Chain Reaction

A spindly white hand curled its way around the doorframe followed by a single slender leg sporting a black knee-high sock complete with suspenders attached to the rim of a pair of tight leather shorts. The grinning onryō slunk past the transfixed singer offering a subtle wink from a set of ghoulish eyes as he brushed close to the man’s body before dissipating down the narrow passage and out the fire exit.
Manson turned briefly to see the metal bar of the exit click shut, only to become aware of the heavy breathing resounding from the room he’d seen his guitarist immerge from. He entered to find a disheveled Pogo propped up against the far wall, belt unbuckled, swaying slightly. Manson raised a non-existent eyebrow in question while the other man shook his head and pulled out a cigarette.
‘You have no idea…’ he breathed. ‘Fuck you have no idea.’

After a typically rowdy evening, the singer still couldn’t stop pondering on what Pogo had said as he willed himself to drift to sleep. However it was more the way his friend had said it. The weakness in his friend’s voice intrigued him. One thought lingered with him before finally passing out; he had to spend some more quality time with the elusive Zim Zum.

*

Blood and sweat streamed down the singer’s torso, mingling to produce a putrid concoction that in turn trailed after his enraged strides as he shouted his way down the back-stage corridor.
‘EVERY FUCKIN’ NIGHT! Every fucking night in a row! The singer kicked an arbitrary door to his left as he kept his incensed pace onwards towards the dressing area.
‘Fuckin’ assholes. Thanks for all the feedback – I fuckin’ appreciate it.’ He turned the corner - still tailed by a selection of techies, roadies and other insignificant stagehands.
Voice hoarse from the night’s events which included shouting at god knows who about the incompetence of the managing of the lighting during the show, Manson, now free of his sodden stage attire, sat down next to Twiggy on an old yielding couch.
‘Drinky drink’ the bassist spluttered, handing over the bottle of whisky clumsily. The singer grabbed the bottle and took a large swig before reclining into the couch. After several minutes of drinking and snorting to the background noise of inharmonious humming from the abnormal dread-locked man, the saner of the two broke the silence.
‘Where’re the others?’
‘I think Pogs went off on a drug-run with some girl and last time I saw Zim and Ginger they took off somewhere together; the bar maybe?’
Manson’s mind was spinning.
‘Probably went to go fuck somewhere more private.’ Manson offered.
‘Yep.’ Twiggy said matter-of-factly. This threw the singer off and gave the other man a questioning look at his unexpected response.
‘What! You know what Zim’s like,’ Twiggy said as he apprehended the bottle of whiskey, glugging it down.
‘And how would you know what he’s like?’ Manson tested.
‘Cause I’ve fucked ‘im’ Twiggy stated nonchalantly as he proceeded to pop a couple of pills into his mouth.
‘He’s good isn’t he’ he added.
‘I wouldn’t know, Twiggy.’
‘What? You haven’t fucked the man??’ Twiggy stared at the singer with crazy, drug-addled eyes. ‘I just assumed..’
Manson shrugged.
After an ample sip of a newly opened bottle of whisky, Twiggy turned to Manson excitedly. ‘Hey wanna go get some girls and go back to the hotel?? I got the driver to pick up some more Foo-foo dust!!’
‘What?’
‘Y’know! Aunt Nora!’
‘The fuck are you on about Twigs..’
‘King’s habit! Peruvian lady! Witch n’ Zip! Snow! Bl-‘
‘Cocaine Twiggy…’ Manson emitted a long sigh and rolled his eyes.
‘Yeah dumbass!’
‘Yeah I’ll join you later maybe, I’ve got to sort some stuff out with the events manager for tomorrows venue first,’ he said to the eager bassist.
‘Suit yourself’ Twiggy shrugged as he stood up.

A rather loud ‘WE’RE READY TO ROOOOCK! CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT!’
could be heard sung by Twiggy who was already half way down the corridor.

*

As Manson let out a tuneless screech to a writhing sea of sweaty bodies, mostly tits, his eyes wandered to his left to catch a glimpse of his guitarist swaying erratically beneath a sheet of dancing black hair. He also noticed that he was not the only one transfixed or throwing elongated glances at the aforementioned sight. Pogo, large eyes half closed in their staple creepy position, was ogling the pair of slender garter clad limbs. Likewise, Ginger could be seen glaring hungrily at the a particularly pert, leather clad ass and deceptively bare, thin material that clung tightly to his lean frame, showing every contour of his spine and shoulder blades. No eyes were visible behind the drugged up, dreadlocked bassist, but he was sure they were fixed on either Zim Zum, or the bottle of whiskey in front of him, probably both.

Last song and last notes and Manson knew it was a competition. If he wanted the prize he’d have to act fast. As soon as Zim started to saunter offstage, there was an obvious sense of hastiness from the other band members to abandon their instruments, grab their stuff and follow suit. He left no time to deliberate. He wanted him, and now. Manson thrust out his hand, grabbing the guitarist stiffly on the shoulder as Zim turned his head, hair swept across his smiling face.
‘Hey’ leered Zim, as he popped a cigarette into his mouth.
How Zim had managed to fit a twenty pack of cigarettes into his skintight short-shorts, Manson had no clue, but decided to ignore this thought as he was done with wasting his time pondering similar things about the man in front of him.