There was no one at the small dark wooden door, and it was closed tightly, hugging the cold

brick walls surrounding it. But we knew where it led to, and we knew which dark wooden door
to enter. Our ears had guided us here. We had heard it from over a block away, and it had
beckoned to us, not with open arms but with an erect middle finger and a kick to the face. We
stepped inside and our ears burst as they were greeted by the deafening noise of Sandpaper
Tampons. The lead singer’s—Carla Gallows—voice pierced through the sound of the deep
drums, and high pitched guitars like a needle full of heroine. And as the sound entered our ears,
and found its way into our blood stream, the hit was powerful.
“I’ll pay,” Nick said to me and Ted. “You cunts want anything?”
“I’m gonna see what’s on offer in the titty bar,” Ted shouted, “and I ain’t giving you any
money you filthy twat.”
“Don’t you trust me?” Nick grinned.
He pushed passed Nick angrily and headed for the titty bar. The titty bar was the women’s
toilets. They weren’t used for defecating, they were solely for procreating. Anything and
everything went on in there. They say you walked in there a boy and came out a man with
syphilis.
“Paul?” Nick asked.
“I’ll pay myself,” I replied.
The concert was free, but whoever was playing sold drugs and alcohol in the toilets. No one
bought the alcohol though, the piss tasted like piss, and probably was.
I turned to the stage, but all I could see was a sea of bald heads. But every now and then the sea
parted and I caught a glimpse of Carla Gallows. The veins in her neck almost cut through her
skin; her eyes were shut so tightly they must have kissed her brain, and her mouth was open so
wide that even through the sea I could see her tonsils plastered to the roof of her mouth by the
sheer power of her voice.
“More like a fucking mardi gras tonight,” Ted spat in my ear. “Paul back yet?”
“You blind or what?” I glanced around. “Does he look like he’s fucking back?”
“Can’t understand a fucking word she’s saying!” He leant on my shoulder. “What’s she doing
up there anyway?” I pushed him away and he raised his fingers to his mouth. He whistled but it
was drowned out by her voice. “Stop shouting and show us your fucking titties!” He shouted and
someone in front of us turned around.
“Women should only be on the fucking stage if they’re naked.” He concurred and Ted raised
his clenched fists.
“Wait until they’re on!” I nudged him and he lowered his fists.
Sandpaper Tampons were just the warm up. Nobody fought until the show really began, unless
someone was dealing drugs on the band’s time. But even then they were taken out the back and
beaten. Anarchy had so many unspoken rules and regulations. My head already throbbed with
pain and they weren’t even on yet.
 “I’m going to pay.” I pushed my way passed Ted and made my way to the men’s toilet.
If the entire building didn’t throb loudly with Carla Gallows’ voice the dim light that lit the
bathroom would have buzzed, but as it was it had to resign itself to flicking on and off feebly.
“She almost done?” I asked as I reached into my pocket.
“Bird’s got a voice on her don’t she?” Trevor, who was the band’s treasurer, marketer, supplier,
and dealer, replied.
When the light was on his skin it was a perfect pink, and his eyes were a pearly white; but in
the brief moments the light was off he disappeared, except for his eyes which glowed like
burning ash in the darkness, as if they were a window into his soul, and he was really an angel.
“That’s one way to put it.” I handed him the money and my hand brushed against his. His skin
was soft and smooth, but hot and sweaty. “The general consensus is she’d be better with her top
off.”
“Is this a fucking democracy?” He replied and reached into his pocket. His Northern accent
made him hard to lip-read, but his pale lips I still read like a book. I smiled at him as he handed
me a small plastic bag that contained three tiny white pills. “Fuck ‘em her voice gets into your
head like a fucking screw then nails your brain to your skull!” I was a master lip-reader, and it
was a good because it wouldn’t be long before I was deaf.
I tore the small bag open and dropped the three small pills onto my tongue. They sizzled and
crackled silently and I swallowed.
“Get out there and enjoy her voice. She’s a fucking angel!”
“She’s a fucking devil!” I shouted behind me and glanced over my shoulder.
“Exactly.” He winked and I grinned.
I took a step forward as the there small pills dropped into my stomach like lead. I toppled over
as the world turned into a rusty vision of Carla Gallows’ voice, and fell into the tittie bar. I
watched the rusty roof for a second, but as rust dripped towards me I sat up.
Someone pulled me to my feet and I swayed around, trying to find the culprit’s face. But all I
could find was a hairy chest that glinted with sweat. After a few seconds I felt two large wet
hands grab my hair, and yank my face backwards, and I found his face. His bald head shone with
sweat, and his brown moustache dripped with it.
“Are you fuckin’ deaf?” He asked with a mouth half full of teeth.
“Are you fuckin’ gay?” I retorted and he paused.
“Why?” He squeezed my hair tightly. “You after an anal beating, you fag?”
“Yeah, but with the fairer sex.”
“His bald head met with mine and I fell out of the tittie bar. The door was slammed in my face
and the ladies only sign mocked me with a teasing smile as it dripped with rust.
I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled into my crowd. They caught me as I fell, and pushed
me forwards. I stumbled and slid through the crowd, catching fingernails, boots and sweat as I
did. Finally my chest found the hard wood of the stage and I looked up. Carla Gallows stood
above me, her sweat dripping onto the stage, and her saliva flying into the crowd.
She glanced down at me and her brown eyes caught mine. They held them tightly, and
squeezed them as my heart raced and my stomach bubbled. She walked towards me, and I heard
her high heels clink as she did. I stared up at her, my mouth open, and she looked down at me.
She raised her foot into the air then stomped on my hand. I pulled it from the stage as it throbbed
in front of me and she turned around.
I glanced at the bass player—Titty Trombone—who never actually played. Her black hair hung
down over her bright red bass guitar and her eyes hid behind her hair. She rocked back and forth
with the guitar in her hand. Without warning she flicked the hair from her face, revealing two
burning blue eyes, and dark red lips. She charged forward and raised her guitar in the air. She
screamed as she jumped and planted the guitar into the crowd. Wood splinters flew everywhere
and she spat after them. She turned around and I glanced over to the drummer—Boomstick
Barbara—the sticks and her hands were invisible. She played the drums so fast, that they formed
a single note, a single vibration that was drowned out by Carla’s voice. She pulled her neck back,
revealing a red ring across her pale white skin, then thrust her head forwards, through the
cymbals and then into the drums. She dropped the drums sticks and her hands fell limply to her
side.
Carla’s voice stopped and the guitar player turned around, her long grey coat paused mid air, as
if to say fuck you and then she disappeared from the stage. Titty Trombone put her arm around
Carla and they walked towards the drummer together. She pulled Boomstick Barbara’s head
from the drum kit and Carla tied the microphone’s led around her neck.
“Show us your tits!” Someone climbed onto the stage and Carla turned around.
“Show you my whats?” She asked and Titty Trombone let Boomstick Barbara’s head fall back
into the drum.
“Your tits, darling.”
“You’re sure you want to see them?” She stepped forward until she was face to face with him.
“I dunno.” He raised his hands. “Let me have a feel first.” His hands found her breasts.
“How do they feel?” She asked.
“They’re alright, I suppose,” he grinned. “But nothing special.”
“How about this?” Her knee met his groin and he slouched forwards onto his knees. “That’s
better.” Titty Trombone handed her the microphone. “Still want to see them?”
She twirled the microphone above her like a whip and took a step back. “Well?”
“Nah, like I said, nothing special.” He replied and the microphone hit him in the face. He fell
backwards this time and stared up at the rusty roof for a moment before falling backwards.
“Anyone else want to see them?” She asked and there was silence.
 She pulled her shirt off but turned from the crowd. Titty Trombone’s arm found her shoulder
again and she threw the shirt behind her. It landed on the man’s unconscious face and the crowd
cheered as Sandpaper Tampons left the stage.
“Finally!” someone prodded me from behind. “Now the fun begins.”
“Now then now then now then?” A man wearing a grey suit, and oiled black moustache stepped
onto the stage. “Vat have vie here?” He surveyed the stage with a horsewhip. “Iz everybody
having zhem zelves a good time? Na gut? Sehr gut! Vell you’ll be pleased to know zat zhey girls
won’t be giving you anymore problems.” He glanced over to the drum kit. “Ah, but vat iz this?
Eine frauline? Und she ist nacht conscience! Ja, sehr gut. Vould you please excuse me?” He
stepped towards the drummer and unzipped his pants. “oh ja.” He pulled her head up by the hair.
“Joo vill do very nicely mein kleine Berliner.”
The crowd booed noisily and another man stepped onto the stage—Hands Fucht—his blond
hair seemed to waver in the still air, and his wide grin was contagious. “ARE YOU READY?”
He turned to the man accosting ‘zee frauline’.
“Achtung!” The man in a grey suit screamed. “Das ist nicht vat it looks like!”
“I SAID ARE YOU READY?” He shouted at the man as he walked towards him.
“Look—“The man began, but he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the edge of the
stage.
“Are you ready?” This time he turned to the crowd. “FOR A NAZI SHOCK?” He lifted the
man into the air and tossed him into the crowd. He was carried through the air before he
disappeared into the crowd.
A trail of people entered the stage. First—Gunther—wearing a green suit and beret with livery
where RAF was replaced with FAG. Second—Das Shock—wearing a large trench coat. He
walked over to Hands Fucht and pulled his trench coat open like a flasher. He took a guitar from
him, and Das Shock turned to the crowd holding a guitar that hid his shame. Third—Clitoris
Cletus—carrying a bass guitar, wearing blue overalls, and smoking two cigarettes. Finally—
Twenty Niner—a bald man who carried two drum sticks. He walked over to the drum kit and
looked down at the unconscious Boomstick Barbara. He patted her on the back of the head, then
pulled her head back so that she was leaning against the wall behind her, and sat down on her
lap.
“Are you ready?” Hands Fucht. “For a Nazi Shock!?” The music began and it pulsated through
the room as the pills pulsated through my body.
“Nazi shock when you least expect it,
From behind like we’re raping a man,
We’ll fuck you up
And we’ll slash you up
Then when you least expect it,” the music slowed and he whispered into the microphone,
“When you’re walking down the street
Minding your own business
Uncle Adolf will fuck ya missis!
He’ll do it doggystyle
And he’ll do it for awhile,
He’ll give her a Nazi shock,
With his Nazi cock!”
The music was loud again and the crowd started pushing and shoving.
“Hitler’s a perve!
Thatcher’s his girl!
Hitler’s a perve!
Thatcher’s his girl!
Hitler’s a perve!
Thatcher’s his girl!”
The music slowed again,
“Oh Auntie Margaret,
Oh Auntie Margaret,
What am I to do?
My generation loves masturbation,
But I can’t jack off to you!
For the thought of you and Uncle Adolf
Really is a drag.
It gets me down,
When you go down
On him like you’re in a porno mag!”
The music sped up and grew even louder and the entire world dripped with rust.
“OH MARGARATE!
OH MARGARATE!
I THOUGHT YOU LOVED THE QUEEN!”
His voice entered everyone’s ears, spat on their brains then left without saying goodbye.
“OH MARGARATE!
OH MARGARETE!
I WISH YOU WERE THE QUEEN!
CAUSE THEN YOUR MINGE
WOULD BE WITH THE KING
INSTEAD OF IN HITLER’S HUMBLE ABOEDE!
BEING POKED LIKE A CANE TOAD”
The music slowed again but Twenty Niner fell from his seat as Boomstick Barbara woke up.
 “Oi! Stop the fuckin’ music!” Hands Fucht screamed and the music stopped. “What’s this
fuckin’ bird doin’ up here anyway?”
The ‘fuckin’ bird” stumbled too her feet and in doing so stood on Twenty Niner’s face!
“Hey darlin,” Hands Fucht asked, “why don’t you do something useful? Get over here and give
me a kiss, or get of the fuckin’ stage!”
“Fuck off you queer!” she stumbled towards the exit.
“Oi oi oi oi oi!” The blonde man exclaimed. “Did you just call me a queer, meaning to employ
I was an ‘omosexual?”
“No,” she replied.
“Then that’s a relief! Because I am not an ‘omosexual!”
“I didn’t mean to imply it,” she continued. “I’ve seen you sucking Andy’s cock backstage.” She
pointed to Das Shock and he gasped.
“Darlin’ darlin’ darlin!” Hands Fucht stepped forward. “Let me show you what a real man is
like.” He grabbed her around the neck and tried to kiss her, but her forehead met his and they
both fell to the ground unconscious. There was a large roar in the crowd, and as the Sandpaper
Tampons took the stage sporting their instruments as weapons, the crowd joined in. I turned
around and pushed my way through the crowd, collecting the odd fingernail, boot and punch as I
went. I stumbled out of the crowd but was stopped by the same sweaty chest.
I followed the chest up to the neck, then to the face.
“Ready now you little twat?” He asked, and then with a single sweaty fist to the face I was sent
backwards onto the floor to stare first at the ceiling dripping with rust, and then at my own
eyelids.