WARNING: The following story is made for fans of modular/natural body magic/detachment/non-lethal dismemberment/etc. If you are not a member of that community, I strongly advise that you turn back now. Things will get freaky.
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In truth, the 23rd's concert was something that can't be contained by the claustrophobic confines of words and sentences. As the saying goes, you just had to be there. But I only get paid if I write something, so here's my best attempt at bottling lightning.
LOCATION: The Fire Pit is, literally and figuratively, a semi-underground concert venue. You enter into a "U" shaped pub at street level, thick steel bars impaled along the open inside of the "U" to expose a great floorless emptiness; a perfect view of the stage and the dance floor in the basement below. The bars were too close set for any but the most pencil thin to pass through, and three horizontal crossbeams running at waist, head, and shin height ensured even the scrawny would require serious contortion or disassembly to drop down. Management assured me no one had ever fallen through, though more than one had gotten an arm or a leg stuck and subsequently snapped off. Dancing was strictly prohibited outside of the dance floor, but sometimes the music just gripped you, y'know?
The dance floor, accessed by a wide stairwell or an elevator on opposite ends of the "U", was where the real chaos lived; more spacious than it looked from above, but packed to capacity with eager concert goers. There were a few couches against the walls, couches which pulled double duty as stations to nurse the dizzy and dismembered, but for strategic reasons the couches had no armrests and there were no tables anywhere in the basement. For just as dancing was barred above, drinking was forbidden below, so to discourage drink smuggling, no place to safely put a drink down was provided.
The stage, opposite the pub's front door so it could be seen from all angles, rose only a foot above the dance floor. This left bands intimately close to their fans, the speakers set along the back wall blasting past performers and scattering into the crowd like a grapeshot broadside, striking the pub above and spilling bloody sound back down. The acoustics were loud, echoing, messy, and all encompassing, like you could taste music caught between your teeth. Perfect for metal, EDM, choirs, grunge, and punk.
BAND: Tonight's headliners were Three Fucking Punks. As the name suggests, there's three of them, they're punk rockers, and they're a horny polycule. Their style can best be described as "playing so good you think they suck"; musicians and aficionados will recognize not just the technical skill required to play their fast, complex, and layered rhythms, with abrupt shifts in tempo and tone, but so too will they pick up on a deep wealth of historical, literary, and music allusions both popular and obscure. Meanwhile, an average Joe would hear a thrashing mess of loud noise and inscrutable vocals barely recognizable as music. It's not for everyone, and they don't want to be. Whoever follows them follows them because they're them. On that note, I should introduce them:
Portia Arbors, 30, is the band's lead singer, percussionist, and the polycule's hinge. Nearly six feet tall and taller still in the thick, heavy, high heeled platform boots that serve as both a fashion statement and an instrument. These boots weren't made for walking, but tap dancing, their custom soles featuring five different materials at different points of contact to allow Portia to dance out a complex beat by tapping, sliding, grinding and clicking. This unorthodox percussion accommodates Portia's perpetual armlessness, her smoothed off shoulders bound in tight leather to flaunt the limbs' absence. Why would she need hands? She's got people for that.
Sam Ciro, 32, is a keytarist, backing vocalist, and Portia's number one fan. While not an instrument typically associated with punk, this former disk jockey and indie game composer has modified their keytar so heavily that they can force out just about any sound on a whim; sharp piano key strikes, wailing synthetic squeals, bass guitar, distorted electronic barks, whatever the song required. Sam flips through sounds frequently and suddenly, playing the MIDI controls almost as much as the keys. Disregarding the interesting instrument choice, Sam would stand out starkly on stage regardless; shaved from head to toe, their lean body clad in nothing but flip flops and a collage of ever changing body paint and pen notes expressing their mood, thoughts, politics, and what songs they intended to play. While nudism remains in legal limbo, Sam gets around potential violations by never wearing their nipples, genitals, or butt hole, leaving nothing to indecently expose.
Danny Rollins, 26, is the band's electric guitarist and de-facto head honcho on stage, despite not wearing a head. His shoulders carry only a stubby neck stump with a tight leather collar and a tattooed smiley face atop that stump. This collar features a leather leash of about 6 feet, which is tethered to Portia's waist so she could drag around her boy toy. When they're not performing, anyway. On stage, Danny is untethered, and leads the band with absolute authority. After all, with no ears or eyes, he can't follow anyone's musical lead. He can only play, his way, and when he's given the signal, three quick kisses on the stump from Portia and a hard slap on the ass from Sam, Danny PLAYS.
THE CONCERT: The January 23rd concert at The Fire Pit, known as "Odd Ones Out!", featured an eclectic mix of artists connected only by a numbered naming convention. An opening act by rapper One Man's Band, a main event by Three Fucking Punks, and a closing performance by death metal band Fire Forged Five.
Doors open at 7:30, show starts at 8 on the dot. One Man's Band sets a good vibe, getting the crowd warmed up and moving with a carefully curated set of poppy, ear-worm dance music. As much a dancer as a singer, his head rests on a stool singing while his body break dances with moves that wouldn't be possible with a head in the way. He even pops himself apart and rearranges himself several times in his tightly choreographed performance, to achieve even more exotic moves. But, while One Man's Band is an expert, his audience isn't. Most don't even try to follow along, content to vibe, move, and shake to their own comfort level, but a few more daring, dim, and drunken souls try copying his moves to downright catastrophic results. Arms and legs are sent flying, heads roll across the floor as their bodies dizzily topple over, it's a bloodless bloodbath. A few vigilantes and employees go around gathering up lost parts, rebuilding and reviving the scattered dancers on the couches. I had to keep telling them that my body's not lost, it's back at the studio, but I appreciate their concern. Tragically some of these kind souls are themselves made casualties, flailing arms and kicking legs slapping heads from shoulders and knocking feet out from under them.
After a 50 minute set, there was a 10 minute intermission while the stage was prepped for the headliners. This respite allowed most of the audience to get themselves back together, though I couldn't help but notice silhouettes of a few orphaned limbs, a pair of identical twin heads, and a single big boob still stranded in every man's land, not to mention more than a few "eclectic" collections of non-matching parts hastily cobbled into a single form.
From backstage, Sam Ciro threw the door open and held it for their mistress, bowing deeply in deference to Portia and flaunting their empty doll crotch and asshole-free ass to the audience. Across their cheeks, big crimson letters spelled out "PORTIA'S PROPERTY, TOUCH ANYWAY!", and the crowd broke out in a mix of laughter, shocked gasps, and hooting cheers. The cheering soon overtook everything else, as Portia Arbors strode out with sharp, clacking strides that cut through the racket. Dressed like a leather dominatrix, exposing nothing but teasing everything, she wore a dog-walker's belt with a leather leash linking her to a lumbering mass of muscle that followed in carefully measured footsteps. Danny had learned his mistress' gait well enough to match, stopping when he felt the leash go slack and turning in place like a tank when it pulled in a new direction.
Portia walked her man to the middle of the stage and stopped, stopping him in kind. Portia paced clockwise around him, rotating the faceless Danny to face the crowd. She called in a voice that effortlessly rang through the crowd "Sam, sweetie, would you mind readying us for the show?"
"Anything for you, mistress!" Sam answered, curtsying an imagined dress. They grabbed the navy blue beast of a guitar that the staff had kindly set up, making a few last minute adjustments, before prancing over to Danny and draping the nylon strap over his shoulders. The body moved mechanically, adjusting strap and instrument, lowering his frame into a wide, aggressive stance squared with the audience he correctly assumed stood before him. He was an oddly terrifying sight, like a medieval pikeman ready for battle, back in the brutal days when dismemberment crippled or even killed people in otherwise perfect health.
Sam unclipped the leash from Portia's waist, unleashing the warrior, and took a moment to caress her mistress' hips. Portia impatiently tapped her booted foot, snapping Sam back to business. They affixed Portia's headset and powered it up, looking meekly at their master and pleading for forgiveness with their big blue eyes. Portia gave her a quick kiss on the nose, and nodded for Sam to fetch their keytar. Portia's attention turned to her man, her heels, natural height, and his strategically hunched pose giving her a perfect vantage point to make out with that big dumb smiley face tattoo on his stump. With the mic on, the audience felt like they were trapped between the lovers, their kisses filling the Fire Pit.
Thankfully for the squeamish, Sam Ciro quickly primed their keytar, bellowed "WE ARE THREE FUCKING PUNKS! LET'S FUCKING GO!", and sprinted across the stage. She slapped Danny's ass so hard the big guy nearly jumped into the rafters, but as soon as he landed he launched into the opening chords of "Fucked in the Head", an autobiographical song (with artistic liberties taken) detailing Danny bouncing between a string of bad relationships, never thinking things through, until he wound up with Portia. Worried his stupid head would fuck everything up like always, he relinquished it to her, letting her do the thinking for him.
While the lyrics were written by and from Danny's perspective, with Portia singing them there was a voyeuristic quality to every verse. Like she was reading from his diary, the blind body none the wiser, as she teased the audience with every private detail. Danny played his guitar fast, loose, and energetic, Sam switched between synthesized bass guitar and a distorted trumpet when a sense of wailing and crying was needed, and for her part Portia sang with a haughty, flippant tone, almost parodying the lyrics she recited.
But her body told a different story entirely. Her percussive footwork was light as a feather. Her big dominatrix boots bounced daintily on their toes like a schoolgirl. Her hips swayed with giddy excitement and the nubs of her shoulders all but fluttered, shaking her butt ungracefully like an excited dog's tail. Listening to this song through headphones, only hearing Portia's sneering lyrics, you may never realize that the song is as much a joke aimed at the mistress as her toy. That for all her commanding airs, she's as much of a puppy dog as her man, and she's over the moon to be his story's happily ever after. Watching it live, seeing her body sing its own juxtaposed tune in harmony with her voice, it gives the song a whole new dimension.
Like I said, you just had to be there.
At the time of the concert, Three Fucking Punks had produced 3 albums and a few singles when the whim struck. A 4th album was dropping in a few weeks, this tour its inauguration, yet the band had decided to play album 1, "Holy Shit, An Album", in track order, almost from beginning to end, with only a single, a song apiece from albums 2 and 3, and 3 songs presumably from their new album interspersed throughout. Even then, I got the impression they'd only prepped to play through the 14 songs of "Holy Shit, An Album" plus the 3 new tracks. Danny seemed to be throwing in curve balls just to fuck with his partners; softly playing out HSaA's "Schrodinger's Pussy", a song about the box containing Sam's detached genitals and whether or not it's pussy or pork, Danny proceeds right into the opening solo bars of the next song, "Careful, They Bite". Sam and Portia ready themselves to jump in, only for both to fumble, panic, and scramble, as Danny plays "Who Did Me Dirty?" from their 3rd album, a song that started with a very similar chord progression. Shakily, struggling not to laugh or fall over, Portia tap danced her way over to Danny and kicked him in the ass, the audience exploding in laughter even as Sam assaulted their ears trying to improvise their MIDI settings for a song they didn't have any of the presets loaded up for. To Sam's credit, they improvised their heart out.
The same could be said of the performance as a whole. For just under two hours, Three Fucking Punks put on a messy, loud, and electrifying performance, with heads sailing like artillery shells above the crowd as overzealous headbangers snapped their noggins right off their shoulders. When these thinking missiles returned to earth, many slammed right into other attendees and blew them apart, laughter and cheers rolling through the crowd even as it thinned with attrition. By the grand finale, a faster and more thumping rendition of "Takes Three to We" with a long and intense instrumental breakdown not in the studio version, half the crowd was bits and pieces on the floor, flopping and writhing in a sweaty mass of disjointed life. A perfect metaphor for the Three Fucking Punks.
"You've been great, but we got shit to do so no encore! Fire Forged Five will be more than happy to make your ears bleed as long as you let them!" Portia panted to a mix of cheers and jeers. While Sam secured Danny to his master, Portia scanned the room. She locked eyes with me, smiled, and motioned for Sam to cut her mic before whispering in their ear. Sam nodded, and while Portia led Danny backstage, Sam hopped down from the stage and made a beeline for me. To their flustered pleasure, fans crowded around and took the advice of their ass, slapping their butt, groping their chest, sliding a hand between the empty expanse left between their legs, and being rough with it too. Even discarded parts on the ground got in on the action, gripping Sam's ankles, licking and kissing their feet as they hobbled through the carnage, begging to be stepped on.
"YOU SARAH?" Sam shouted over the clamor of flesh and fawning, picking me up and holding me at eye level, not sure if they should address me or the camera.
"In the flesh!" I shouted back, giggling as they playfully squirmed and elbowed people away, trying not to drop me. Tucking me into the crook of their arm, my head cradled to their breast/chest, Sam forced their way back to the stage like they were wading through mud, finally breaking free as they hopped back up and slipped past the Fire Forged Five setting up their pyrotechnics, retreating to the safety of the greenroom backstage.
THE INTERVIEW:
(I'm set down in a cushioned chair, directly across from a leather couch where Danny and Portia sit. Sam fetches two beers, sticking a long metal straw into one and offering it to Portia, who declines.)
PORTIA: Can you see us all? Your camera, I mean?
ME: Won't know until it's time to edit. Don't worry about too much, the audio's what we're after.
PORTIA: Your audience may disagree.
(She wrapped a leg over and between Danny's thighs, rubbing his jeans with her calf. He tenses, his thick neck twitching in an abbreviated gulp, but he makes no conscious movement.)
ME: So, it's been a long time since you did a live show. What's brought you back?
PORTIA: Promoting the new album, of course. Now that we're not imprisoned in the recording gulag or the editing laogai, we're free to roam again!
ME: This new Album, "Premarital Postmodern", I believe you only played three songs from it tonight. If you were looking to promote the new album, why'd you stick primarily to your first?
PORTIA: Marketing 101. Give the fans a little sneak peak, and if they want the rest they'll have to buy the album once it's released. Or pirate it, if they're naughty little punks.
ME: I see. So what teasers would you care to give the readers of Music Monthly?
PORTIA: Hmmmm... good question. Sam? Give her the spiel.
SAM: Uh, okay, sure, uh, the new album is kinda, uh, like it's an evolution of "FOMO", our second album, where like, it's kind of a concept album thing based around Rashomon retellings of big moments in our life together and y'know processing it. In triple sub-sets and such. All singing our own songs, and if you put all our songs back to back you get like a mini-narrative sub-album.
(The Fire Pit had surprisingly good soundproofing. You could barely hear Fire Forged Five starting their set with an explosive blast of pyrotechnics and screaming like the singer just got his whole face burned off. Maybe if it was louder, the silence wouldn't have been so awkward.)
PORTIA: Sorry, Sarah. Sam's a sharp cookie, but they're a bit out of practice on the talking front.
(Sam bowed deeply, and now that I was in front of their bow I could see they'd drawn an angelic halo around a cartoon skull on their shaved scalp. Portia leaned over and gave her a forgiving kiss on the cheek, Danny panicking a little as his mistress leaned away. His arms wrapped pleadingly around her empty shoulders, urging her not to go. She rolled her eyes, sitting back down and snuggling up to the headless body that now squeezed her tightly to his chest, as Sam plopped down on the couch for a group hug)
PORTIA: Heavy is the hinge that wears the crown. Don't let anyone tell you dommming is easy.
ME: I'll make sure my readers know your burdens. So, could you elaborate on Sam's comments?
PORTIA: Suppose I should. To put it simply, the album focuses on a series of dramatic episodes in our fucked up life, told from all of our perspectives. There are eight harrowing events, like getting bitched at by puritans who didn't want to accomodate a three person group after we already paid for the couples' retreat, visiting Sam's parents and leaving Danny's head with a neighbor, and so on. Some of these events weren't actually related, or happened in a different order, but with some fudging we made a running narrative. Each of the eight events gets one song from each of our perspectives, so three songs per event, and if you only played all the songs sung by one of us you'd get an 8 song story, but playing all 24 songs you get a story that repeats and contradicts itself as we all remember stuff wrong or have different feelings about it, like in messy real life.
ME: I see. You played three songs from the album tonight. Is it safe to assume that all of of them were about a single event?
PORTIA: Clever girl! Care to tell the class what it was about?
ME: Hey, I'm the interviewer here. You're supposed to answer my questions.
PORTIA: Am I?
ME: Yes!
(Sam, Portia, and I all start laughing. Danny's body shifts uncomfortably, his woman is suddenly shaking, but when he figures out there's nothing to worry about his massive chest starts puffing up in uncertain laughter too, causing us all to laugh even harder. Fire Forged Five are playing a song about a pilgrim sentenced to death in a witch trial, who tackles his accuser into their pyre so they're immolated together, and against that backdrop we're losing our collective minds over a cartoon gag.)
ME: Alright, alright, you got me! But please, I want to hear the story in your own words.
(Calming her laughter, nuzzling into the crook of Danny's broad shoulder and thick neck, rubbing her nub of a shoulder into his chest and accepting a sip of beer, she closes her eyes like she's about to fall asleep then and there. A few seconds pass before she smacks her lips and continues.)
PORTIA: Right, right. I guess I'll regale you again. For tonight's show, we chose the third event because we wanted to keep the inciting incident a secret and the ending unspoiled. Best way to do a teaser, I think. Anyway, we needed to break the news to Sam's parents that their sweet little child of almost thirty years old had renounced their birth gender, quit their cushy job as an assistant manager, become a nudist, and was in a polycule with both a man and a woman. We knew it'd be a lot to take in, but the band-aid needed to be ripped off so we didn't have a dozen coming out talks. So-
SAM: Wasn't "us" coming ou-, uh, sorry. Sorry, go on.
(Portia, surprised to be interrupted even so anemically, stares at Sam. Danny somehow senses a change in vibes, or perhaps he just wants to keep Portia close, as he starts massaging her shoulder nubs. His strong, calloused hands quickly melt his paramour into a puddle against his chest.)
PORTIA: Heh, you found your tongue, Sam? Well then, tell the nice readers of Music Monthly how I'm a filthy liar.
SAM: No, mistress, I'm sorry! I didn't mean... I mean you're not... I....
ME: Sam, this is an interview. With all of you. I want all of you to be heard.
(I glance at Danny.)
ME: Or, at least the two of you.
SAM: Oh, sorry, I can call Danny! We got him a smart speaker, he can answer the phone. Oh, uh, I guess you already knew that. He called in to sing his song. Never mind, I'll call him and-
PORTIA: Don't call him! He can barely chew gum and walk, much less massage and talk.
SAM: Right, sorry.
PORTIA: Don't be sorry, just answer the girl! Tell her your version of events!
SAM: Oh, er, alright. Sor-uh, yeah. So, I'd kind of been no contact with my folks for like, a year at the time. Like, three years ago. Not because I don't love them, I do! I just... I needed time to figure myself out. Alone. New city, new people, fresh slate, could really explore all the sides of me that I'd always been too shy to let them see. So like, uh... oh. I'm really sorry, I kind of lost my train of thought. What was the question again?
(Portia groaned, smiling and giggling to show she wasn't serious. She turned in Danny's grip, seating herself in his lap and adjusting as something prodded her back. She stretched across the whole couch, head hanging over one arm rest and her boots plopping into Sam's lap.)
PORTIA: Here, play with your fidget toys.
SAM: I, uh, okay.
(Sam unzips Portia's heavy boots, sliding them down her toned thighs to reveal sweaty, knee high nylon socks, with some kind of artistic floral pattern. The soles were more hole than fabric, worn away by Portia's intense dancing, and they peeled away with the audible 'crack' of dried sweat crumbling. This revealed a pair of beaten up, calloused feet and ankles, far darker than Portia's body, and sporting bright pink nail polish I couldn't imagine her wearing by choice. She noticed my surprise, which only heightened as Sam started to sensually and firmly massage their master's aching arches.)
PORTIA: I have more than a few pairs of feet. Sturdier ones for walking, seasoned battle axes for dancing, and my originals to wear around the house. Second-hand feet are a dime a dozen, why beat mine to hell and back?
ME: Yeah, I hear it's pretty common among ballerinas and interpretive dancers. In any event, Sam, I want you to tell me and Music Monthly about the song you sang tonight, and how you feel different about the event that inspired it than how Portia feels.
(They don't look up from Portia's burner feet; it didn't matter that they weren't her originals, they were hers now and they desperately needed love after the abuse they'd been through. The massage each joint of each toe until they pop loudly enough to be heard over Fire Forged Five, screaming about missile contrails or something.)
SAM: Yeah, so, uh, I was on a journey of isolation, self discovery, and reinvention. Took a while to sort through my baggage, figure myself out, and then right as I was settling into the new me, I get a call that, uh... well, grandpa was dying. We weren't close, he was sort of a hermit, but still. My parents wanted me to visit before it happened and I wanted to be there too. But, uh, that would, uh...
(There's a long pause, Portia's pinkie refusing to pop. Portia bit her lip, the tension rising as Sam fought to bring release. The background music ascended to a bombastic crescendo, and right as the singers hit a collective high note, a gratifying crack sent Portia's back arching, her shoulders wiggling, and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. She was obviously hamming it up, but Sam appreciated it.)
SAM: I'd, uh, have to be around them to visit grandpa. Which would involve them seeing me, asking a lot of questions about me, and I didn't want to hide myself from them any more, so I'd have to tell them some things they might've not been ready for.
PORTIA: Which is why we needed to rip the band aid off!
SAM: Which is why I wanted to ease them into the new me!
(Horror, they realized what they said. Portia is fighting not to burst out laughing at the very poor choice of words, Rubbing her sandpaper-like heels into their tights to divert their attention.)
SAM: I, uh, not like, er... you know what I mean! I didn't want them to look at me like I'd gone mad since I last saw them! Like I wasn't their little... they didn't even know about my transition! It was a lot! and Portia insisted we all drive down their even though I wanted to go alone!
PORTIA: If you went alone, you wouldn't have said anything!
SAM: I'd have said what I was ready to say! You weren't coming out to my parents, I was!
PORTIA: They didn't know I was polyamorous, did they?
SAM: They didn't know you existed! Fuck, you're the center of my world, not the center of the universe!
(Silence. I think Fire Forged Five were still on the missile song. Sam grabs the second beer and knocks back a good chunk of it before slamming it down.)
ME: So, the song was about this fight. Your point of view, Sam, is that it was your right to decide how you talked to your parents, and Portia's point of view is that she was worried you wouldn't be able to-
SAM: No. No, it wasn't a fight. Not BEFORE it... "it", happened. No, I told Portia I'd be away for a while, told her why, and she invited herself and Danny to come with. She thought she was helping, and I didn't have the guts to put my foot down and say "no". There was no fight. There should've been.
PORTIA: And that's why I thought it wasn't a big deal. She hardly put up any resistance when I offered to help break the news, so I thought she was happy to have my help. It's why my song for this scene is short, self righteous, saccharine, like a parody love song. For me this was a nothing moment. I didn't realize I'd really even "done" anything until days later. THAT'S its own song entirely.
SAM: But my song's ten minutes and thirty two seconds, and it's styled after a dirge, with like Portia tapping all slow and trudging like a funeral procession.
ME: I see. What about Danny's song? It sounds like he wasn't heavily involved in this scene.
PORTIA: Au contraire! He had a lot to say about this little scene! Sam? Could you ring Danny up? And, uh-
(She sat up, slid her feet onto the ground, and leaned in close to whisper something into Sam's ear. Sam had a complexion like fat-free milk, so their blush was dramatic and easily spotted. Sam chugged the rest of their beer, gave Portia a long sip of hers, and went to grab the phone from their purse. Very, very slowly. While they inched across the room, Portia snuggled up to Danny, pressing her chest to his bicep, and started chewing on the soft angle of his shortened neck. It wasn't a natural chewing, but a precise sequence repeated. She was signaling something. The body sat up straight, and eagerly tugged at his belt.)
PORTIA: Oh, Sarah, I should ask, are you and your audience comfortable with a little... voyeurism?
(Danny's belt was thrown away so hard it chipped paint from the wall, and before it had even hit the ground the body had unbuttoned, unzipped, and was in the process of sliding his jeans and undies down his thick, muscular legs.)
ME: Do you think this would be our first interview with sex, drugs, or violence? Musicians and vice are like peanut butter and jelly. Just be advised that while Music Monthly retains the right to hold onto the video recording indefinitely, as per our contract, the video won't be released publicly.
PORTIA: Not by you, coward. Send me the vid, we've posted some amateur content already.
(Danny's dick sprang out, rested against his stomach and too hard to go down. Thankfully for him, Portia was more than happy to go down, kissing and rolling his foreskin back to expose an aching purple head. She licked her lips, giggling as Danny gathered her hair and held it out of the way.)
PORTIA: Such a gentleman!
(She then occupied her mouth otherwise. Sam returned, putting their phone on speaker as it rang. They stood behind Danny, leaning over so their featureless chest grazed the top of his stump)
DANNY: Fuuuck.. so that reporter's gone already? What, did you bore them to death?
SAM: Nope, she's right here.
DANNY: Oh shut up, stop fucking with me.
ME: Hello Danny, this Sarah Sears, reporter for Music Monthly. How are you?
DANNY: ...uh, hiiii?
(A choked sound over the speaker.)
ME: So, you've played three songs from your upcoming album "Premarital Postmortem" tonight. Sam and Portia have just finished telling me about their perspectives on this "scene", but I wanted to get your side of the story.
DANNY: ...you, uh, where exactly are you, Sssarah? Like, uh, spatially? Just you're... a little quiet.
ME: I have a front row seat.
DANNY: (Muttered) Oh you absolute fucking bitches I swear when I see you... Okay, uh, yeah. Cool. So, uh... yeah, so, Sam's grandfather was in hospice, Portia says we're going with her, and that's that.
ME: That's that? That was the chorus of your song, presumably the title too. The song was pretty aggressive, a lot harsher than a "that's that".
DANNY: I mean "THAT'S THAT!" Not like I'm O-oh fuck-uh, n-not like I'm going with the flow. Like, it's "What she says goes"! I got no say! She just walks in and says "Next Saturday or whatever we're going on a road trip to visit Sam's family." and like, that's that! I got less than a week's notice that I'd be gone the entire next week and my entire schedule's fucked. I have shit to do, y'know! My own family issues to work out! Just be-caaauuuse because I AM a mantle decoration, doesn't mean that's ALL I am! She "compromises" and says she'll leave my head at ho-home and just have the neighbor pop in and feed me like it's dog sitting. And that's that! I argue, she treats it like a game like I'm just a b-RAaat!
(Portia's lips curled back, revealing a set of pearly white teeth digging into his shaft. Danny breathes loudly, the only sound in the room besides a pounding drum drowning out every other instrument in Fire Forged Five. A few seconds passed, and Portia released her bite and began swallowing him to the sack fast enough to fill the room with a slapping echo.)
DANNY: Oh shiiiiit... so y-yeah. I was pissed at being ignored and kidnapped, she thought I wasn't supporting Sam like a good boyfriend would, and Sam resented my presence like they were introducing their parents to their sex toy. Even though it wasn't my idea to come. But that just makes me a double dick for not being supportive. Satisfied? Or you got annnoh, hoh, another question?
ME: A few more, yes. Apart from working on your new album, what have you been up to since your last public performance? Your social media presence has slowed down considerably over the last year, going days at a time without an update despite posting multiple times a day in years prior.
DANNY: Para-social relationships. Bad for mental health. Found other ways to occupy myself. Podcasts mostly.
ME: I see, and who've you been listening to?
DANNY: OH FUCK O-
(The call ended, Portia gave a surprised grunt and a satisfied moan, lifting her head away without cleaning up her man's mess. She looked to me, lips glistening and fluid trailing down her chin.)
PORTIA: Blech. Love him, but damn do I hate that taste. Sam?
(Sam grabbed a handful of tissues and patted her mistress's face dry, then let her finish off her beer, which she swished around in her mouth for a good long time before swallowing. Sam grabbed a few more tissues to clean Danny off, when Portia stopped her.)
PORTIA: Say, Sarah, your audience must content itself with voyeurism, but would you be interested in a little more "investigative" journalism? I know he can tell my mouth from Sam's, but I'm curious if he could detect a new mouth in play.
The interview was cut short. A follow up interview has been scheduled for their next show. Stay tuned!