Twist and Shout

The gates have been lifted to reveal a bar whose name might not do it justice. The place spans half-a-block and is bullet-proof glass the entire way. No less than three bouncers (usually more) wait attentively outside, holding detecting wands to insure no weapons get in the place (READ: THERE ARE NO WEAPONS ALLOWED IN TWIST AND SHOUT).

Inside, Twist and Shout is decorated in colors of white and black and clear. The decor is from the finest retailers New Avarus City has to offer. Two medium sized stages occupy different areas. The first stage, off to the right after one enters the bar, has two fine console pianos; one black and one white. Here, two players--Jesse on black and Roy on white--take tips to play the songs patrons request. As the night wears on, their piano duels intensify and people have attributed some of the battles as Liberace duking it out with Billy Joel.

The other stage, off to the left of the entry, is mostly occupied by a white grand piano. The music offered here is that of Frank Sinatra, Harry Connick Jr., Elle Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett. The pianist is the youngest son of Vincent Russo, Trey. The stage is round like the where the duelists play, but a large partition curves off of it to keep the different musical styles and talents from interfering with each other. The area is neatly organized with plush leather couches, giving patrons the ultimate lounging experience.

There is a stairway between the two stages that leads to the VIP section and Russo's private quarters. Good luck getting up there.

The rest of Twist and Shout is occupied by regular bars, liquour bars, and a large martini bar in the dead center of the place. The bar in the very back left corner is attended Vinny's cousin Saul. Call him Carnie though, or you'll get tossed from the joint.

Rain. It peppers the windscreen of my car like a barrage of automatic fire. In this city a day and already it rains. To hear the others talk that's all this city ever seems to get; rain and the odd belt of fog. It never snows here. It's never hot. New Avarus is the city of whores and bums. NA; city of the middle ground. The city of the grey. NA. Not available? Not applicable? No answers. I give up counting the letters. It got boring long as soon as I started.

Wiping a spot of dust from the steering wheel with a gloved hand, I lean back in my seat and watch the rain pummel the car. The gloves are black leather, like the band of my wristwatch, but they hide the tattoos on my hands. Apparently that's important here. I have to hand it to Nikolai, the car was a good find. Audi A4; grey, new enough to give no trouble, classy but not flashy, the way a car should be. No matter how small this gang is its important that we come across as professionals. Russos. I laugh in spite of myself, sipping the lukewarm coffee from the paper cup in the dash. Odd that we're working with those that share a name with us. Still, business is business and the Russos pay. And as long as they pay, then I have no problem with them.

There's a noise like a door slamming and two dark forms jog across from the warehouse to the car. I switch off the autolock casually, waiting for them to enter. Stepan and Andrei, Nikolai's embassadors to the Russos. A weapons deal in the Industrial corner, right in the middle of New Pack turf. They were supposed to be organising this whole deal. Looking at them in the rearview mirror, I find that hard to credit. They aren't vors, but they suffice for the task at hand. I'm the driver for this deal, strictly observation. Stepan reaches into his jacket for a cigarette, I raise a hand to forestall him.

"No smoking in car."

Stepan laughs dryly, letting his hand fall.

"I had forgotten," he says, "you don't smoke."

"No, I don't. And as long as you are in my car, neither do you. How did it go?"

They shift uncomfortably, but Andrei soon meets my eye.

"They came through with the money," he says, patting the briefcase in his lap. "So we came through with the weapons."

I nod. That is the deal for now. Simple exchange, nothing complicated until we know where we stand. I tell them about the news report on the radio, about the bank heist they say the Russos pulled. Stepan almost spits before I silence him with a look.

"Savages."

I have to agree. Real thieves should not rely on such heavy handed methods. Banks are a young man's game, and this speaks volumes about the state of things here. Yes, I think Vieslav will be doing a lot of business here. I say as much to the other two. They shrug and refuse to meet my gaze. I watch over the rims of my glasses for a moment, then turn my eyes to the rain-soaked waste outside the windscreen. A red car pulls out of an alley ahead. Probably our contacts. Its safe to move now.

Switching the radio to a jazz station, I put the car in gear and ease him into motion. The engine purrs like an oiled kitten, and soon the industrial park is behind us. Taking a left at a red light, I head west towards New Quarter. Stepan and Vieslav get off at Avarus Condominiums, muttering a vague goodbye. I'm glad to have them out of my hair. I have enough to do without babysitting those two. Heading back east at a coast, I enter the Highlands, my new base of operations. There's a contact at this bar, Twist and Shout, a Saul Russo, Nikolai says he will have news for me. I'll have to take his word for it.

I pull up at a parking lot around back and stroll up to the door under a concrete hallway. This place is a bit ostentatious, but then so are the Russos. There are three bouncers outside. Two at the door, one on patrol. The walker mutters into his radio as I pass, signalling to the others. They move to stop me as I approach. I know the drill. Giving them my name, I put my arms firmly behind my head and try not to look too bored as they frisk me. They take my pistol, knife and ammunition before waving me through. I ask about Saul. One of them points me towards a bar at the back. I thank him and move on through, sparing a glance for the decorations as I go. Approaching the bar, I signal to the man there.

"You are Saul Russo?"

-------------------------------------------------------

This colour means I'm speaking Russian.

It's pretty dead right now, but that's to be expected. Morning drinks are for the rich and alcoholics, but even the rain will keep the rich at bay. So just the alcoholics are on display right now. Even then, there are a few lacking. Most probably got wind of cousin Vincent's bank getting knocked over last night and probably want to avoid this place right now.

I hear the door open and in walks the tallest man I've seen in this place yet. He isn't dressed like a lush for this hour, but who knows. He walks straight over to me and then says something. I can't tell if it's German or Russian or Ukrainian or what.

"Eh, Russian bar is in the Danks, comrade," I respond, not sure if he'll understand me, "we speak English here."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Had no-one informed him? It wasn't important I reminded myself, taking a stool. The bar seemed empty enough, but that was to be expected at this hour of the morning.

"My apologies," I say, my accent twisting the words. "You are Saul Russo? Aidan Patyenko. Nikolai Vielsav says you are man to contact about news."

"My apologies," I say, my accent twisting the words. "You are Saul Russo? Aidan Patyenko. Nikolai Vielsav says you are man to contact about news."

I put down the glass I'm cleaning and look over the man's shoulder. Security is already walking towards him but I shake my head them. They stop where they are and I look back at Aidan, here.

"I ain't seen your mug around here before," I tell him, "and with that accent I can tell you ain't from around here, so I'll cut you some slack, this time." I turn around and start organizing the glasses, figuring out which ones need cleaning and which ones don't. "Unless you're blood or blood-in-law, don't ever use my Christian name, or that's a one-way ticket to the street."

I turn back around with a new glass and work to clean the spots off. "Now, I don't know no Nikolai, and I ain't the News. You need a drink or something?"

I shrug, rising from the stool. This wasn't my contact, and this was a waste of time. I pull of my gloves lightly, tucking them into the pockets of my coat.

"I was led to believe you were a friend in our arrangement," I say by way of apology, "I was mislead it seems. Tell Vincent that more gear is on the way then."

Casting a wry glance to the bouncers, I take my leave of the man, moving for the door.

‘Twist and Shout’. No doubt a fun place at nighttimes, but right now it was about as exciting as a seventy year old stripper. That said, it does have potential. Gorilla’s at the entrance spot my piece without looking it seems. Has to go, of course. I know, why even bother carrying a weapon, heck, I don’t know. Does very little to make me feel save. Guess it makes me look threatening, if nothing else.

Something about this place that makes me take of my bowler head before I’m even seated. It’s the atmosphere, if such a thing exists. Mom wasn’t kidding when she told me to be careful around this place. Still, after nearly six months of nothing but strip clubs, this is a huge relief. The man at the piano knows what he is doing, at least. Now let’s hope they serve a decent single malt.

I signal a nearby waitress and place an order. Remind myself that I’m here to observe first. Don’t initiate contact until you know what this place is about. My mom’s words, not mine. Always looking for me. I sigh as I lean back in my chair, trying to unwind after the scenic tour the cab driver gave me, may he lose his guts in an alley. Single Malt and jazz. Not so bad. I smile broadly as I see the girl approach with my drink. Maybe later in the day, I´ll place a little bet. ´Moneyonme´ sounds like a good name for a race horse.

"I was led to believe you were a friend in our arrangement," I say by way of apology, "I was mislead it seems. Tell Vincent that more gear is on the way then."

I shrug as the man takes his leave. "Sure thing, comrade."

He made his way to the door and I kept cleaning the glasses. Clearly the man thought he was bigger than he really is. "Gear"? Is he really trying to talk business in the open. And who did he think he was calling Vincent by his first name. I motion for one of the bouncers. If the Ruskie wanted to hang himself with the authorities by speaking so openly, then that was his business.

The bouncer approaches me. "Boris there isn't allowed in this bar anymore, got it?"

The man nods and goes off to inform the rest of the security team.

I think for a second to tell Vincent about what the man had said, but I'm specifically not supposed to know about this stuff so I can have complete deniability. That's how it's always been. I grab another glass to clean.

And that's how it will always stay.

The cold water rushes over my head, spilling down my neck and soaking my collar. I don’t really care, too busy rinsing my hair. Thick streaks of red liquid run down the sink into the drain, like someone just hacked my skull open with a carving knife. It’s like the scene in that film, Psycho, the shower scene, where all the blood slowly drains away. I read somewhere that was actually chocolate sauce.

Well, it’s not like this is actual blood either. Hair dye. The box said in bright red lettering: ‘Lustrous, natural looking hair in just 10 minutes!’. The waiting felt like forever though. I kept looking at my watch – surely seconds aren’t really that long? - and as soon as the second hand struck ten minutes my head was under that tap.

Eventually the water no longer runs red, but a pale pink colour and then, after a while, just clear. Slowly I turn the tap off and lift my head, wringing out a few locks as I go so my hair’s just wet, not saturated. When I look in the mirror though, I stop. It’s a strange feeling, seeing yourself with a different hair colour for the first time. The face is the same; heart shaped, fair skin that looks even paler now. The same, pale green eyes, the same nose, lips, ears. But instead of long, golden curls, my hair is now a striking copper colour. Distinctive. Kind of like that streak of red you see when a fox dashes across the road. Maybe too distinctive. Well, it’s different at least. No time to worry about it now.

Next, a change of style.

A little nervously I pull my stiletto knife from my sleeve, where it lies strapped to my wrist. I’ve had hair down to my waist for as long as I can remember, so I’m a little scared to do this. That old fairytale, Rapunzel, pops into my head. She had all her hair cut off too, because she tried to escape the witch that kept her locked up. A wry grin twists my lips at that thought. It’s sort of a similar situation I’ve found myself in.

I take a deep breath, and bring the knife to my hair. I want to close my eyes as I saw away. Long curls drop to the floor around my feet. I half expect them to come to life; hissing snakes biting at my ankles, glinting menacingly in the glare from the overhead lights. Sooner than I like, I’m finished. My curls are gone, leaving only a short, wet pixie crop. It feels like a different person is staring at me out of the mirror. A different person with my face.

It’s not enough to fool anyone serious about finding me, but it’ll make it more difficult for them to spot me quickly.

I look at my watch. I’ve been locked in this bathroom for near on 45 minutes. Definitely time to go. I hurriedly retie my stiletto to my wrist, then scoop up my cut hair and shove it into the bin. I glance in the mirror, roughly mess up my hair a bit, then unlock the bathroom and leave.

The woman waiting on the other side gives me a strange look as I pass her, no doubt wondering what the hell kept me in there so long. I shrug, and say, “Bad shrimp.”

I try to hide a grin as she pales.

As soon as I leave the run-down, roadside diner the rain hits me in full on force. My newly-cut hair is slicked to my skull, and I’m soaked through in a matter of seconds. So much for keeping my collar dry. I pull a nondescript black mackintosh out of my pack, and shrug it on. I pull the hood up high, casting my face into shadow. I try not to let my fingers linger on the wads of cash in my bag as I pull the zip closed, and stand up. Just another NAC’er trudging through the rain.

I wander around for about half an hour before I decide I’m really sick of the rain. Rain, rain, go away, come again another day … Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon. I look around for someplace I can escape it, and my ears are caught by the smooth sound of low jazz music emanating from a nearby building. Frank Sinatra if I’m not mistake. You’ve got to love the classics.

I look round. It’s a bar, with a sign that declares it ‘Twist and Shout.’ I stop then. That’s the Russos’ bar.

I may be a newcomer to NAC, but I’m not stupid. I’m also a survivor and everyone who wants to live past their first few days in NAC quickly learns about the Russos and the New Pack. Bitter rivals. You go into one of their bars, you’d better have chosen wisely ‘cos you’ll never be allowed in the other afterwards. Not unless you want a bullet between the eyes and a first-hand viewing of the bottom of the Rose River.

I hesitate. Do I really want to go in? Do I want to get mixed up with the Russos?

Well, if anyone can protect me, keep me hidden, it’s them. If they want to. And it would get me out of the rain. The music does sound good …

Aw, screw it.

I warily enter, taking in the black-and-white décor, the two stages. The Sinatra music’s coming from a white grand off to the left. The pianist is certainly talented, and no doubt a Russo.

There are already a couple of people here, but the place is by no means buzzing. I pull down my hood, and feel very conscious of the water steadily dripping from every inch of skin and clothing. I’m practically standing in a puddle already. That’s not going to make a good first impression.

I try to adopt a confident air, shrugging my bag further onto my shoulder and making my way over to one of the bars. I pull a slightly bedraggled note, but a note nonetheless, from my pocket and slide it across the bar. “A white wine spritzer.”

It comes quickly, and, drink in hand, I make my way over to one of the chairs where I can sit and enjoy the Sinatra music.

As I towel my hair dry, naked in the plume of steam left from the shower, I reflect that even if this is a cheap hotel at least it’s got a good supply of hot water. It helped to wash away the long angry trudge here after Vander left me in the street to stomp out of that slum with all of my things.

I force myself not to frown, straightening and flinging my wet dark hair back, my misty reflection in the vanity mirror doing the same. Frowns cause wrinkles, after all.

Moving to the bedroom I sort through my clothes till I find a silky cinnamon-colored slipdress patterned with tiny golden flowers. With the help of a push-up bra it goes from casually sexy to sensational. The hem falls just past the knee, a slit at the back offering the occasional extra flash of leg.

Lace-topped silk thigh-highs, a pair of five-inch gold and brown spike heels, my favorite plain gold gypsy hoop earrings, and a nice collection of bangles on my left arm complete the outfit.

While my thick dark mane dries, twisting into casual waves at the ends, I outline my eyes carefully, giving them a smoky, exotic look. A slick of sheer rose color across my lips and my reflection passes my critical inspection.

The secret of makeup is a light hand. Eyes can afford to be more dramatic, though.

It’s time to look for a job. Vander isn’t coming back for me and I’m glad. I was mistaken thinking he was some kind of prince charming when he turned out to be merely a pig, coolly suggesting a business arrangement that I wouldn’t have considered in a million years.

I hope Vander’s nose is still bleeding, damn him.

Slipping into a tan trench coat and tying it, I sling the nose-breaking calfskin purse over my shoulder and head out to the cab that should be waiting. Time to head out to the hot spot that my inquiries have led me to.

“Twist & Shout,” I tell the taxi driver.

He spares me a look that says anyone with a foreign accent is most likely an illegal or a terrorist. I ignore him and stare out the window, watching New Avarus City flow past the windows. It reminds me of Mexico City, built by old money and old corruption overlaid by new dealers in both.

Of course the skies open as I pay the taxi driver and get out in front of Twist & Shout and I’m doused pretty thoroughly in the dash to the door.

Pushing through, between two bouncers who I barely see though I can feel their guard-dog gazes, I shake the water from my hair once inside then let my eyes adjust to the lighting while I undo my coat. A low wolf whistle greets me from the depths of the room and I ignore it, scanning instead for whoever might be in charge.

Nice enough place. I'm not entirely sure why the swarthy wire-haired woman at the front desk had mentioned Twist & Shout the way she had...with a kind of sidewise glance that meant that all might not be as it seemed. I'm sure I'll find out why that is eventually. Won't surprise me a bit if there is some kind of gangland war in this city. It seems there are such groups in any city.

I'll keep myself to myself and do my job. If I can get one.

Heading over to the bar with the sashay that only really high heels can give a woman, I address the bartender.

"Who can I speak to regarding employment? I'm a singer," my eyes wander to the pianos, "I can do a range of styles."

I run my hands through my short black hair, seems odd to me two weeks ago it reached just below my shoulder blades. I look out the window of the car at the passing buildings, in the background the rest of the band chatters.
The talk is of Rickenbacker guitars, strings for and hot new vocals. I’m bored I can play an instrument but music like this isn’t my cup of tea.

“Lets have drinks,” nick suggests. The boys are nodding their heads in agreement.

“how bout it Gwen?” Nick asks.

“Sure why not…”

I’m in a world of my own bothered by contagious thoughts, that lead from one place to the next in my mind. I should have my mind on the job, not the band but the policing. I just can’t today. Tool, the driver and yes that is his name I s*** you not pulls into the car park. Before the cars ignition is off the boys are piling out of the car thirty and bored. I can tell they’re in the mood to cause trouble. I’ll have to keep up with them and stop any bad behaviour before they get out of control. They’ve just received a record contract it would be a shame if they lost out now.
I climb out of the car and watch as the boys play fight in the car park. Zack the bass player stands with me shaking his head.

“Damn guitarists,” he says. I can’t help laughing. He puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me into Twist and shout. I manage to spot a large sign ‘THERE ARE NO WEAPONS ALLOWED IN TWIST AND SHOUT.’ I’m glad I had the common sense not to wear mine today. General I won’t go anywhere without my handgun.
The bar is a little to trendy for my tastes all back and white, very uniform. Zack points out a comfortable looking couch and I take a seat. Zack heads off to fetch a round of drinks. I slouch in my seat feeling uncomfortable.

Me oh my oh me. Plenty of beautiful ladies come in here. But never this early in the morning. I never get tired of working at this place. One approaches the bar and I put down my glass.

"Who can I speak to regarding employment? I'm a singer," she asks and looks over at the pianos, "I can do a range of styles."

I'm laughing on the inside. Plenty of girls came in here saying they could sing, none of them had the pipes, though.

"You'll need to talk to Trey when he comes in in a few hours to warm up and visit the family," I tell her. "Can I offer you a drink? I make a mean Bloody Mary."

I don't think that meeting a potential employer after a few drinks is what I want to do. But hanging out here has a certain appeal, there are comfortable couches, it's warm, and as the weather splashes rain against the street windows I consider that it's dry.

"Make it a Virgin Mary for now," I reply in my Mexican-accented purr, narrowing my eyes briefly like a pleased cat, favoring him with a tiny smile, "and I might take you up on the Bloody later."

"Make it a Virgin Mary for now," her accent is exotic, as is her smile, "and I might take you up on the Bloody later."

"Sure thing, Miss..." I trail off to leave room for her to finish the sentence.

"Fuentes." I reply, "Juana Fuentes. Though if I end up hanging around here it'll just be 'Gypsy'."

Always make the bartender your friend.

"And you are?" I ask him with a coy smile, giving my shoulders a subtle shake to allow my coat to fall open, laying one palm flat on the bar.

So this is Twist And Shout. Well, it looks pretty good, from the outside. Vanna and I just arrived, and instantly these three roadblocks approach me. No doubt it's a search, but them wands are ridiculous. When I take another look at the gentlemen, I noticed they all look like they just got out the big house. I wonder if they were made to grab their ankles. Actually, no I don't. I just wish they'd hurry up with the wand-waving, I'm not much into magic.

"So how's the business in a spot like this?" I ask. I already know the answer, my cousin and I used to boldly walk past this spot as kids. It was bold of us because we did work for their enemy, the New Pack. I don't expect any of these assholes to remember me, nor do I want them to. The wand moves up to my head and beeps.

"I have a plate in my mouth," I lied. How the Hell would they know? Especially these steroid posterboys in charge at the door. I seriously doubt one of them would come from a college like Yale just to ogle pretty ladies when they could own the whole damn bar and have every pretty lady ogle them. Just a thought, but it's a damn good one, I think.

"We make due," one of the guys said in response. He's obviously lying. I don't wanna rob the place, I just wanna destroy it and all human life stuck there on the day of doom. But I don't feel so bad about his lying to me, after all, I'm doin' the same thang.

"Glad to hear it."

See?

Meanwhile, Vanna puts on a little show for the boys. They aren't starvin' for fine women to grace this establishment, they get there fair share. But in the morning time? Forget it. I'm performing a public service by havin' her stuff her body in that skimpy, silky silver dress. I watch her as she laughs at their terrible jokes, flippin' her hair and workin' the patented shoulder touch. She's a pro. One of the greatest actresses I've seen, and in my line, believe that I've seen many.

After fun time with the help, we go in to take care of business. I walk close to her as we make our way in.

"You're clear on what we're doin', right?" I whispered to her.

"Yeah,' she replies.

I nod my head as I shake the rain off me. I knew those gorillas would prolong things just to keep Vanna wet, but that was part of my plan. That's why we didn't have an umbrella with us.

"Grab us a table while I get some drinks," I said, heading for the bar.

I snuck a peek at the goods as she found a cozy, yet not too isolated table for us to sit at. Very well done, Vanna. It's good to see that my money is goin' to the right people. Can't stare too much, we need to appear to be a couple co-workers. That's the cover we'll use. In all honesty, I got some other ventures we could easily 'work for.' Work, I laugh at that word.

Here's the bartender.

"How 'bout a Tom Collins and a Long Island Iced Tea?" I ask him.

"Fuentes." she says, "Juana Fuentes. Though if I end up hanging around here it'll just be 'Gypsy'. And you are?"

"Carnie," I tell her, "just Carnie."

A man approaches the bar just then. "How 'bout a Tom Collins and a Long Island Iced Tea?"

I get a couple of shakers, pouring the various liquors and ingredients into them. After a quick mix, I grab the appropriate glasses and ice and pour the drinks. A bit odd of an order for this early in the morning from someone I hardly recognize, but to each his own.

"That's fifteen," I tell him and look back at this Fuentes dame. "So, Juana, what made you pick this bar to sing at?"

“A few inquiries here and there told me that this was the hot spot that might fit the music I like to sing.” I sip my drink, perfect. “In fact the desk clerk at my hotel was kind of insistent that I come see it for myself.”

I let my gaze sweep over the black and white of the décor, almost aggressively modern with some items seeming to float on clear Plexiglas. The pianos gleamed, the lighting pleasant and recessed, the couches inviting lounging.

The Marylin Monroe wannabe with her gangsta rapper boyfriend appear to be headed to a table. She seems to fit the place to some extent but I’m not sure about him. A catty part of my brain insists that she resembles a badly-wrapped Christmas present.

I turn my eyes back to Carnie with a small smile, “And so far I like what I see.”

It didn’t escape my notice that Carnie had mentioned Trey visiting the family. This could mean a couple of different things and I decide a gentle question can’t hurt.

“I’m guessing that Trey is Mr. Russo. Who is he related to here?”

I cross my arms on the edge of the bar, set to listen.

I watched as Zack balanced drinks on a tray and cautiously made his way back to the table. Nick and the other band members made there way into the toilets and came out ten minutes later with glassy eyes, looking like they’d been awake all night. I shook my head annoyed, the environment hardly called for it. A rapper had taken a seat with a blonde woman at a table. Nick and Tool had taken note of that and were snickering making tasteless jokes about rappers.
Zack shook his head, “I cringed the moment the poor guy stepped into the bar,” he said nodding at the rapper.

“You‘re a bass player? You don‘t mind rap?” I asked looking at Zack curious.

“Sure nothing wrong with nice solid beats a lot of rappers do that with their music.”

I didn’t know that much about any music other then rap and metal, I could sing that was a bonus point. I was more annoyed that I had missed out on seeing where the other boys had gotten their gear from. The boss would kick my ass for missing that one. I always seemed to luck out on leads lately. Perhaps I was enjoying life just a little to much.

I paid the man his fifteen dollars and take the drinks to my table. There was a Latina he was talkin' to, and I wasn't gonna stick around to hear his game on her, assuming he had game. I gave her a quick look on my way to the table where Vanna was waiting with a raised eyebrow.

"Here," I said as I gave her the Tom Collins. Who the Hell orders that?

There was some guy nodding at me. I nodded back, not sure if he had a problem or not. Whatever's clever, baby. Maybe he recognized me. I'll catch him outside and see what's good. They had a chick with 'em, though. She looked way too good to hang with those jackasses, but I ain't a judge.

I took down some of my Long Island and leaned my head back, thinking about my cousin. He's the reason I'm out here, and his death will be avenged and then some. Maybe as a bonus, those assbags could have something to do with it. Win freakin' win, naw'mean?

“So lets talk about those lyrics,” Nick finally says bored of his own crappy jokes.
Zack has a scrappy folded piece of paper out before I can blink.

“You guys really need to think about organising your work a little better then that.” I nod at the piece of paper.

“Don‘t be a hard a**,” Nick scolds.

“No, she‘s right it wouldn‘t kill us to buy a folder it‘d cost us jack…” Zack says. Alex the drummer nods in agreement. Tool being the butt sucker he is decides to side with Nick. After all Nick is apparently our fearless leader.
I take the piece of paper from Zack and unfold it.

(Verse one)
There is a welling, drips in the darkness. A morbid phycosamtic melody, to the depths of the unknown. Look now my pretty's, Look how the fear has grown!
Look at the blood coursing. Hear how your heart beat has slowed.

(Chorus)
Lay you down, down to rest Forget to remember you know the rest the light is shinning on the other side seal your fate claw your chest across the breast signet of lament should you regret

(Verse two)
I thought you'd remember heartbeats in the well. I thought you'd reach out to me
no condemnations to hell. The sickly honey heart melody follows me down
when I hit the bottom no one hears the sound.

Definitely not my cup of tea, it sounds like the sort of fear monger metal that would make my head throb. What does interest me is the neatness of Zack’s hand writing it looks out of place on the scrappy paper. Perhaps Nick or Alex have had it.
“That‘s awesome,” I say and I’m surprised how naturally thrilled I can sound in my lie.

“I‘ve been messing with my guitar I think I have a sound for it now and Nick‘s helped a lot.”

Now there’s something surprising. I’m itching to get out of this bar, now we are talking music I can’t see myself leaving any time soon. So I amble up to the bar.

"Can I get a shot of scotch?" I ask the bar tender.

I finished that Long Island much faster than normal. It was the nod from that idiot. After I took a couple of minutes to mull it over, I realized that if he recognized me, he could f*ck up what I'm doin' here. I can't stop lookin' in their direction. Part of me wants to say, "F*ck it." and the other part is tellin' me to keep myself thorough. That part won and I got up.

"Where a goin?" Vanna asked me.

"I gotta talk to this guy real quick."

I walked over to the man that nodded at me, ignoring his band of genital warts altogether. It was only him I needed to speak with. I'll play it cool, it might have been some friendly sh*t goin' on, but whatever it was, I'm damn sho gettin' to the bottom of it.

"How's it goin', guy?" I began. "I noticed you nodding at me a little earlier, have we met before?"

I watched as the rapper moved towards the table and made a quick payment for my scotch moving back to the table.

"How's it goin', guy?" I began. "I noticed you nodding at me a little earlier, have we met before?" he said just as I made it back over.

“Dunno,” Nick said. I could see him starting to smile, my heart was hammering in my chest. I could see the headlines now, metal band slaughtered by ganglands rapper. My imagination was running away with me.

“I was just being friendly like,” Nick the weasel managed to say. It wasn’t the way I saw it when he was joking around like an a******.

“What‘s going on?” I ask cutting straight to the chase. This place looks to nice for a brawl. “We‘re not looking for trouble I manage to say.”

“Shut up Gwen,” Tool snaps. Zack is out of his chair in a shot.

“She just asked a question man cool it,” he says.

If I haven’t told you already metal bands fight a lot. If their not fighting their backstabbing and when their not backstabbing their paying hired hands for hits on members who tip them off. You know how you see metal players smash amps guitars and hotel rooms. That tends to be therapy for tension.

“Looks we‘re sorry if we offended you or anything man, we‘re just sitting here. No harm or nothing,” Zack says calmly. I’m looking over at the bar tender wondering when he’ll kick us out.

Now I know they're lyin', but I don't know if they know me or if they were just talkin' sh*t from far away. I heard every single one of 'em give their two cents on what was goin' on. I don't believe that friend sh*t for a minute, but it's not worth waitin' for them to come out the bar.

I nodded at the group as I thought to myself if I should actually wait for them to come out. Nah, it's good. I don't really need the attention, though if it was called for, I'd move mountains in front of the masses to settle a score. I looked at the bartender, no doubt I would be removed before them. Whatever.

"So then there won't be anymore lookin' my way with snickers and sh*t, right?" I asked the last guy who decided to speak.

"So then there won't be anymore lookin' my way with snickers and sh*t, right?" I asked the last guy who decided to speak.


I looked at Zack startled I wasn’t about to let this guy accuse everyone of stirring crap when we were both hardly interested. Screw procedure and level heads.
“Hey, we look where we want to, it‘s a free freaking world. I‘m sorry if your fat head got in the way of our view. Seriously…”

Yes I do realise at this point I’m asking for trouble. Whatever, I’ll deal with it later if I need to.

“Second I don‘t know why you‘re giving him s*** when he was feeling all sorry like for you. It was those two retards over there being the smart a**** so get it right…So why don‘t you prance back over to your girl…”

I flopped down in my seat. The boys were staring at me a look between annoyance and pleasure for my words. I shrugged and looked down at the lyrics. This was one guy anyway what was he going to do…