When my work bestie, Aleister McMegadeth or Ally as he is known at our Applebee’s, invited me to his concert, I didn’t expect so much ummmm. Like he whistles “Helter Skelter” while bussing tables so I expected more flowers and less…stench.
Yes, Ally wears more mascara than the drag queens who hog Booth 14.
Yes, he has come in covered in pig’s blood on more than one occasion. But Rhonda came in covered in real blood once!
And yes, he talks too much about H-E double hockey sticks. I thought he was like those evangelical customers who slip us pamphlets instead of tips. But I do not think a man of any book has been to a FUCKSHITPISSDIE concert.
“You sure you’re at the right place, ma’am?” the pierced bouncer asked.
“My work bestie Ally is the headliner,” I said, showing him the black and red friendship bracelet Ally had crafted for me.
The bouncer was nice enough to attach my wristband without getting any crumbs from his bat sandwich on my lavender cardigan. But I did have to wash ketchup from my left hand.
The little girls’ room had this peculiar hole in the stall, which someone stuck a rusty scalpel through, just as I finished tinkling.
“The sharpest thing I wipe with is a paper towel and only in an absolute emergency,” I said to the scalpel.
“You sound like a helium huffing elf,” the scalpel said.
I skedaddled to the bar before I was introduced to Santa.
My G&T was not supposed to have a spider in it, but it was supposed to have tonic.
To kill time before Ally’s band started covering “Norwegian Wood”, I tried coloring the gentlewoman next to me’s tattoos with my glitter pen. Her little goat was looking very vibrant before she screamed bloody murder at me.
The bartender and I tried shooting the breeze, but he had this unfortunate red rubber ball stuck in his mouth. I tried undoing the straps. All that got me was a smack from the bar back’s riding crop. If the “music” hadn’t started, we would have exchanged some very strong words.
My ear drums were not happy with Green Eggs and Murder’s first screech: “CHICKENMAN SLAUGHTER IS MY FATALISTIC PASSION!”
“Oh you don’t mean that,” I said.
They must have ignored my criticism because the bassist—with that many spikes jammed in his instrument he was more a mace-bearer—started “shredding.” These darth hippies blocked my view by swinging their hair like crazed windmills. I tried shooing away their strands, but their split ends were too far from their brains to feel anything. Their manes tickled me. I was the only one giggling.
Slain Rhinoceros did not last long because the lead singer strangled herself with the mic cord. A lot of audience members had an acquaintance with needles, but there were too few CPR certified folks. Applebee’s discontinued employee CPR training last winter so I could only watch the unfortunate asphyxiation through my fingers.
The replacement band was named Bee Gee Allin. Now I LOVE disco, but not so much after seeing their backup singer shove a disco ball up his butt. Impeccable falsetto, though.
Broken Glass Teeth did have a pleasant five seconds of silence. Then their amps fizzled like strawberry pop rocks.
In honor of the deceased amps, an orange mohawk yelled: “Wall of Death!” I ducked behind a stool of life while the audience ran at each other like dueling ping-pong paddles.
During the post-collision lull, I asked the survivors: “Excuse me, do you know when Ally’s Beatles’ covers are going to begin?”
Eye rolls. Hmph.
When Ally finally got on stage covered in more than average pig’s blood but less than average mascara, I got shivery. I buttoned up my lavender cardigan before the concertgoers began pushing each other again.
FUCKSHITPISSDIE had too many guitars. Ally’s bandmate, the one wearing a tiger skeleton, had one in each claw. Even the drummer drenched in Wite-Out had one slung around their goopy neck.
Their first note sent me flying. I landed in the rafters next to an owl wearing an eye patch. It shared its popcorn with me.
I went deaf around their third song, which definitely was not “I Want To Hold Your Hand.” They did not take a water break. Ally chugged his goblet, but he spit it at the crowd.
While I waved at Ally from the rafters, his fan club launched themselves at the stage. One crumpled fan showed off Ally’s bloody bootprint on his cheek, smiling with what teeth he had left.
Ally could charge for kicking people and take less shifts at Applebee’s! I asked the owl to remind me to tell Ally this after the show. I could not hear its reply.
After Ally broke all the spotlights with the mic stand, the concert ended. I climbed down using one fan’s ponytail as a pulley. He wanted to meet the owl.
The fresh air popped one ear. Ally lurked out with his band. He spotted me with a yip.
“OMG! You actually came! I didn’t think this was your scene.”
“It is a new experience, Ally. I met a generous owl. Did you have fun tonight?”
“I had a blast. Wait. GUYS! This is my work bestie, Penelope. She’s so FUCKING metal!”
After sweaty fist bumps, Ally invited me to an afterparty in a graveyard.
“We both have the morning shift tomorrow!” I said, pointing at my unicorn watch.
“MOURNING SHIFT! That’s the new song title,” Ally said. “Bestie, you just saved us a bar tab trying to figure that out!”
FUCKSHITPISSDIE voted—against my will!—to bring me to the graveyard as a good luck charm. I am going to be on their next album cover. They let me keep the skull.
Dan Dellechiaie is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His writing has appeared in The Gotham Guillotine, Dug Up Magazine, Partially Shy Magazine, tongue .etc, and elsewhere. You can find more of his work at dadell.com.
Instagram: @dan_dellechiaie
Featured photo by Jonathan Cooper (Pexels)
