Alice was summoning the Nordic death faeries that night. She was rocking the corpse paint again. Her face was ghostly pale, eyes were hidden by the torn wings of a dragon, and her lips were black and exacting. Her hair was pulled back and glimmered with purple aerosol speckle. The rings on her thick leather collar hung like medieval ornaments. She wore that black bra and leather vest, gun metal capris, and those battered Doc’s like a provocation . And sometimes fools took the bait. There’s a special relationship between drummers and bass players especially when they’ve written songs and played countless venues together. Alice and I have invoked deep smouldering pockets and bashed out monstrous rumbles while Jordyn and Parker lashed the audience. We had lugged gear across abandoned parking lots too many times, split smokes, and argued about Ginger Baker. So when some scrawny dude with a Small Faces coiffure stepped to me after a gig one night and said some incomprehensible shit Alice marked him and waited. Later in the alley Alice spotted him as we loaded our gear into the van. He was smoking and laughing with some friends when she walked up to him. There was a brief exchange. He looked down at her with his piss hole eyes, blew smoke at her through sneering lips, dropped like a sack of wet cement choking desperately for breath after she slugged him in the throat. His friends evaporated. Jordyn looked at Parker. She was digging through her hand bag for the keys, “What’s the lesson here, you figure?” Parker grabbed the keys and looked back at Jordyn, “Don’t fuck with the rhythm section, I guess.” | image @animvs_ . . . #amwriting #writing #writersofinstagram #art #arttherapy #music #band #thechemicalspray #fiction