posted on: 2011-04-22 12:21:31
This is a short story, it an un-edited satire.

>The fire burns I and rock'n roll. Sweat glistens on my well manicured chest in the dank confines of the Funhouse and I belt out a line to "Who the Fuck are You" punctuated by another powerfull drum fill. I swear I just dimmed the lights with that one. I don't even know what song the rest of the band is playing, but I'm sure I am keeping great time. This is what I love about the Funhouse. The place is packed, at least ten people crowd around me bleating out Zepplin along side of our amplified beast on the microphone. The bartender bustles by purveying the drink of choice to the man with the short cue, who has taken to wielding it like a sceptor. A man on the way the the pisser kickes a monitor and we, the crowd; my band; and I, roar with abandon. This is rocking fucking roll. I swear to god there would be backroom action in this smokey bar if it had a back room. Fact, some people won't play here because the Funhouse 'doesn't pay.' Shit, just the price of cigarettes from the vending machine at the front door, I get my moneys worth in smoke. The din of our music dies abruptly, tearing fans from sweet reverie and returning them to the House. The whole room is reduced to a hum of drunken conversation. Talkers enjoy their own voice for a moment, while the listeners suddenly realizing there is a second half to the conversation. Time passes while we get our set list ready: A line of shots of the finest whiskeys. Jim Bean I think, but I ain't no connessiour.

Live played the house once. Story goes they only did one set, and when they left Tina would only pay them for half of the show. When Live came back they played Stabler Arena, at one point during their show they shout out "If any of you are going to the Fun House tell Tina she owes us some money." Fucking Live man, they've played some venues.

I've heard of playing at the Sands where they "pay." Whatever that means: No smoke, no cheers. Golf claps brother, thats what you get for concluding a set like we just did. I know we would shake the place to the roof, leaving the crowds with a ringing in their ear to drown out the bells. The place is so sterile, why not cover a slot machine with seran wrap and try to put you dick in it? They'll fucking throw you out. Anyway time passes, an angry throng screams out requests, I clack the sticks together and set into the drums hard enough to blow the front door off the hinges. I forgot what song, but I know we are going to play something, so I bealt out another line of "Who the Fuck are you," in the key of B flat.