Sons of Mayhem 3: The Full Force by Nikki Pink

neon sign from the 70s and gap toothed front desk staff that were more redneck than Hollywood.
    What a shithole. Chad may have been talking a big game to the manager at the last place, but he most certainly had not found us somewhere better. I've seen motels better than this rundown old joint. Supposedly it’d been a favorite of James Dean, but that was sixty odd years before.
    Chad dealt with the front desk in record time, then Chad, me and the band headed up to the rooms. We rode a whining elevator up to the fifth, and top, floor of the hotel which juddered the whole way up. We marched down a stained carpeted corridor before I grandly swung open the door to one of the suites.
    "As long as the sheets are clean," said Johnny Tranquil, stoic as always.
    "Fuck this shower of shite. We're supposed to be fuckin' rock stars. fuckin' champagne, diamonds, Class A drugs, models. Look at this place," Rabbie swung a drumstick around the so-called suite, "the only model who'll want to get high in here is a fuckin' model aeroplane."
    "You ain't even been close to a model anyway. I'm sure the groupies won't mind," I told him. He glared back.
    "It's much more rock'n'roll, don't you think boys?" asked Chad.
    "No," replied Johnny, Neal, Rabbie and Si.

17

Lonnie
    W e got to club Vesuvius in no time at all. The new hotel was closer to this club and it was an easy thirty minute ride to the converted warehouse.
    As I rode my motorcycle there my thoughts turned back to the night before. Watching my old friends play in front of a proper, adoring crowd was really something. But then later. With her. Shit. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. She had so much energy , so much rage , so much frustration .
    I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forget the way she dug her nails in and moaned while I gave it to her. But she was gone, along with her crazy little sister. I’d never see her again. Maybe that was for the best. I sighed to myself, my breath disappearing into the warm wind that was whipping past. It wasn’t for the best. There was something about that girl. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. But there was definitely something .
    When we arrived we weren't "late" for once but the disadvantage with getting there on time of course was that we had time to meet the manager, Scott Thomson. He was like a younger, poor-man's version of Chad, if that was possible. No doubt his parents had bought him the club and now he was busy running it into the ground, if the state of the place was anything to go by.
    Still, as I always say, not my problem.
    We had a look round the place first, and it was smaller than the last venue. Chad assured us that the fans were going nuts online and the tickets had sold out in less than a minute once they'd become available. No one was here yet though. Just us.
    "Beers, let's go," I said to Scott.
    He kind of shuffled and nodded, not sure how to respond. Not surprising, I had Jase and Everest standing next to me and none of us looked like we were people to be trifled with.
    "Okay. Budweiser?" he asked.
    Dumbass. "I'll take a Spitfire Ale or a Newkie Brown."
    He looked startled. Jase and Everest laughed at the little panic stricken man.
    “I don’t think we have those…”
    "Whatever mate, just get us some beers. Anything is fine."
    He nodded and ran off.
    Behind us the lads were getting set up on stage. The roadies had dragged all the equipment in and now they were on the stage fiddling around with things. I could hear Si trying to tune his bass, it was way off and he kept making it worse. None of them were getting a good sound out of their kit, except for Rabbie and his drums. From the way they kept rubbing their heads I could tell they were regretting hitting it quite so hard the night before.
    That was the problem with a fucked up tour like this - they didn't get any time to have a proper break. It was one show after another, bam, bam, bam and if they insisted on partying after each one they were going to be