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The Imbeciles
By Matt McGuire
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Jane loved the Imbeciles. She went to all of their shows on the East Coast,
lavishing attention and screams on them, along with her body when she got the
chance.
Tonight she was super excited, because the Imbeciles were playing a show at the
Klondike, a local bar that had a small dance floor and really good micro brew.
Kate, her roommate, had just scored an eight ball of cocaine for the occasion,
and between trips to the bathroom to fix her hair and take toots form the mirror
by the sink, Jane was in a flutter to find something cool and sexy to wear.
She rifled through her closet, hurling clothes upon the bed, searching for just
the right outfit. Torn jeans, and Uncle Tupelo T-shirt, and a Banana
Republic flannel would fit the bill nicely. Her last addition to her
wardrobe was her tried and true pair of black Chuck Taylor’s.
Dressed and ready for action, Jane and Kate hit the door. They had the feeling
of elation that only a few lines of Mid-grade coke and being 21 and single can
give a young lady. Kate had opted for something a little more revealing
than Jane. She was wearing a Catholic School girl outfit, complete with
knee-high white socks, plaid skirt, and pigtails. Jane couldn’t help but
be slightly envious of Kate. Kate was six feet tall, had lustrous red hair,
and a figure to die for. Jane was more of your run of the mill punk rock
chick; hair dyed blue, 5’2”, and worn out shoes.
Jane put that shit out of her mind tonight though, because tonight was the night
that she was going to really turn Christopher Shittounge’s head. Christopher
Shittounge was the lead singer for the Imbeciles, and had never given Jane so
much as a sideways glance. Sure, Jane had had sex with Asscrack, the
guitarist, and Blowhard, the drummer, but Christopher Shittounge had always been
out of reach.
Jane and Kate reached the door to the venue, and broke out their I.D.’s. It
was nice being twenty-one and not having to produce fake identification. Jane
had been busted in D.C. at the 9:30 club for not having anything besides a fake
college I.D. that had been manufactured poorly by Zack Swanson. Zack was a
geeky student at State College that had been in Jane’s freshman English class,
and lusted for her uncontrollably. Jane had gotten Zack high on Thai Stick
one night, felt him up, and Zack BELONGED to her thereafter. Now that Jane
was twenty-one, she had no use for skinny little zit faced boys like Zack. She
was a REAL woman now, and had her sights set much higher.
Jane and Kate entered the Klondike, and immediately went to the bar. Two
pints of Guiness, and a stroll through the joint were in order. Kate was
really shaking her ass tonight for all the young brutes in the bar, and it was
making Jane a bit angry and envious. She couldn’t compare to Kate when it
came to looks, but she could sure as hell measure up when it came to excitement. Snatching
Kate’s purse and going to the bathroom, Jane found the baggie of coke hidden
in an inner fold, and broke it out. After a long snort, Jane was ready for
action. She clumsily put the coke back in the purse and headed for the bar
again.
Old posters and bills of bands that had played the Klondike over the years
adorned the walls of the sultry little brew pub. Pavement, Guided by
Voices, Sonic Youth, Nirvana, The Germs, Minor Threat, and My Bloody Valentine
lined the nicotine stained walls of the Klondike, along with advertisements for
Newcastle Brown Ale, Guiness, and the Klondike’s specialty, Thirteen Rebel’s
beer. The Klondike constantly smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke,
but it was the only REAL punk rock joint in town. A few cracked and broken
tables and an old foosball machine rounded out the rest of the décor, but all
this finery just enhanced the effect that this was the place where Jane was
going to win the heart of her idol, Christopher Shittounge.
Jane scanned the crowded bar for signs of the band, and just as she was getting
discouraged, the back door opened, and the Imbeciles strolled in. Jane
immediately started getting wet with excitement when she saw Christopher dressed
in his black leathers, worn cowboy hat, and Corrosion of Conformity t-shirt. Jane
slyly sidled up beside Christopher, and said hi. She could taste the bitter
gall in her mouth caused by the beer and coke, along with the nervousness of
anticipation. Christopher only nodded his eyebrow pierced head at her for a
moment and then went straight to the bar. Kate was there, waiting
expectantly for Christopher to arrive. Putting an arm around
Christopher’s neck, she rubbed her nubile breasts against his chiseled
pectoral muscles and breathed something in his ear. Jane saw all this
transpire, and started turning fifty shades of red. Christopher had his hand on
Kate’s ass now, and was ordering a Miller High Life from the barkeep. This
was too much for Jane, and she hurried outside for a cigarette and a breath of
fresh air. Extracting the crumpled pack of Camel Filters from her torn and
dirty jeans, she sat down on the curb and lit up.
Several of the patrons of the bar were gathered outside; hippies smoking
Marijuana and drinking expensive beer, straight edgers and punks roughhousing
and chatting about the upcoming show. Zack Swanson was waiting timidly
outside the bar, too afraid to enter and get a beer, when Jane walked out. He
could tell that something was upsetting Jane, so he carefully walked up to her
and said hi.
Jane said, “Sit down, man, you’re making me nervous.”
“You looked upset, and I just
wanted to know if there was anything that I could do.”
“Nada. I’m just fucking
pissed at my whore of a roommate, Kate.”
“Why? You’re so much more
beautiful than she is anyway,” said Zack.
“Thanks, Zack. You’re too
kind. What are you doing here tonight? I thought you would be home
studying for finals or something.”
“Finals aren’t for another two months, Jane. Besides, I don’t get out
enough these days.”
“Yeah, whatever” said Jane.
That’s when the trouble showed up. The Skins. Neo-fucking-Nazis all
geared up in their jackboots and trench coats, and high on Crystal Meth. Jane
hated those pricks almost as much as they hated everyone who was slightly
different than them. Blade, their leader, strolled arrogantly with his crew
up to the front door, a few feet from Jane and Zack, and withdrew his wallet to
pay the cover charge. Winslow, the huge black doorman and bouncer was not
about to let them pass the threshold of HIS club tonight.
“No dice, Blade. You’re
not welcome here anymore. Take your Nazi punk ass and your little fucking
cronies and split before I crack your skulls. The last time you were here
we had to spend about two thousand dollars remodeling the bar area, and we’re
not up for that shit anymore.”
“Fuck you, Winslow, you fucking Kaffir. We’ll see who comes out on top
tonight you fucking Blue gum!” Blade angrily gave Winslow the finger and
strutted back across the parking lot, followed by his mob of irate and obnoxious
underlings. Before he went though, he had to get a stab in at Jane, so he
spat a huge honking ball of snot at her and Zack. Jane immediately jumped
to her feet and hurled her empty beer bottle at Blade and his posse.
“Sieg heil, BITCH” retorted Blade as he deflected the beer bottle that was
speeding towards his closely shaven skull.
“Nazi punks, FUCK OFF” screamed
Jane as she started to head back into the bar to get another beer. Zack
followed Jane into the bar as well, planning to just ride on her coattails and
try and look inconspicuous.
After the sound check, Christopher Shittounge stripped to the waist and started
guzzling Miller High Life, spewing it out onto the expectant crowd. Asscrack,
the guitarist, was decked out in a Ramones t-shirt, camo shorts, and a Boston
Red Sox hat.
He started running through tight ass chord progressions on his Gibson SG and
cranked his Marshall Full Stack almost up to full volume. Blowhard, the
drummer, stripped to nothing but his birthday suit behind his Tama Rock Stars,
and started pounding away like a possessed monkey. Noname, the bass player,
was dressed in a raincoat and a g-string, and was flailing away on his Fender
Jazz Bass. His playing was so loud that it made the floorboards shake with
delight. Jane was up in front, in the soon-to-be mosh pit, screaming
obscenities at Christopher with all the ecstasy of a twenty-one year old banshee
in heat. Jane started to push her fellow mosh mates from side to side,
trying to get the party started right. Out of the jumble of noise
“Anarchy in the U.K.” began to be decipherable, and they ran through that
old cover like a mongoose on crack. Song after song, from covers to
creations, the Imbeciles rocked the house. Sated with his beerlust, Christopher
started swinging on the rafters and howling like a werewolf. The mosh pit
was in full force, and Jane had to be picked up several times by sympathetic
hell raisers, only to get knocked down again and kicked around some more. Jane
was having an awesome time, and then the Imbeciles lit into a version of
“Janie Jones” that would have made the Clash green with envy. This was
Jane’s favorite number, and screaming with delight, she jumped onstage and
started dancing with all her might to the beat. She had never felt this
good before, and Christopher seemed to be really digging her to boot.
At the set break, Christopher stumbled up to the bar to order another brew. He
was drenched in sweat, and now stripped down to nothing but his tiger striped
bikini underwear. He let out vociferous catcalls and loud howls, and
grabbed Jane by the arm and kissed her dead on the mouth. Kate, who had
been standing by trying to look sexy and uninterested at the same time, walked
up to Christopher and said, “Hey baby, you like my little skirt?” When
she said this, she immediately flipped up the back of her skirt and gave
Christopher a good look at her pretty pink panties. Transfixed by this show
of sluttery, Christopher let go of Jane’s arm, and stalked up to Kate,
grabbing her breast and ass with both hands. He then began to kiss her neck
ravenously, drenching her with his beer scented man smell.
At this point Jane had had all she could stand. The beer and coke (which
she was beginning to come down from), coupled with Kate’s obvious disregard
for her emotions
and the earlier encounter she’d had with the Skinheads made something snap in
her. She grabbed Christopher’s empty High Life bottle, strode right up to
Kate, and smashed it right the fuck over her head. Then she let fly with a
right hook and left jab, breaking Kate’s nose and sending her sprawling
against the wall. Then, Christopher slapped Jane to the ground, leaving a
huge purple and red mark on her face, and sending her right contact lens flying
through the bar to god knows where. Just then, the front door to the bar
flew open and Blade and about twenty skins came crashing in, toting pails of dog
shit and flinging the fecal matter everywhere throughout the establishment. General
chaos ensued then, and Winslow the bouncer started cracking skinhead skulls with
a Louisville Slugger aluminum bat from behind the bar. That’s when Jane
blacked out.
Jane came to the next morning, lying in bed with a terrific headache, and the
shape of a man lying next to her. Rolling him over, she saw that it was
indeed Zack Swanson. He was naked from the waist down, and she could tell
by the pain in her crotch that they had had sex. Jane cupped her head in
her hands, and tried to recall what exactly had happened the night before. She
could remember nothing after Christopher Shittounge had slapped her to the
ground, and she tried in vain to get her vision to focus enough to look in the
mirror that was opposite her bed. She could make out her face and tangled
mess of hair, but there all resemblance to her former self ended. The
details of her frame were as blurry as her memories of the night before. She
was too tired and sick to care though, and Zack did look kind of cute all curled
up beside her. What the hell, she asked herself, and she laid back down,
snuggled up to Zack, and went back to sleep.
____________________
Matt says: “My name is Matt McGuire. I
am from a long line of Irish drunkards, but I live in Boone, North Carolina. I
can do everything from field-strip an AK-47 blindfolded to tile a kitchen floor. In
my spare time I breed midgets in my basement and plot the downfall of the human
race. My favorite authors are Ernest Hemingway, Sir Edward Gibbon, and Dr.
Seuss. I live alone in a sixty-year old farmhouse with my thirteen cats and
my automatic weapons.”
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