father began, spooning mashed potatoes, "how did practice go today?"
"Good," Rory said smoothly, almost too calm. "We polished a few songs, tightened the middle sections. Kurt's getting that off-beat down, Krist's bass is solid."
His mother smiled. "Sounds like you're serious about this."
Rory nodded once, measured. "We're making progress. Should have a demo ready soon."
Rory leaned back, clearing his throat. "Alright. So… about the stocks."
Rory's father hand-tapped the edge of his plate. "They're sold."
Rory raised an eyebrow. "All of them?"
"Yeah. Caledonia Mining, MDU, Hormel, Franklin Resources, BHP. Everything we planned. The total came to… $77,358,200."
Rory blinked, then set her fork down. "Seventy-seven million?"
Rory's father's calm tone didn't waver. "Roughly. Pretty much exactly what we estimated."
Rory whistled softly. "Father. You've got us rich!"
Rory's father shrugged lightly. "We've got options and we planned this, right? How much do you want to keep liquid, reinvest, save?"
His mother leaned forward too, and asked Rory. "Well… what do you want?"
"Ten million in my personal account. Fifteen million to reinvest in stocks. The rest goes into family savings."
His father nodded slowly, impressed. "That's… reasonable."
Rory's mother smiled warmly. "I like your priorities. You're still thinking about all of us."
Rory gave a small, composed nod. "Yeah. That's the plan."
The next day, July 25, the garage again hummed with energy. Rory, Kurt, and Krist ran through the tracks, focusing this time on the two that needed more attention: "Spank Thru" and "Bleach Baby."
Rory's drum hits were fast and precise, each strike weighted yet effortless, blending Bonham's power with an instinctive, agile drive that hinted at a future maturity. Kurt's chords sliced through the rhythm, distorted and jagged, a mix of sarcasm and intensity in his tone. Krist's bass walked the line between groove and punctuation, listening, reacting, locking in with Rory.
"Middle section's lagging," Rory called. "Kick heavier on the first beat, then ride the snare."
Kurt slammed a chord, leaning into it. "Boom. Got it."
Krist nodded, muttering, "Yeah, I hear it now… feels better."
By the time they hit "Bleach Baby," Rory's drums dictated the song's pulse — strong, urgent, yet nuanced. Kurt experimented with a harsh sliding chord progression, weaving tension through the riff. Krist punctuated notes, adding depth and weight. Laughter punctuated errors, sarcastic jabs at misfires, and small exclamations of "yes!" when a riff landed perfectly.
"Alright," Rory said between hits, breath controlled. "Let's run it full, from top."
The three moved together, tight, energetic, like a single organism — riff, groove, pulse, and momentum intertwined. Every accidental clang, misstrike, or chord slip became part of the energy, shaping the music organically.
Dinner that night, Rory handed his father a neatly written sheet. "Here's the next plan. Short-term investments, long-term investments. July 29, short-term: Gap, Texas International, Tosco Corp, Cray Research, Vendo. Three million each. Long-term: Microsoft, Home Depot, Walmart, Apple, Nike. Three million each."
His father scanned the list, nodding. "Alright… we'll follow through. And the band?"
Rory leaned back, composed. "Initial phase. EP by next month. Then we'll submit demos to distributors."
"Do you know someone trustworthy for management?" Rory asked.
"I was hoping you might." Rory smiled faintly as he added.
His father laughed. "I have a friend… I'll ask if he's up for managing a teen rock band."
Rory laughed too. His mother shook her head, smiling at the two of them.