REBEL YELL
by perletwo
You see some strange things working this gig.
I know, I know. All security dudes say that. But in my case it's actually true.
See, I came up with this tour outta the gutters of London. Those were some damn weird gutters in the Seventies, too, lemme tell ya. I knew the Man back when he was just plain ol' William Brod.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Tour security guy = scuzzy loser. But it's not true. Oh, sure, I've seen lots like that - nothin' like those early 80's opening acts to perpetuate *that* stereotype.
But me, I'm a monument to clean living. Always have been. Back in the day when everybody was doing everything and everybody in sight, it was the surest way to be a rebel, livin' clean. I've seen 'em all come an' go - band members, roadies, groupies, even the Man himself nearly fell prey to appetites without limits. But I've stuck it out for the long haul, keepin' things in order.
Always have been a rebel. It's why Bill's kept me on all these years. He's never been the real deal and deep down he knows it, so it makes him feel better to have a God's-honest rebel on his leash. An' Bill's little joke is, the rebel's the guy he pays to keep order on the tour.
Other reason he's kept me on is, turns out I'm good at my job. See, I know a rebel when I see one, an' while I appreciate 'em, I know all their tricks. I know how to keep 'em in line.
There's that, an' the fact that I know where all the bodies are buried. Literally.
Work tour security an' it pays to have a long memory for troublemakers. True, the cities all kinda blur together after awhile - one Hyatt and McDonald's looks just like every other one, y'know? - but some faces you never forget.
'Course it helps if that face hasn't aged a day in the thirty-odd years since you saw it last.
"Blond in the leather duster," I mutter into my radio to venue security. "Pull him outta line an' bring'im up here to me on the catwalk." An' hope to hell he's not in a fightin' mood.
Apparently not. He looks surly an' makes some noise, but his body language's neutral when the rent-a-cops pull'im out. Not aggressive, not defensive, just - cooperatin'. Almost wish he'd made a move in a way - make it easier to explain in case somebody raises a stink.
"Go cover the doors, fellas." The younger one looks like he wants to raise some sand over bein' ordered around by the likes'a me, but his buddy's been around the block a few times - it shows on his face - an' he can tell they don't wanna be here for what happens next. So he drags his pal back off to the doors.
I give the blond, can't-be-as-young-as-he-looks guy a good long once-over, and cross my arms over my chest. "Now *there's* a face I never figured on seein' around one'a my gigs again," I growl. "Not after what you did *last* time. You gotta nerve, Blondie."
He puts his hands up like I'm holding a gun on him. "Hey, man! That was a long long time ago! Why not just let bygones be bygones, huh?" He's got a smile on that makes me want to knock his teeth in.
"Let's see. Eight dead bodies in a mosh pit at Wembley spring to mind." He shrugs. "You got any idea how much trouble we had covering that up? Man, didn't you realize that was right around the time acts like Bill's were gettin' hit with the Satanist rap? Couldn't be sillier, o'course, but when you got kids suicidin' to Judas Priest, rippin' throats out on an arena floor ain't the way to keep y'r favorite band in business!"
Blondie just shrugs again, feigning sheepishness. "I was young. I was impulsive. I've grown as an individual since then." My radio squawks once, twice, but we're too focused on starin' each other down to pay it any mind.
"We sold eight thousand tickets to this gig," I growl back, not budging. "You'll pardon it if I don't feel like takin' your word on that."
"Hey, I know you got no reason to believe me, but I'm a changed man." My scowl deepens. "Wearin' the white hat now an' all that. 'Sides, this is my night off. Just lookin' for good clean fun, right?"
I've just opened my mouth to say something witty an' stingin' when his face changes. Not into vamp face - I've seen that one before on others, once or twice - but his features shift the way I'm told mine do when trouble's a-brewin'. He holds up a hand. "Quiet. Listen."
I listen, eyes still fixed on Blondie's face. I was wrong, before - he *has* aged a day or two. Not in wrinkles or gray hairs, but in the stress lines etched into his expression. He had a baby face when I saw him last - now he's taken some weight on himself, an' it shows.
No sooner do I finish processing that thought than I realize what he's got me listening for.
My radio's gone dead.
We both turn around to face the arena doors at the same time, Blondie muttering swearwords under his breath. Seems to see somethin' through the smoked glass I don't. "What'cha got?"
"Turnstile jumpers, five of 'em, all vamps," he says. "Backup?"
I lift my binocs for a peek. "Idiot blue-suits're down, both of 'em."
By this time I can see the gang of vamps makin' their way through the vestibule in my binocs. A big one in black urban-cowboy gear flanked by one with a silver-pierced face and one with tattoos all over on one side, an' one in Village-People leather an' studs and one with purple hair on the other. An' they're movin' with a swagger that says they're lookin' for trouble.
"Dammit, why's this crud always gotta happen at *my* gigs?"
"Same reason I did those eight all those years ago, prob'ly," Blondie says, pointing at the inner doors. "Like the all-night buffet at Denny's in there to a vamp, mate." He shakes his head. "Right then. No backup. Big surprise. Hang on tight."
Next thing I know he's got his arm around my waist and we're soaring over the catwalk rail. I don't have enough time to get scared enough to yell before we've hit the floor, landing right in the path of the vamp gang. Now *this* I know from - you got a band'a thugs that outnumbers you bearin' down, you don't let 'em see weakness. I straighten up and get my game on.
So, I notice outta the corner'a my eye, has Blondie. He's gone all bumpy in the forehead and the fangs're showin'. "Friends'a yours?"
"Know the big Johnny Cash-wannabe by reputation," he says. "Name's Travis, first or last I don't know an' don't care. Been makin' headaches for the Slayer up 'round Sunnydale way for about a month now. Rest're fledges, prob'ly don't know squat about usin' their strength to best effect, but Travis does. He's the one to watch for, best let me take 'im on."
I nod. "He know you?"
"No - well. By reputation, prob'ly. Not but two vamps ever hang with the Slayer an' dust their own kind, an' we don't get mistaken for each other much." He grins, and without thinking I grin back. The adrenalin's startin' to flow, an' even through the fear it feels *damn* good.
Blondie pulls a wooden stake outta his jacket an' passes me another one. "Aim for the 'eart an' try to get'em on the first shot, no dickin' around wi' any fancy stuff, 'ear me? That's the way t'get bit."
"Got it." The vamps are about five feet away from us, and stop in a V-formation.
The big guy smiles, baring his fangs. "Spike."
Blondie nods. "Garth."
I can't help it -I spit out a high snort of laughter at that. Garth's pissed off by it too. Good.
"Freelancing now, are we?" Travis snickers "Guess buyin' your blood gets expensive."
"Actually, I'm just bucking for a backstage pass," he answers with a shrug. The four fledgeling vamps are fanning out around us, and Blondie and I both shift around back-to-back to guard our flanks.
"Love to chitchat, but we got a concert to get to," Travis says with a gesture, and the fledgelings attack. Blondie takes down the fledge closest to him immediately, and by the time it goes up in a puff of dust he's on top of Travis with a howl.
I get Tattoo-boy with my first shot like he told me to, knocking Face Studs back with a spin kick in the same motion. Boy's stupid - he rushes me an' a quick sidestep ensures he lands right on my stake.
Blondie's havin' some trouble with the big guy, though - they're at each other's throats. I circle around 'em lookin' for a shot, an' catch Blondie's eye. He nods, an' soon as he can manage he holds'im steady so I can stake'im through the back.
"YEAAHHH!" Oh yeah. That adrenalin's goin' good now. Blondie doesn't seem to be feelin' it though. Maybe vamps don't have adrenalin? He puts a hand on my shoulder, using the stake in his other hand as a pointer.
"Tattoos," he says, pointing to one pile of dust. "Studly. Travis. Leather Freak."
That's all the piles of dust we've got, and I look at him, realizing. "Purple Hair," we say in unison, and hit the ground running for the doors to the concert floor.
"Aw crud." Blink 182's in what I recognize as the next-to-last number of their set. It's festival seating. I frickin' HATE festival seating.
We're standing on the outskirts of a throbbing sea of humanity, mostly young male bodies whirling and flinging themselves around like the arena floor's a giant blender. The roar of amplified music and the steady guttural howl of eight thousand human voices blends into one big wave of white noise. There's no point in tryin' to talk to each other in here.
Through the motions of the crowd we get glimpes of leather and flannel and fatigues and baggy skateboard shorts and tour T-shirts. And a whole frickin' rainbow of hair colors, sometimes all on one head. I groan, though I can't even hear my own voice.
Blondie grabs my shoulder and shakes it to get my attention. He points from me to him, an' then at his own eyes with two fingers, which then point back out at the crowd. Okay. He can find Purple Hair, an' I should stick close. I notice he's still in vampface. Also that nobody else seems to notice. Rock and roll.
We wade into the mosh pit, bracing ourselves against the flailing bodies crashing into us.
Blondie doesn't even seem to notice the battering we're taking as we make our way towards the center of the mosh pit, me hangin' on to a handful of duster to make sure I don't lose him. Lucky guy. I'm gonna be soakin' in hotel hot tubs for a week to get the bruises I'm getting to go down. Meanwhile, he's pointin' nose-first like a damn huntin' dog, scannin' the crowd.
Finally he stops, nodding his head to the left, and lookin' around him I see it. Purple Hair's got his hands on some kid's shoulders from behind, movin'em up to the neck for the kill. I shove my way forward an' around to the front'a the poor kid. "Security," I yell in his ear an' yank'im forward just as Blondie's stake makes Purple Hair go poof.
Released of the vamp's tight grip, the kid an'I both pitch forward, an' Blondie just barely gets his stake outta our way as we fall over onto the pile of dust, me on top'a the kid.
The crowd closes in around us, swallowin' us up, an' I have a moment of throat-tightenin' panic - The Who in Cincinnati, Pearl Jam in Copenhagen, Woodstock '99 - an' then that turns into vertigo as the kid an' I are hoisted upright by a pair of leather-clad arms, solid as steel beams. Just then, the last note of Blink's last number dies away an' I hear them givin' their curtain calls. The sudden drop in the noise level makes my ears ring even with the earplugs.
"DU-uuuude," the kid drawls in my face. "Di'nnnnn't *do* nothinnnnnn'. You oughtaaaa be more caaareful, man." He dusts off the seat of his pants, turns to Blondie. "I could sue, y'know."
Blondie nods, an' the kid blinks, once, noticin' the bumpies. Then he blinks again, shrugs, and shambles off into the crowd, which is eddying out the doors around us for intermission. We edge our way over to the wall where it's quieter.
"Huh," I say, watchin' the kid go. "You'd think he could show us a little gratitude."
"They never do," Blondie says, shaking his head sadly. When his head comes to rest again, he's got his human face on again.
The noise level drops considerably, and we stand there leanin' against the wall, watchin' the roadies shift the stage gear for Bill's set. "So. White hat an' all that, huh?"
"Yeah. Couldn't do any more 'uman throats if I wanted to, mate," he says, palming a cigarette and a silver lighter. "Long story. Stop by a club I hang out at called the Bronze an' it can be had for the price of a beer an'a shot, though."
"a-HEM." He looks up, surprised. "No smokin' in the venue, dude. Tour rule."
"Oh, *now* you're just yankin' my chain!" I shake my head.
"No, really. Tour rule. Bill's got a kid now. He's runnin' around backstage half the time. He worries about secondhand an' all that crud."
"You have *got* to be kidding me," he whines. "Billy Idol was one of the great chainsmokers on the punk circuit back in the day!"
"No kiddin'. He quit. Cold turkey. Said it was harder than booze or drugs, too."
"Ehhh. Guess I've given up better addictions'n this to play White Hat." He pockets the cigarette and lighter. "Your name wouldn't be Giles by any chance, would it?"
"Ahhh - no. Should it?" I grin. "Actually I answer to Leroy. Leroy Brown."
He groans. "Please tell me they don't call you Bad Bad."
"Actually, they call me Junkyard. As in, the dog."
Blondie grins back, extending a hand to shake. "An' I answer to Spike. As in, the dog."
"Really." I take his hand, shake.
"No, not really. The dog part, I mean. You don't wanna know why they *really* call me Spike."
"I bet. So, you really want that backstage pass? I can do that, y'know."
His head ducks into his shoulder, an' he looks - shy?! "Nah. I was just blowin' smoke in Travis' face. All's I want's to see the show, mate. Paid m'ticket an' everythin'."
I shrug. "That's cool. Long's you keep your fangs clean." He laughs. "The Bronze, huh? They open all night?"
"Yeah. Actually I got a buddy hangs there you really oughta meet. He spends *way* too much time hangin' out with the birds, it's doin' bad things to 'is testosterone level. Needs more guy friends." He brightens suddenly. "An' you just *got* to meet my girl. W'l, not *mine* exactly, but-"
"Say no more. Been there. Done that." I hold up my left hand, flashing my ring. "Married it."
"Yeah?" He grins. "Long time?"
"Goin' on thirty years next June. Got'er right outta high school." Spike high-fives me. Hey, told you I was always a rebel. An' that it takes one to know one.
The opening notes of "Rebel Yell" sound from the stage, and Spike dances off into the crowd, a hand raised in farewell. I return the greeting, and head out to the venue offices, to look up the address of the Bronze. Sounds like just the place for the band's after-party...
background courtesy of 