Dead Man Walking. Well, dead man waiting in line for the single-stall restroom at The Gut Punch. Dead man watching women come and go from the lady’s room as if it were some Freaky Friday universe; one where the women’s room was all about brevity and efficiency, and the men’s room was a place to contemplate the larger questions about life. Steve shook his head. After all these years, why did he agree to play live again? It was because he missed feeling alive, but he’d forgotten this bit: Dead Man Walking.
“Some people got a show to play soon! I’m with the band! C’mon, man—fucking speed it up!” Steve banged on the men’s room door. He looked back at the two burly young punks behind him and smiled, but the young men only looked at him cooly.
“Must be rubbing one out!” He’s unsure why he said it, but he was glad for the red light bulb above the door, which helped mask his embarrassment.
The door opened, and a cloud of smoke filled the claustrophobic hallway.
Steve waved a hand in front of his face. “The fuck—you mind?”
Out came a tall man who resembled a young David Vanian of The Damned; he wore sunglasses, and his black hair was slicked back to reveal a widow’s peak. Steve recognized him from soundcheck. It was the singer of the supporting band.
“Oh, sorry about that,” said Steve with an awkward laugh.
The man walked past him without saying a word.
Steve stepped in, slammed the door behind him, pulling the lock into place. Just off the hallway, the opening band were plowing through their set in the main room. Their songs were short and objectively unwell. Steve grimaced at the unintentional sour notes and the catastrophic atonal cacophony.
The ammonia-heavy scent of piss and stale beer walloped Steve while the bass guitar rang out, rattling the porcelain lid on the tank. On the red-tiled walls were hundreds of stickers from bands who had played the venue, and some stickers that were difficult to interpret: next to a band sticker that read, Sheep Squeeze, was a sticker that displayed an illustration of a butthole, with no words on it. Just a butthole. He would have laughed, but his insides curled at the thought of what awaited on the other side of that bathroom door. There was no going back now. Dead Man Walking.
Continue the story here:
Ugh, poor Steve! Stage fright is a bitch. It’s all in his head though, right?
This story probably didn’t need to be a serial, but I figured it could be a fun experiment. I have the next two installments nearly complete, but I have no idea what the ending is going to be. No going back now!
XO Seany - Dead Man Writing
"Their songs were short and objectively unwell." what a great description