When I came to I was already halfway through my set. That Carolina laudanum we got from the Shriners was really playing havoc with ay senses. The shatter and whoosh of several molatov cocktails lighting up one of the APC's out front snapped me back to clarity.
“Big Brass Finger.”
By the relatively small amount of tear-gas in the air it seemed the show had gone well. Those boys from Boston were still confined to their enclosure, distracted by some brandy and schnapps tossed into the pen by a well meaning, but reckless, well-wisher.
When the liquor was gone I knew it would be a flat sprint to the stage. Those nylon Walmart collars and shackles wouldn't hold them for long.
I finished “Hold My Watch,” set off a smoke pot to cover my exit and rolled away just as Red Invasion hit their opening chords. From my landing place behind the water barrels I saw a celebratory blizzard of brown beer bottle glass sieve through the stage-front chicken wire to stick to tight black pants and spiky punk rock hairdos.
Timing is everything,
I scrabbled up the back stairs to Jet Black's lair and found him sharpening his talons on his guitar player's, Joe's, mascara-laden lashes. Jimbo seemed to be in particularly good spirits as only one of the three pool tables had been overturned.
I caught up with Dave who was still DJing while applying a tourniquet on his badly bleeding left arm, the result of a short fuse on one of Shelby's homemade magnesium bombs.
She was busying herself on the roof 50-cal taking out her self-recrimination on any policeman green or brave or dumb enough to stick his head above the barricades. None of us, least of all Dave, blames her for the mishap. Supplies, especially armaments, have been unreliable since the Chinese swarmed into the Southwest and cut us off from our brother cells in Mexico.
Richard Bacchus and The Luckiest Girls hit the stage just as the police battering ram hit the door.
The sound was amazing.
(poster by RB pic by Dave)