pointless heavy metal story
"I hope they play 'Fistfuck Jesus'." Alan stared at himself in the mirror, fastening his second belt.
"Yeah, you would." Tim sat on the bed, running a pick through his hair.
The show was at Dorito Gardens, a convention center that had recently taken on corporate sponsorship. Chester Cheetah, the Cheet-O Cheetah stared out from the ticket stub, "Remember kids: moshing, slam dancing, and crowd surfing are seriously uncool," he seemed to say in his lad-back hepcat tone. The "...and is serious grounds for ejection," seemed tacked on, and out of character.
"Alright boys, I'll be back in exactly three hours. I'm going to park exactly three blocks from the Convention Hall, on the side of the road with my blinkers on on the NORTH EAST SIDE. Remember, no smoking, and I mean cigarettes OR doobies, no fighting, no drugs, no drinking, no getting piercings, no tattoos, don't try to buy any shirts with swear words because I won't let you wear them and if either of you comes back here with ripped clothes or without a pair of earplugs in you will never, EVER be going to another rock and roll show again. Do I make myself, absolutely, positively 100% clear."
"Yes Mom."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"And you know you're only doing this because I am THE best all around mother and parent in all of Cresthill?"
"Yes Mom."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, do you have any questions."
"Um, Mrs. Murphy?"
"Yes Tim?"
"My clothes are already kinda ripped."
"Tim, you know that I love you?"
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, then you'll understand that it's out of love that I tell you to get out of the car."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, have a good time."
Patricia Murphy sat in the car watching the boys until she could no longer discern their figures from the hundreds of other awkward kids streaming into the show, at which point she and her son simultaneously lit up a cigarette. Neither one had ever seen the other one smoke, but they had each independently chosen the same generic brand. Baltic Reds. It was the same that Brian Murphy, husband and father, smoked when he lived with them. Alan handed one to Tim, who pulled a Zippo out of his belt.
"You totally got her."
"Who?"
"My Mom."
"How?"
"With that dumbass question about your ripped jeans."
"How did I get her?"
"All that shit she said before we left, about what to do and where to find her? She had that shit memorized. She wasn't expecting a follow up."
"Oh. Heh. What's moshing?"
"White folks' shit."
"Fuck you."
"It's kinda like slam dancing."
"What's slam dancing."
"It's like...the old version of moshing."
"And what the fuck is moshing."
"It's like when motherfuckers jump into each other and shit on the dance floor."
"Oh. White folks' shit."
There were three lines going into Dorito Gardens at every entrance. Two for guys and one for girls. At the front of the line there was a black guy with glasses and a white guy with a ponytail. Together they were probably 460 pounds and both wrapped in bright orange windbreakers. The black guy was roygher than the white guy, nearly shoving people out of the way. In a large trashbin behind him, there was a large bag full of dog collars and bottled water, some knives, some beer, and a cracked glass pipe. The white guy grabbed Alan, by his belt which was a loose string of fake artillery shells. "This can't stay."
""What?"
"Not allowed."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because you bring that down to the pit get in a fight, and some big mean motherfucker like me is likely to take it and whip your smart ass with it."
"I'm not even going down to the pit. Just lemme go."
"Are you tryin to tell me how to do my fuckin job?" the guy was getting angry. So was the rest of the line.
"Hold up. Hold up. Hey, Guy. Can Alan go drop it off in the car and come back?"
"Yeah sure, what the fuck do I care?"
"Alan. Go drop it off. In the car. I'll wait here. Okay?"
Alan walked around the corner til he was out of sight, took off the belt and shoved it into his underwear. On his way back, he ran into a girl named Crissy, who was a year younger than him. She had stringy, pink hair and pimples on her chin. Her sister who ws three years older had long blonde hair, a mesh shirt, a leather trench coat, silver pants, and a severe look of disinterest on her face. Alan remembered a few years back, before she had a growth spurt and lost all that weight when she was really nice and would talk to him. She was a bitch now.
"Alan. Omigod. What's up?"
"Crissy, I didn't know you were a Monster."
"I'm not, but I like the openers, Stalinekker. Have you heard them?"
"Not really. I think I've seen a picture of them."
"Isn't the bass player like so fucking hot?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Terry says that he was in a Playgirl spread and he's really, like, huge., but she won't let see it."
"Bummer."
"So like, are you here alone?"
"No, I'm here with Tim."
"Black Tim?"
"Yeah, I've got his belt down my pants right now?"
"Why?"
"Some Nazi made me take it off up front."
"Oh."
"Yeah, if you have any, like, knives or drugs or anything you should probably stuff em down your tits?"
"Sorry, I don't."
"That's cool. I should get going. Hey where are you sitting?"
"On the floor,"
"Really? Down in the pit?"
"Yeah, it should be awesome."
"Shitty, I'm on like the third balcony. I won't even be able to see them, they'll be like this."
"Yeah but you'll still be able to see the monsters or dancers or whatever it is they bring out, and maybe I'll come visit you."
"That'll be cool, Alan said, but her sister had already started to pull her towards the line. By the time he had gotten to the front of the men's line, they were long gone. He had the white security guard this time, who looked at him funny but didn't search him extra or anything.
"Hey Tim, thanks for letting me borrow your belt," Alan said as he pulled it up, like a string of pearls, one bullet at a time out of his pants.
"Wash that shit, honkey."
"Whatever."
"Yo, I saw Crissy, she said she was talkin to you."
"Yeah."
"Did she say she wanted to fuck me?"
"No."
"Did she say she wanted to fuck you?"
"No."
"Did she say her sister wanted to fuck me?"
"No."
"Well, one of us should fuck her."
"Agreed. You take the older one."
"Did you see the ass on her?"
"Not really."
"Girl had an ass on her."
"I've seen it."
"You like her?"
"Which one?"
"The little one."
"Yeah."
They were seated behind a big guy with long greasy hair and cut off sleeves. His arms were sickly pale with big blotchy pepperoni freckles. He had a joint tucked behind his ear. Alan elbowed Tim in the ribs and pointed at the joint. They both high fived. The first band was announced at the last minute. Terrodon. Their set was just a banner with their logo, a flying lizard with a beer in one vlaw, a Hustler in the other, and a joint in its mouth, crashing through a city skyline Party metal. A lot of songs about chasing girls and drinking beer. The audience booed, and the band left early, sneering at the crown with their middle fingers raised. A full minute and a half after the rest of the band left, the drummer was still playing, trying to drum up support, before he too left. The greasy longhaired guy yelled, "Cmon, you guys suck!"
For the next hour and change, the crackly soundsystem played ACDC's "Back in Black" three times in a row, before the roadies came out. The crowd roared for a moment, until they realized it was just roadies. It was another half hour before the next band played.
Stalinekker was from Finland, but had recently moved to New York. The band used to come out in white makeup and fur, looking like zombie vikings or bolsheviks or something. Some of their fans came to the show in makeup, but the band was just wearing t-shirts and jeans.
"Hello, vee are pleast to play vor you, thees ees 'Tie the Nuns to the Altar, Shoving Candles up their Cunts." The crowd cheered as the singer began his barrage of growls and screams. Alan didn't know the words to the song, and couldn't decipher them; he didn't think he knew anyone who could. He was sure that half of the crowd was imagining the lyrics, as their own personal ideas of what the song must be about. The band took a lot of flak for their lyrics, which were supposedly violent, profane, misogynistic and homophobic but Alan didn't buy it. His father, years ago, tld him that "Louie, Louie" sold a million records way before rock bands could sell a million records just cause the Kingsmen tricked people into thinking the lyrics were about sex. It's what Alan would do, he thought, if he started a band.
He watched the bassist closely. He was tall, with long black hair. From up in the nosebleeds, there was no way to tell if he was "huge". In the middle of their last song, he swung his bass into the singer's chin. The singer, in turn spat blood on the crowd, and jumpt off the stage. The crowd, who Alan though must all be fans of the guy, started pummeling him with their fists before the security guards could pull him bac up. He spat blood on them, shoved the bassist, and gurgled into the mic, "Thank you, good night."
In between bands, Tim disappeared. When he came back, he had a flask. It was silver with an eightball engraved over the letters "T.S." He shook it. It was half full.
"What's in it?"
"Liquor."
"What's it taste like."
"Shit"
Alan tipped his head back and swigged. It burned all the way down to his belly and he wanted to throw up. It was the same for Tim, who, like Alan, had never had a drink before. Neither one knew if they were drunk, but they agreed that they were...something. hey laughed louder and yelled at the stage. "Let's get this shit started!"
"Yeeeeah." The greasy guy agreed, Tim punched him on the shoulder and shook his head.
He was holding the flask completely vertical with his head cocked when Crissy came by.
"Omigod, that was awesome!"
"Fuck yeah."
"Look at this...blood. I've got Darryck Hanrikker's blood all over my fucking shirt."
"That's awesome."
"Please tell me one of you guys has a cigarette."
"Doesn't your sister smoke?"
"Yeah but she's angling for Dad's old car, so she has to play good big sister all the time now."
"That sucks."
lan had only one Baltic left, the three of them shared it. Crissy sat between Alan and Tim on Alan's left leg and Tim's right. She gestured to say that the longhaired guy was disgusting. They shook their heads and disagreed. Tim tried to sneak his leg out from under Crissy, and she put her arm around Alan who put his arm around her, brushing Tim, trying to figure whether or not he could put rest his hand under her arm, where it would touch the side of her breast, Eventually, he rested it there. It wasn't at all comfortable for him, but he would not move his hand for any reason other than that was entirely necessary. She smelled like her sister. Alan wasn't sure if it was soap or makeup or perfume but it was nice. Everytime he inhaled he could smell her.
Crissy left, just before the curtain dropped. The Goregones' fans were called Monsters. They followed them on tour the way hippies followed the Dead, or Phish. They were obsessed. The Goregones made sure to put on a good show for their fans. For this tour, they hired a dozen martial artists to be painted up like undead ninjas, who would fly around on wires chopping each other's heads off and bleeding on the crowd. The band themselves were demons, with huge bat wings and curled horns. They played through a set of straightforward thrash with lyrics about love, distrust of the governmnt, and satan. The longhaired guy lit up his joint, passing it left and passing it right, but never back. Alan and Tim begged silently for him to notice them, and inhaled deeply every time he exhaled. Every other person, it seemed, was getting high. The place reeked of it so they hungrily sucked in as much air as they could. either Alan nor Tim had been high before, so they weren't sure if they were now. Simply, they agreed that they were, again...something.
In a grand finale, the three (of twelve) remaining samurai floated to the stage and dismembered the band piece by piece. The guitarist lost his right arm, and simply strummed. He lost his left, and simply sang. Then his legs, and then his head. Then the drummer. Then the bassist. Then the singer, util it seemed like the whole floor of Dorito Gardens Convention Hall was awash in blood. The instruments, wet and dropped, squealed and fed back for fifteen minutes for anyone who was willing to wait that long, in hopes of an encore. After half an hour, he lights came on and a janitor came out with a pushbroom to mop up the limbs, wings and instruments. No one ever figured out how the band did it.
Alan and Tim looked for Crissy and her sister but couldn't find her. They kicked a rock back and forth as they walked up the dirt road from the parking lot to the high way, where Alan's mom would be waiting. They were soaked and tired, reeking of their own sweat and other people's smoke. They stopped at a Burger Shack on the way, and blew the rest of their money, a single five-dollar bill between them, on Super Meals, which they tore through hungrily.
In the car, Patricia held her nose as she let the two boys in the back seat. Her youngest was asleep in the front. On the way home, both boys fell asleep and dreamt that they were demons playing in a band. Patricia, singing along to the oldies station, to an old doo-wop number by the La-Trelles. In the rearview, she saw her son, Alan, and her son's friend Tim. Their eyes twitched and smirks spread from ear to ear. She was sure that whatever they were so happy about was mischievous, something she would have to be concerned about later on. She looked at her two thirteen year olds, plotting trouble in their sleep.
God bless them, she thought.
"Yeah, you would." Tim sat on the bed, running a pick through his hair.
The show was at Dorito Gardens, a convention center that had recently taken on corporate sponsorship. Chester Cheetah, the Cheet-O Cheetah stared out from the ticket stub, "Remember kids: moshing, slam dancing, and crowd surfing are seriously uncool," he seemed to say in his lad-back hepcat tone. The "...and is serious grounds for ejection," seemed tacked on, and out of character.
"Alright boys, I'll be back in exactly three hours. I'm going to park exactly three blocks from the Convention Hall, on the side of the road with my blinkers on on the NORTH EAST SIDE. Remember, no smoking, and I mean cigarettes OR doobies, no fighting, no drugs, no drinking, no getting piercings, no tattoos, don't try to buy any shirts with swear words because I won't let you wear them and if either of you comes back here with ripped clothes or without a pair of earplugs in you will never, EVER be going to another rock and roll show again. Do I make myself, absolutely, positively 100% clear."
"Yes Mom."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"And you know you're only doing this because I am THE best all around mother and parent in all of Cresthill?"
"Yes Mom."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, do you have any questions."
"Um, Mrs. Murphy?"
"Yes Tim?"
"My clothes are already kinda ripped."
"Tim, you know that I love you?"
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, then you'll understand that it's out of love that I tell you to get out of the car."
"Yes Mrs. Murphy."
"Good, have a good time."
Patricia Murphy sat in the car watching the boys until she could no longer discern their figures from the hundreds of other awkward kids streaming into the show, at which point she and her son simultaneously lit up a cigarette. Neither one had ever seen the other one smoke, but they had each independently chosen the same generic brand. Baltic Reds. It was the same that Brian Murphy, husband and father, smoked when he lived with them. Alan handed one to Tim, who pulled a Zippo out of his belt.
"You totally got her."
"Who?"
"My Mom."
"How?"
"With that dumbass question about your ripped jeans."
"How did I get her?"
"All that shit she said before we left, about what to do and where to find her? She had that shit memorized. She wasn't expecting a follow up."
"Oh. Heh. What's moshing?"
"White folks' shit."
"Fuck you."
"It's kinda like slam dancing."
"What's slam dancing."
"It's like...the old version of moshing."
"And what the fuck is moshing."
"It's like when motherfuckers jump into each other and shit on the dance floor."
"Oh. White folks' shit."
There were three lines going into Dorito Gardens at every entrance. Two for guys and one for girls. At the front of the line there was a black guy with glasses and a white guy with a ponytail. Together they were probably 460 pounds and both wrapped in bright orange windbreakers. The black guy was roygher than the white guy, nearly shoving people out of the way. In a large trashbin behind him, there was a large bag full of dog collars and bottled water, some knives, some beer, and a cracked glass pipe. The white guy grabbed Alan, by his belt which was a loose string of fake artillery shells. "This can't stay."
""What?"
"Not allowed."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because you bring that down to the pit get in a fight, and some big mean motherfucker like me is likely to take it and whip your smart ass with it."
"I'm not even going down to the pit. Just lemme go."
"Are you tryin to tell me how to do my fuckin job?" the guy was getting angry. So was the rest of the line.
"Hold up. Hold up. Hey, Guy. Can Alan go drop it off in the car and come back?"
"Yeah sure, what the fuck do I care?"
"Alan. Go drop it off. In the car. I'll wait here. Okay?"
Alan walked around the corner til he was out of sight, took off the belt and shoved it into his underwear. On his way back, he ran into a girl named Crissy, who was a year younger than him. She had stringy, pink hair and pimples on her chin. Her sister who ws three years older had long blonde hair, a mesh shirt, a leather trench coat, silver pants, and a severe look of disinterest on her face. Alan remembered a few years back, before she had a growth spurt and lost all that weight when she was really nice and would talk to him. She was a bitch now.
"Alan. Omigod. What's up?"
"Crissy, I didn't know you were a Monster."
"I'm not, but I like the openers, Stalinekker. Have you heard them?"
"Not really. I think I've seen a picture of them."
"Isn't the bass player like so fucking hot?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Terry says that he was in a Playgirl spread and he's really, like, huge., but she won't let see it."
"Bummer."
"So like, are you here alone?"
"No, I'm here with Tim."
"Black Tim?"
"Yeah, I've got his belt down my pants right now?"
"Why?"
"Some Nazi made me take it off up front."
"Oh."
"Yeah, if you have any, like, knives or drugs or anything you should probably stuff em down your tits?"
"Sorry, I don't."
"That's cool. I should get going. Hey where are you sitting?"
"On the floor,"
"Really? Down in the pit?"
"Yeah, it should be awesome."
"Shitty, I'm on like the third balcony. I won't even be able to see them, they'll be like this."
"Yeah but you'll still be able to see the monsters or dancers or whatever it is they bring out, and maybe I'll come visit you."
"That'll be cool, Alan said, but her sister had already started to pull her towards the line. By the time he had gotten to the front of the men's line, they were long gone. He had the white security guard this time, who looked at him funny but didn't search him extra or anything.
"Hey Tim, thanks for letting me borrow your belt," Alan said as he pulled it up, like a string of pearls, one bullet at a time out of his pants.
"Wash that shit, honkey."
"Whatever."
"Yo, I saw Crissy, she said she was talkin to you."
"Yeah."
"Did she say she wanted to fuck me?"
"No."
"Did she say she wanted to fuck you?"
"No."
"Did she say her sister wanted to fuck me?"
"No."
"Well, one of us should fuck her."
"Agreed. You take the older one."
"Did you see the ass on her?"
"Not really."
"Girl had an ass on her."
"I've seen it."
"You like her?"
"Which one?"
"The little one."
"Yeah."
They were seated behind a big guy with long greasy hair and cut off sleeves. His arms were sickly pale with big blotchy pepperoni freckles. He had a joint tucked behind his ear. Alan elbowed Tim in the ribs and pointed at the joint. They both high fived. The first band was announced at the last minute. Terrodon. Their set was just a banner with their logo, a flying lizard with a beer in one vlaw, a Hustler in the other, and a joint in its mouth, crashing through a city skyline Party metal. A lot of songs about chasing girls and drinking beer. The audience booed, and the band left early, sneering at the crown with their middle fingers raised. A full minute and a half after the rest of the band left, the drummer was still playing, trying to drum up support, before he too left. The greasy longhaired guy yelled, "Cmon, you guys suck!"
For the next hour and change, the crackly soundsystem played ACDC's "Back in Black" three times in a row, before the roadies came out. The crowd roared for a moment, until they realized it was just roadies. It was another half hour before the next band played.
Stalinekker was from Finland, but had recently moved to New York. The band used to come out in white makeup and fur, looking like zombie vikings or bolsheviks or something. Some of their fans came to the show in makeup, but the band was just wearing t-shirts and jeans.
"Hello, vee are pleast to play vor you, thees ees 'Tie the Nuns to the Altar, Shoving Candles up their Cunts." The crowd cheered as the singer began his barrage of growls and screams. Alan didn't know the words to the song, and couldn't decipher them; he didn't think he knew anyone who could. He was sure that half of the crowd was imagining the lyrics, as their own personal ideas of what the song must be about. The band took a lot of flak for their lyrics, which were supposedly violent, profane, misogynistic and homophobic but Alan didn't buy it. His father, years ago, tld him that "Louie, Louie" sold a million records way before rock bands could sell a million records just cause the Kingsmen tricked people into thinking the lyrics were about sex. It's what Alan would do, he thought, if he started a band.
He watched the bassist closely. He was tall, with long black hair. From up in the nosebleeds, there was no way to tell if he was "huge". In the middle of their last song, he swung his bass into the singer's chin. The singer, in turn spat blood on the crowd, and jumpt off the stage. The crowd, who Alan though must all be fans of the guy, started pummeling him with their fists before the security guards could pull him bac up. He spat blood on them, shoved the bassist, and gurgled into the mic, "Thank you, good night."
In between bands, Tim disappeared. When he came back, he had a flask. It was silver with an eightball engraved over the letters "T.S." He shook it. It was half full.
"What's in it?"
"Liquor."
"What's it taste like."
"Shit"
Alan tipped his head back and swigged. It burned all the way down to his belly and he wanted to throw up. It was the same for Tim, who, like Alan, had never had a drink before. Neither one knew if they were drunk, but they agreed that they were...something. hey laughed louder and yelled at the stage. "Let's get this shit started!"
"Yeeeeah." The greasy guy agreed, Tim punched him on the shoulder and shook his head.
He was holding the flask completely vertical with his head cocked when Crissy came by.
"Omigod, that was awesome!"
"Fuck yeah."
"Look at this...blood. I've got Darryck Hanrikker's blood all over my fucking shirt."
"That's awesome."
"Please tell me one of you guys has a cigarette."
"Doesn't your sister smoke?"
"Yeah but she's angling for Dad's old car, so she has to play good big sister all the time now."
"That sucks."
lan had only one Baltic left, the three of them shared it. Crissy sat between Alan and Tim on Alan's left leg and Tim's right. She gestured to say that the longhaired guy was disgusting. They shook their heads and disagreed. Tim tried to sneak his leg out from under Crissy, and she put her arm around Alan who put his arm around her, brushing Tim, trying to figure whether or not he could put rest his hand under her arm, where it would touch the side of her breast, Eventually, he rested it there. It wasn't at all comfortable for him, but he would not move his hand for any reason other than that was entirely necessary. She smelled like her sister. Alan wasn't sure if it was soap or makeup or perfume but it was nice. Everytime he inhaled he could smell her.
Crissy left, just before the curtain dropped. The Goregones' fans were called Monsters. They followed them on tour the way hippies followed the Dead, or Phish. They were obsessed. The Goregones made sure to put on a good show for their fans. For this tour, they hired a dozen martial artists to be painted up like undead ninjas, who would fly around on wires chopping each other's heads off and bleeding on the crowd. The band themselves were demons, with huge bat wings and curled horns. They played through a set of straightforward thrash with lyrics about love, distrust of the governmnt, and satan. The longhaired guy lit up his joint, passing it left and passing it right, but never back. Alan and Tim begged silently for him to notice them, and inhaled deeply every time he exhaled. Every other person, it seemed, was getting high. The place reeked of it so they hungrily sucked in as much air as they could. either Alan nor Tim had been high before, so they weren't sure if they were now. Simply, they agreed that they were, again...something.
In a grand finale, the three (of twelve) remaining samurai floated to the stage and dismembered the band piece by piece. The guitarist lost his right arm, and simply strummed. He lost his left, and simply sang. Then his legs, and then his head. Then the drummer. Then the bassist. Then the singer, util it seemed like the whole floor of Dorito Gardens Convention Hall was awash in blood. The instruments, wet and dropped, squealed and fed back for fifteen minutes for anyone who was willing to wait that long, in hopes of an encore. After half an hour, he lights came on and a janitor came out with a pushbroom to mop up the limbs, wings and instruments. No one ever figured out how the band did it.
Alan and Tim looked for Crissy and her sister but couldn't find her. They kicked a rock back and forth as they walked up the dirt road from the parking lot to the high way, where Alan's mom would be waiting. They were soaked and tired, reeking of their own sweat and other people's smoke. They stopped at a Burger Shack on the way, and blew the rest of their money, a single five-dollar bill between them, on Super Meals, which they tore through hungrily.
In the car, Patricia held her nose as she let the two boys in the back seat. Her youngest was asleep in the front. On the way home, both boys fell asleep and dreamt that they were demons playing in a band. Patricia, singing along to the oldies station, to an old doo-wop number by the La-Trelles. In the rearview, she saw her son, Alan, and her son's friend Tim. Their eyes twitched and smirks spread from ear to ear. She was sure that whatever they were so happy about was mischievous, something she would have to be concerned about later on. She looked at her two thirteen year olds, plotting trouble in their sleep.
God bless them, she thought.
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