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- * Ignore this bit - it's just to bring the word count up: "They were amazing, Sarah - you never told me they were that mental." "I didn't really know they were," Sarah replied, "I downloaded one of their singles off the internet 'cos a girl on the NME chatboard said they were really cool ...and that the guitarist was hot." The girl winced slightly at this last bit, as if expecting to be ridiculed. "He was alright, but I preferred the singer - he was cute." "Cute like a psycho, Michelle." "Yeah, but a cute psycho," she grinned, "are we going to hang about here then?" "Well, we can for a bit, but my last train's in an hour, so I'll have to go before then." "Aw for god's sake Sarah, why didn't you ask your dad if you could stay at mine?" "I have to work tomorrow..." "Yeah, but still...I want a setlist." The Fluffers, meanwhile, were attempting to revive their frontman after finding him comatose amongst a nest of cables beneath the stage. "He's fuckin' well out of it, John - you'll have to carry him back to the van" grimaced Jim. "Yeah, we will" replied John pointedly. "Gentlemen." A brash, confident and entirely sincere voice boomed behind them. Sincerely. "Gents - a word." "Mr McColl," smiled Torq, "pleasure to meet you sir." John thought for one horrible moment that the guitarist was about to curtsey or kiss McColl's hand. Thankfully, he merely broke out in a sweat and trembled like a leaf. "Naw, it's a pleasure to meet you guys - you'se were epic out there - they loved you. Give me a ring and we'll make lots of money, alright?" He placed a card into Torq's shaking hand and smiled warmly, yet utterly unconvincingly, before making his way through the crowd - the smell of money and cheap scotch hanging in the air behind him. "It's going to fine boys - I told you," panted John from somewhere underneath Mark's unconscious form. "Yeah," nodded Torq, beaming from ear to ear, "you did. Now, dump that pisshead in the van and I'll get the pints in, alright?" "No bother. Jim, find that bugger Jason and get him to give me a hand, will you?" "Excuse me, but I'm epic, I'll have you know," grinned his friend, "but I'll make an exception for you just this once." ***** Torq woke to the smell of food. Unfortunately, this was down to the fact that he'd fallen asleep in the remains of his takeaway. Peeling the more clammy pieces of kebab meat from his cheek, he surveyed the wreckage. "Oh, shit." The room was, it had to be said, not exactly covered in manure, but it wasn't particularly far off: Torq appeared to be occupying the cleanest area of the room which, as it was carpeted by half the contents of a Turk's kebab shop, was perhaps not saying all that much. Mark had clearly decided (once regaining consciousness and a limited ability to walk unaided), to redecorate his little piece of bedlam with the contents of his stomach. Mercifully, it smelt peculiarly minty, considering how bad it looked like it aught to smell. Over on the opposite side of the room, John was entwined with a tangle of steel tubing and flex - Torq idly wondered if he'd been trying to reclaim parts of his drum kit from Mark, after the latter's coup d'état on stage. The drummer groaned hesitantly. Most worryingly, Jim seemed to have undressed at some unspecified point, before allowing several blindfolded chimps to redress him. The effect was not becoming. And neither was his similarly bedraggled floorside companion. This, more than anything, surprised Torq, as he'd always thought of Mick as being resolutely heterosexual. His barely coordinated attempt to nuzzle Jim's knee seemed to give the lie to that, however. Amongst the carnage of bodies, bodily fluid, unidentified meat products and musical paraphernalia, sat Michelle and the girl with the small voice (what the hell was her name, wondered Torq) that had been hanging about since yesterday - bright-eyed in shock, or horror, or glee - Torq wasn't sure.
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