The Anthem for a Dying Breed

“Who do you think is going to be there? I didn’t even read all the fucking set list, holy shit, why didn’t I read all the set list? I am going to be the worst at this; but at least it’ll be a laugh, right?” I babbled, half neurotic OCD nerves, half ridiculously happy-and-high. My friend Rayne simply looked at me and grinned.
“Aleena. Shut up.” She chuckled. I nodded and mimed zipping my lips.
“Right,” I breathed, “shutting up.”

The unnatural silence lasted about fifteen seconds, with me squirming uncomfortably next to her in the back of the taxi, before I burst forward with questions again, this time directed at the taxi driver.

“Dude, seriously, how much longer? I can’t breathe in this hunk of junk – no offense – and I need to pee like crazy. Do you even know where you’re going? What is Adam’s just standing out in front of the bar, waiting for us, and we’re on the other side of town? What if –”
“SHUT UP.” Rayne repeated, whacking my head with her hoody. I scowled at her, but she didn’t see, turning her bright red-haired head to face the window. “Look, there’s Adam now!” she yelled after a second.

The taxi had barely slowed to a stop as we both tumbled out, opening the door and leaping out all too quickly, impatient to get out of the car and back with Adam.
Adam Elmakias grinned down at us, engulfing us both into a bear hug.
“There’s my favourite English idiots!” he yelled, squishing us together. Adam was a professional photographer, known for his work documenting and travelling with bands that created music of all alternative genres; the previous summer, we had applied for apprenticeships to work with him, not expecting to get anywhere. The shock of finding he had been eager to coach some little kids and pass on his great expanse of knowledge was a lot to take in, but it hadn’t stopped us from packing out bags the day he told us our application had been accepted.

It was insane enough that we happed to be working as assistants for one of our idols for the rest of the summer.
It was beyond insane when he told us we were going to help him document Warped Tour. In the US of fucking A.

You can imagine there were ample amounts of high fives, hell yeahs, and general “Lets get shitfaced!” ambience all around. Well. Almost. While Rayne’s parents had been supportive of her bravery and immovable nature of trying to “follow her dreams” and such bullshit, my parents had assumed my fate was to be a hanger-on to the tailcoats of Rayne’s dreams for the rest of my life, profoundly refusing to let me leave the country on a “stupid, wilful escapade”, or otherwise refusing to speak to me.

Guess which I chose. Insert humourless laugh here.

“Jesus, took you guys long enough to get here!” Adam exclaimed. Rayne began to explain how our flight had been delayed, and then we couldn’t find out luggage, then some other explanation of how we managed to find ourselves faced with a large gang of burly, stinky, dumbass bulldozer excuses for human beings.

“AND AND AND! Did I tell you that I have a new guitar now? I’m going to get everyone to sign it!” I added to the cacophony of voices as we all talked over each other. Adam would have looked overwhelmed had this been his first time meeting us, but he had been hanging around in London for work every few months, so we drove down to meet him whenever we could to break the awkwardness of unfamiliarity. He had managed to adjust his sensitive hearing to our too-loud-to-be-sober voices and seemed to understand most of what we said, despite our dodgy British accents.

“Alright, shut the hell up and let me talk for a second!!” he shouted over our clamouring. “You’re a handful enough, just the two of ya! Everyone working with us is already at the bar for the start of season party, and so are most of the bands. So, lets go!”

*

Adam guided us through the crowded bar after showing us the bus where we could dump all our suitcases and other crap, but kept getting distracted by one call of a mate after another.
“Oi, Adam! Dude! Long time, no see!” someone else hollered. Adam grinned at us guiltily: he had promised to introduce us to the rest of the crew properly.
“Just go!” Rayne urged.
“Yeah, we’ll catch up later!” I added. He ruffled both of our hairs, very much like what you might do to a dog (if the dog didn’t pin you down and rip your throat out for ruffling its fur), and we both batted him away, yelling at him to go and not come back until he was suitably inebriated.

“I’m gagging,” I said over the thumpthumpthump of the music, “lets get a drink.”
Rayne agreed and we headed to the bar, calling an order for one strawberry daiquiri and one appletini. Don’t judge.
“Seen anyone famous yet?” I called to Rayne. She perched herself on the barstool next to me and surveyed the crowd.
“Hmm. I think that guy looks familiar.” She replied, sipping her drink.
“He looks like a zombie Elvis Presley, dude,” I chuckled, looking over at where her attention had set.
“True that, bro.”
We both laughed at nothing in particular and began making small talk with the bartender.

“How’s the shows around here then? Get loads of famous faces or something?” Rayne asked. They began to talk casually, and he filled her in on the current status of the general mood towards events like Warped in the area.
As they spoke, I surveyed the crowd again; this time I was sure I could make out some faces that I had seen before.

“Ray, dude, isn’t that one of the guys that was hanging out near the airport?” I asked, nudging her and nodding in their general direction. She looked over and disgust flashed over her face for a second as they group of guys pulled closer.
“Urgh, how the fuck did they get here?” she mumbled. I shrugged and picked up my glass.
“Lets move from here; they reek, I can smell they from here.” I suggested. She nodded, and hopped off her stool, ready to go, but they had already found their way over.

“Heyy thar, y’all riyt, beb?” one of them leered in Rayne’s face. She was trying really hard not to gag, but the smell was too overbearing for my weird super senses. I gagged and pulled face, causing them to frown in my direction. “Di’ anyone shay anyfin t’ya, little shit?” he growled at me.
“Nope, you didn’t have to. Your general aura just kind of made me want to puke on your face, you know?” I snapped. He barked something between a laugh and a snarl of indignation, looking creepily like something out of a bad remake of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. And here we meet ole Leatherface...
“Shu’up , no one ashked ya t’spek, little Asian shcum. Fuck off back t’yeh own country, eh.” He slurred. Rayne’s mouth fell open in outrage, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

Good old racism. Nice.

“Free country, wanker. I think you’ll find I’ll do what I like.” I replied, struggling to keep my face straight. He pulled back a fist and launched it at my head, just barely missing, thanks to his intoxicated state. I jerked backwards and tossed the remains of my drink in his face.

All of a sudden, a flurry of fists was raining down on Rayne and me, though the majority were missing, a few hit their mark; the biggest of the bulldozers smacked me in the face, splitting my lip open. I threw my glass at his head, and caught Rayne doing the same at one of the bulldozers near her, before I threw a punch to the side of his head.

I have to say, it was remarkably dense, and I found a streak of pain shoot like a dagger through my knuckles almost immediately. He blinked a few times, probably from shock, and pushed me backwards. His brute strength had advantage here, managing to throw me back a few several feet, right into the arms of a security guard. Couldn’t have got here sooner, could you?

A few more appeared at the first guard’s side, dresses in matching black suits (very sharp, I approve), grabbing the gang of bulldozers by the scuffs of their neck, along with me and Rayne. We didn’t fight back, but obviously the twat faces did, and after a little scuffle, the security guards threw us (yes, literally) out of the bar.

“Yeh fuckin’ queers, th’lotta ya!” one of the gang snarled, making a launch for me and Ray again; he was immediately knocked back by someone who looked strangely like a friend, Adam by his side.
“Get the fuck going.” Adam snapped, arms folded over his chest. I think he was trying to look scary. It wasn’t working. The guy besides him took a threatening step forward, making the twat faces turn on their heels and slouch away, grumbling under their breath.

“Two damn seconds, I can’t leave you morons alone for two damn seconds!” Adam cried, glaring down at us with annoyance. I grinned sheepishly, before yelping.
“Son of a bitch got me in the mouth.” I mumbled, touching my lip tenderly. “It wasn’t our fault, anyway! Those creeps followed us from the airport, and then they were hitting on my bitch!” I added, louder.
“And they were outright fucking rude to Aly!” Ray added.
“Well, what did they say?” Adam demanded, helping us to our feet.
“Nothing important.” I snapped, shooting Rayne a look. A keep-quiet-or-I’ll-kick-you look. Adam didn’t need to worry about us when he had work to do. We were supposed to make life easier for him, not more difficult.
“Well, lets go get some ice on those faces, then.” The other guy said. I looked at him a little intensely, before it dawned on me where I had seen him.

“You’re Matt Flyzik!” I piped, brightening up straight away. Rayne sucked in a deep breath, obviously recognising him now too, before grinning widely.
“Uhh...yes.” he replied, looking sincerely confused.
“We’re pretty big ATL fans.” Rayne explained, in attempt to make us look less like potential stalkers. Flyzik looked at Adam, who was trying to suppress a grin.
“Why don’t we just get back inside, get some ice and I’ll introduce you guys properly.”