Frank felt rather than heard the foot stamps throbbing through the floor. The bar takings would be good for once. Good of them to come. Guilt mostly. And curiosity. He was their freak. Eardrums like teabags, more powder in his knees than Keith’s bathroom, his back sounding like Kurt sucking barbed wire.
‘Best roadie ever.’ His reward? A dying pub in Wolverhampton.
He looked in the mirror, coughed, straightening with a drumstick’s click. A few words for his sponsors.
‘Friends, showmen and the rest of you cun…’ Perhaps not, keep it family.
‘Raise up your beers…’ Not that they had the livers for the booze.
Keep it light. ‘Is that old Jagger I see before me?’ If Mick came he’d not look the oldest.
Frank felt a pressure on his hip as his bag filled. ‘To pee or not to pee.’ Like I have the choice.
Our milky eye stared back at Frank, legacy of that punk concert. Stupid prat nearly caused a riot by not going on. ‘But I’m hoarse, I’m hoarse, I can’t sing when I’m hoarse.’
He should’ve stopped then, but it was a drug. The thumping got louder; even Frank could make out they were chanting his name.
Nah, there wasn’t going to be any tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow for Frank. Looping the tie around the shower head he eased his way onto the edge of the bath. He took a deep breath, threw a bundle of tablets down his throat and let his feet slip off the side of the enamel.
As darkness swallowed him, like all those times backstage, just before that first explosion of noise, he grinned. Yeah, they’d all remember Frank, going out as he came in, popping pills and doing one last line.
This piece of flash is in response to the latest microcosms prompt, here