The fireworks exploded all around him, sending a heat wave hotter than hell right up his denim jacket. Sweat rolled down his arms as he gripped the microphone tightly. He looked out into the black abyss in front of him, his ears ringing from all of the shouting. “Good night TACOMA!” He yelled, raising his microphone into the air like a champion. “Our best show of the tour, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Each time he said ‘thank you’ another series of fireworks and cannons went off. It was louder than a battlefield, and just as well. The louder, the better. He danced off stage, giving out sweaty high fives to the roadies and crew as he headed into the dressing rooms. A man had his arms wrapped around his neck, breathing heavy on his face with a wide smile. “We did it, man. That was our greatest performance yet. God…I should have thrown out a few more drumsticks.”
Dave Viypr, lead vocalist for the greatest rock n roll band to ever tear across the land, Stryped Viyprs, just smiled back. “Hell yeah! Let’s celebrate.”
Celebrate, in the words of any rock band of the time, was to get drunk or high, or perhaps even both. That, and the girls, Viypr thought, his smile becoming a grin. All of the blondes, brunettes, and red heads. I’m not too picky. He opened the door to his dressing room with his drummer in tow, collapsing on the zebra-print couch that matched his spandex perfectly. The makeup on his face had smeared and his tall blond mohawk had begun to fall flat. Above all, his legs and arms ached from all of the dancing and jumping around.
And the crowd surfing. That, is the price to pay for a great show, he thought, grabbing himself a bottle of whiskey. “Take your whiskey home,” he wailed, signaling a start of the party.
His guitarist, the flamboyant, shirtless beast that was the one and only J. J. Elliott entered the room with a dozen or more girls, each wearing barely any clothing. “Just the way we like ’em! Sexy.”
It would be a fun night.