Hey, Hey, Everyone Wants To Be A Rock (Star)

A sort of story I'm working on. Rather large, so I'm putting it up in parts. Still haven't finished, so updates as I finish.

Thud.

“Ow.”

Hm. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Stage diving.

Yeah, that's what the crowd loves, isn't it? When their favourite guitarist/drummer/singer/pole dancer flings themselves off stage, to land in the audience, face first, and get manhandled by a million and odd people?

Hell yeah! Sign me up anyday, is what I said. But stage diving does not come to the inexperienced. It requires practice, as much as it may seem not to.

Not to get various parts of your body yanked off by rabid fans, that was an art, my friend.

But the most important part of stage diving, is the crowd.

Which I seemed to be missing.

“Where's the dangblastedsnarkin' crowd?!?”

“Wha-?”

“The crowd, Beavis. The crowd.”

“What crow?”

Sigh.

“Let me explain this to you. Rock shows have nothing to do with birds which go 'kaaa'. They've got an audience. Any questions? No, an audience has nothing to do with cars, either. They're the people who watch. Yes, them. Now for a stagediv- that's what I was doing now, you monkey. Jumping of the darned stage! Yeah, that. Okay, stage jumping then. So stage jumping involves a crowd, since I dive face first into them. They then carry me, and worship me like the God I am. What? Why do I jump face first? 'Cause its cool. Yes, its moronic. But its cool. Its what 'turns them on' to use a well used phrase. No, hopping on stage will not do. Get me a crowd. Now.”

So that threw stage diving practice out of the window.

Great.

What else did I have to do before my moderately gigantic gig tomorrow?

Oh, right. I almost forgot.

The band.

With two of the four apparently 'taking a break six feet underground' as Sood kindly informed me, I doubt they'd be willing to do the concert. So I needed to find replacements. Fairly quickly, too.

What to do, what to do?

While I was pondering these questions of philosophy, there was a god-almighty-goodness-gracious-me-I-think-I-just-wet-myself explosion behind me.

I turned around.

“Mother-”

“Flock!” a voice behind me yelled.

I looked again.

Turns out Mr.Voice was right. A flock. Of geese. All carrying a bottle of what looked like mustard in their little beaks, and what appeared to be some sort of explosive device in their claw-things.

So this is what theivery had reduced to. People using flocks of geese as disctraction, for what was obviously something more sinister.

Turns out I was right. Shortly thereafter, I was surrounded by darkness.

“Who turned out the lights” I asked, rather cliched-ly.

“Shet yer mouth, fatty. This is a hostage.”

This baffled me.

“This is a hostage? That's wonderful, Feynman, real smart.”

Prod.

“Ah shet yer mouth” I heard yet again “youse ain't got no say in this”

“No say in what, my intellectually challenged friend? All I know is that I'm in a sack, and this sack smells repulsively of potatoes, I might add. Atleast you could have got me a clean sack, me being a rockstar and all'

“Aah, yer all washed up”

Thud.

Silence.

A sound of an engine being started up.

Hm, I was in a van, or a bus. Or a pretty darned large car.

But I was shoved into this motorized mode of transport, is the point.

Shortly after that, I get shoved out of the motorized mode of transport, still trapped in darkness. My eyes have gotten pretty used to the darkness, and I'm seeing... darkness. Wonderful. So I was in a sack.

“The boss wants to see youse” said Butthead. Beavis and him would get along like Smoke and Water, methinks. Probably won't have as good a rhythm, though.

“Who's the boss?” I asked, not, obviously, alluding to the rather sickening T.V show of the late eighties.

“He'll tell ya. Now shaddap yer mouth, fatty.”

More prodding. Sometimes not in the most comfortable places, either.