Going underground

The Subway was still pumping when I left the back room a few minutes later. Nobody seemed to have heard a thing. Or maybe nobody cared.

I found Stevie at the bar, with a collection of red McEwans cans keeping him company. He handed me one. I gulped it down, but it could have been battery acid. I couldn’t taste a thing.

“We really should go,” he rumbled. “Someone’s bound to open that door at some point, and I have places to be.”

I lifted another can from the bar and slipped it into an inside pocket. One for the road.

“The Horsemen?” I queried.

“Left with Morag. Seems they’re looking to redeem themselves. She’ll be safe enough with them around.”

I nodded. It was an automatic reaction. The DJ picked that moment to play Ministry. The familiar intro snapped me out of my daze enough to start me moving towards the exit. As we ding a ding danged our dang a long ling longs around one side of the dance floor, we saw Uncle Venom trudging around the other side, pizza boxes piled high on his outstretched arms, beard resting on the top box to keep them steady. He must have reached the back room just as we set foot on the stairs leading up to the street. The scream that followed us up into the night air was much more intense than the ones he tried to deliver on stage.

I wanted to swing past Julie’s place and check on her and the kid, but we had no way of getting there. Shank’s pony would only take us so far. I’d never owned a car. Or even a bike. At least I never had to deal with road rage. Although I often suffered from pavement rage. And grass rage. And standing on a street corner rage. Same cause. Same symptoms. Same cure.

Instead, we headed back to the GB to pick up my shirt. When we got there, Gina was wearing it, claiming that this was the best way to get it completely dry. She made me peel it off her, to the applause and catcalls of the crowded bar. This process took longer than it should have, but not as long as it might have. I wasn’t really in the mood. And contrary to popular belief, in those days I didn’t sleep with every single woman I met. I’m reasonably certain I missed one or two here and there. You know who you are. I’m sorry. It was nothing personal.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available on Amazon. Also available in paperback.

And on Amazon.co.uk.

Catch me selling paperbacks at the Railways Cafe in Centurion on Saturday the 13th. R150 each. R250 for both Burning Roses and Dancing in Valhalla.

Till next time.

Cheers.