CH 1

Rock, mixed with a few high-pitched screams rebounded across the heavily soundproofed walls and amidst the throng of the crowd, from massive, expensive Yamaha speakers. The mob crammed themselves around the empty stage, trying to find a spot good enough to get a few pictures for when the bands would come, which would be a good hour from the time. Stage crewmembers moved amps and endless amounts of extension chords on and off the stage, accepting phone numbers from the 'less conservative' of the crowd individuals when they thought no one was looking. I guess one could explain it like this: They flick their head from side to side, and their hair either flies about them in a mass of black or quivers slightly in the form of a mohawk, then they stoop down quickly to grab a dingy piece of paper thrown by an excited blond. Of course not all of the women were blond…that would be slightly stereotypical of me. But one thing was for sure; they were using stage crew to get connections to the real deal…the bands.

Did you understand that? These things happen so fast…it's hard to say them all as they happen. But you should have at least understood the gist of it: tonight it was about the music.

As the forlorn song ended, the radio DJ's voice cut in, and the intense noise from the crowd could suddenly be heard through the pauses of the man's voice. Which was actually a little too outgoing for the type of music he played. The adrenaline and anxiety of the crowd could be visibly seen, in the way they start stirring like ants below in the mosh pit or twitching their feet restlessly as they sit crossed-legged at the small, round little tables on the top balcony. The chat board jittered frantically with each new post from the mosher's cell phones, displayed through a projector against the back wall of the stage. Profanity ruled most of the short, illiterate messages. It was something to entertain them while the bands warmed up. They'd send their texts to a certain cell phone connected to a computer, which would project the message. At least…I think that's how it worked.

After a few more songs from the radio, the sound was suddenly cut and the lights dimmed. The ant swarm continued again, and bouncers start shoving their way through the crowd to stand in a line dividing the 'good view' half from the 'shit view' half. Each of the equally black-shirted men cross their arms across their muscular chest, clearly no match for the skinny mob of teenagers whose only feat of strength is the spike necklaces settled at their throats and their hair pointed wildly about their head, adding a few inches to their height. At least…their 'type' was the most prominent. A few others…sluts, preps, jocks, whores…or are they the same things as sluts? Are they divided only because one of them gets paid? I never know these days. Well actually, I've never known. Probably because I don't give a good god damn about trivial matters such as labels, as people refer to them. Anyways, the first band won't start for more that half an hour, but the new installment sends the morale through the roof.

Girls in groups of four or five wait in endless lines for the bathroom to take one last look at their make-up before the show. Kids that have already been ditched or dumped lean coolly against the back wall of the club, the guys strong and silent and the girls in silent tears. Cell phones light each group on the floor like beacons and every once in a while a rogue flash from a camera burns the corneas off someone's eyes. I didn't know cameras were allowed. I'd better behave myself tonight…The entire general vicinity of the juice bar is overtaken with the kids who forgot to bring booze in their car for after the show, and have to settle with some psycho energy drink for the time being. One with the supposed whale bile in it…you just go for it children.

I can observe and tell you all of this because instead of being backstage like my manager wants, I'm shoving through the crowd and walking back and forth aimlessly by the merchandise like the rest of them. And I probably wouldn't be easily noticed, either. I'm wearing hair extensions that cover most of my face, and an Element beanie over that to cover at least the top half of my entire head, though making it somewhat difficult to see. I don't even like skateboarding. The outrageously tight, green polyester hoodie that I somehow managed to squeeze my arms into (which trust me, are already pretty disgustingly skinny to begin with) isn't probably doing much to hide my torso, but I guess I blend in quite fine with the others that were smart and wore Under Armor to control their body temperature. I've even put the hood from it over my head. My faded blue jeans are regrettably low rise, so a good portion of my waistline is exposed as well as my hip piercings, which are probably pretty identifiable, but some shit-head forgot to find a laundromat and do his job so this is the only long-sleeved article of clothing I've got left that doesn't smell like B.O., not that I'm stinky or anything. It'll make sense once you get to know me a little better, you'll see. Though I'm guessing that from what you can tell I'm just another loud-mouthed idiot protagonist. But I don't care. Because you don't know me. You know what I'm wearing and what I think of everyone else. Hardly anything when you get down to it. But I'm trying to show you…and you will learn.

So, like I said, I probably wouldn't be easily noticed mixed with this crowd. Unfortunately though, a bodyguard is required to follow me around, which immediately draws attention. I mean c'mon…a guy in a black suit who's obviously spent the last fourteen years benching twice his weight following a skinny shit like me? Suspicion. But it can't be helped. Like I said, I have no choice.

I'm walking in my usual manner also, which is also a little suspicious. My hands at my sides, ready to wave 'yes' or 'no and my head held high with regal air. Believe it or not, I'm full of myself. I get my way with anyone…save for a select few…Anyways this, plus the bodyguard, definitely draws the attention I'm not looking for. I'll probably get my ass kicked for it later, but right now…

I want to see what's happening at my show.

To be continued…

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AN: R&R please, if you liked it.