“I SAID, THIS BAND IS GREAT, DONTCHA THINK?”
Stewart felt his eardrum strain to the point of rupturing. The shouter, a scrawny, shortish guy dressed like a dollar-store demon smiled moronically at him, clearly waiting for a response.
“OH, YEAH. GREAT. REALLY GREAT.”
Before he could stop himself, Stewart had responded, “WHAT?”
“I SAID, I THINK THIS IS THEIR BEST CONCERT EVER! YEAH! LISTEN TO THIS BIT, ITS FUCKIN’ AWESOME!”
The pain in his ear blossomed, and Stewart wondered if the damage would be permanent. That said, the annoying guy was right – this was an amazing concert, and the band were hitting all his favourites. Nailing them.
He would like to enjoy it too, if this scrawny-demon-costume-dude would shut-up and let him.
“WOOOWW, WHAAAA, CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA, SREWWWWWAOOOOOOOOO! DUB-ADDA-DUB-ADDA-DUB-DUB-DUB, SCREEEEEEEEEE!”
Unbelievable. This idiot was screeching out a tuneless, deafening air-guitar solo whilst the band was on stage. Stewart ducked a flailing air-guitar arm.
Stewart looked around, hoping to slowly edge away from the shouter. Unfortunately the concert was packed, and any attempt to move into another space gained him an angry elbow to the ribs. He noticed that the room had a bunch of guys and girls dressed in the same weak-ass demon costumes. Groupies? Why don’t you hang out with those guys?
Turning, he saw with horror that he had just missed yet another mumbled sentence, and braced himself for the audio assault.
“I SAID, I HOPE THEY PLAY STUFF FROM THEIR EARLIER ALBUMS! THIS LATER STUFF IS OK, BUT I THINK THEY LOST SOME OF THEIR INTENSITY AFTER ‘CARLOS THE CLOWN-ROOTER’ LEFT AS THE DRUMMER! TELL ME, DID YOU EVER LISTEN TO THE NECROPHILIAC NEPHILIM? I THINK THEIR WORK WAS… OH WAIT THIS BIT IS AWESOME,CHECK IT OUT! SCREEE-AAAAHHH-WWHOOAWWW…“
More air-guitar masturbation, and all of it during his favourite band’s best songs. Stewart felt hot, like he was going to pass out, and a headache started to build. He hated this sort of behaviour, god he just wanted to listen to the music, enjoy why couldn’t this guy go away…
The scrawny groupie stopped with the air-guitar, and started to fumble around in his pocket, spilling warm beer over Stewart’s crotch. Stewart was then blinded by an over-lit smartphone shoved in front of his face, blocking his view of the band and substituting a blurry view of the rear of people’s heads.
Stewart decided he had to move, damn the angry elbows, else he straight up murder this guy. He took a deep breath, preparing to push, to move…
…and discovered he was not breathing.
Stewart started to panic, clutching his chest desperately. He couldn’t breathe. He could smell the sweat of the scrawny groupie, he could taste the acrid mixed flavours of smoke machine and dope in the air, he could scream in terror, but he couldn’t fucking breathe!
He spun around, looking for an escape, looking for the exit. The concert arena seemed infinite, hordes of fans disappearing into the endless crowd. Metal heads moshed, neo-punks body-slammed, alt-hispters nodded ironically. There was no egress, no escape.
And that’s when he noticed that next to each fan was a demon groupie. Next to each music lover, an irritating tool in a cheap costume was sharing an annoying view about the band’s better days. Sharing information about other obscure bands no-one had ever heard of that were ‘way better’ that this band. Sharing piss-warm beers splashed over the dicks of the tormented souls attending the concert.
The band kicked into another awesome set, as the demon started scream out to the band.
“FREEBIRD! PLAY FREEBIRD!”
The demon turned back to Stewart, and winked.
Another Jacopo della Quercia inspired bit of flash fiction, and a Mötley Crüe reference in the title. Who could ask for more?
Let me know what you think in the comments!