Sunday, February 25, 2007

 

Fiction Outtake: Backstage Party (Pre-Trevor's Song)

Despite his weed-induced mellow and years of personal experience, Trevor was still proud of the destruction they'd just wreaked on the dressing room. Beer bottles on every surface. Foil wrappers wherever they'd been tossed. Towels draped over the beer bottles, under the bottles, in one case even wrapped around the base of a bottle, anchoring it upright. Potato chip crumbs -- among other things -- ground into the carpet. Food everywhere. The couch washed down with shaken-up soda and beer, and people still dumb enough to try to sit on it. Garbage cans overturned; at one point, Mitchell had been wearing it instead of a lampshade, the wanker.

One rather enthused and satisfied girl had taken the squeeze mustard and written ShapeShifter on the wall behind the disaster that the catering table had become. All the food had either been knocked over, pushed aside, rescued by a frantic local roadie or two -- Trevor hadn't bothered to watch -- or relocated; it didn't matter. It wasn't the lovely little display of tempting usualness it'd been when they'd arrived.

Two girls had decided to see if sliced salami would stick to the wall if they threw it just right. Intriguingly, a couple actually had. A bunch had made contact but then slid down the wall, leaving a lovely grease trail in their wake. The rest made a path -- like stepping stones, Trev thought with a snicker -- across the room. One or two had been trampled on; a brunette had slipped and fallen on her ass, then limped out. She'd looked more in pain than upset that her party with ShapeShifter had ended so soon.

Trevor didn't doubt that he'd been the only one who'd noticed her leaving. He also didn't doubt that he'd laughed the hardest at her fall. Her arms had flailed, her eyes had gone huge, but she'd let out this kittenish, barely audible scream. It hadn't fit the picture. Pretty fucking cool.

"Come on," Charlie, their tour manager said, tugging on Trevor's arm as if he was the one who'd be able to get everyone to leave. "Party's over. We need to get out of here."

Trevor pulled his arm free. The guy wasn't entirely sober, himself. Settlement must not have taken long -- although who the hell knew what would happen once the disaster of the dressing room was noticed.

Charlie burped a beery-reeking gasball, giving Trev the feeling that he was the only sober one in the room. For a change. If it weren't for weed this good, he'd have hated the fact that he was afraid to drink.

"The party's not over," he told Charlie.

"The party's not over?"

Trevor gave him a blessedly stoned, placid look. He stopped himself from folding his hands over his belly. "The party can't be over until the fat lady sings and if you look around, all the fatties showed sense and left already. No fat girl sings, no party ends." He nodded. It really was pretty simple.

"We've got to clear out," the tour manager whined.

Trevor curled his lip at the guy. "So clear the fuck out. But in the meantime, we have a party to finish up." He nodded at the rest of the band. "They're still standing. There's still a few girls here. Party's not over."

"Move it back to the hotel," Charlie called, raising his voice to be heard over the drunken slurring that passed for chatter. Even if most of it was directions about what felt good and the slurping of deep kisses.

When no one gave any sign of hearing, he turned the radio off. "Move it back to the hotel," Charlie repeated.

The guys looked around their girls at each other and shrugged. One spot was as good as another. So long as there was beer, they'd be happy. Besides, there were beds in hotels. That meant less complaints about sore knees and backs and other body parts.

Maybe.

Trevor wondered if there'd be any fat chicks at the hotel they could pick up. And if there were, what would it take to get them to sing?

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Comments:
Hey I enjoyed what I have read so far I think I will delve a little deeper ;)

Here Via Michele's ;)
 
Cool, Oracle! Enjoy!
 
You've got me thinking deeply about salami. Namely, if you feed enough of it to some chicks, they will, eventually, get fat. Also, the stickability of the slices will depend on the coefficient of friction of the surface that is being targeted. I wonder if latex or oil-based paint would differ materially in their ability to maintain a hold on a tossed slice of artery-clogging meat.

Your writing is an absolute delight to read because, beyond the core thread of your story, you manage to get the reader's mind churning on all sorts of new and interesting tangents. Thanks for making my morning, Susan!
 
Carmi, you ought to come with a beverage alert... Man, that's some good thinking you're doing!
 
Sliced soft cheese sticks quite well, too and don't get me started on those little spreadable cheese triangles!

rashbre
 
I agree with carmi. I could almost taste it.

Man, now I want some salami.
 
Great to see Trev back in action
:D
 
Man I cant wait for r-rated stuff :)
 
Trevor philosophing? Weed must do that to you. ;)
I can sing and that will end the party. LOL
 
This is great. Ick! all that food everywhere: ICK! ICK!ICK!

This makes me remember my headbanger days, SSHHHHH!
 
Good story, Susan. Thanks for visiting my Journal.
 
Ha! Great snippet. What an intriguing brat of a fellow that Trevor is. :)
 
I think I've been to that backstage party... :)

I'm back and catching up here at WoM!
 
Welcome home, love. Your European adventures sound wonderful!

I think Thomma Lyn nailed it: Trev's a brat. That's why we all love him so much; how many male brats do we get to meet in our lifetimes? (and in this one, he was reasonably tame)
 
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