Buzzy’s tattered high-tops squealed their rubbery wail as she skittered between hangers-on and press personnel detailing the backdrop of Grand Theft’s reunion tour, weaved between stagehands, special effects wizards, concert company personnel, and last minute entrants dropping names and flashing passes. With a deftness reserved for championship skiers and precision skaters, the energetic youngster successfully skirted several human hazards considered precarious by cautious and demure pedestrians, and she was certainly not one of those.
Major League, bereft of Buzzy’s agility, careened around the corner to collide head on with two burly stage hands who judged his behavior socially unacceptable and worthy of restraint. Encountering their opposition, he struck one of them soundly on the jaw before resuming his pursuit. Nondescript, no more adroit at avoiding collision than his cohort, found himself entangled in an unexpected encounter with numerous arms, legs, and torsos, the majority of which did not belong to him. From his perspective — one which no one would characterize as universal — the most painful aspect was the immobilizing grip locked around his neck by someone who’s fingers displayed the power of banded steel. Before he could make even an uncivil enquiry into his assailant’s identification, terminal darkness overtook any remnants of his limited consciousness.
Little Buzzy, moving in zig-zag form admirable of any downhill victor, didn’t bother to check the progress of her pursuers. There was no turning back and only one place to go — up the makeshift stairs to dive headfirst into the throbbing fog and screaming feedback. Had Major League and Nondescript not chased her, she would not have run; had she not run, she would not have panicked. Now, convinced that continued pursuit implied impending acts of danger, she perceived no choice but to cross the threshold from private fear to public exposure.
Major League’s mid-chase biffing of a backstage lacky in the chops did not go unnoticed by Coliseum security, most especially off-duty Police officers Bill Stroum and Allen Goldblatt who quickly barked details of this potential pop culture upheaval into their city issued multi-band radios. Lest this scene turn uglier than a Grand Theft album jacket, the two detailed the situation as an alert for possible back-up. Every cop in town heard the report, including the downtown bound Detective Dexter Talon. At first, he found the vignette of rock and roll pandemonium amusing, but grasping the details — catering service employee chasing young girl who’s top mop seemed fashioned by a demented hedge-trimmer — Talon turned from his original destination of police headquarters and boring paperwork towards the unmitigated excitement of the Seattle Center Coliseum.
“I thought the crowd was supposed to rush the stage, not caterers chase the kids,” cracked Talon to the dispatcher.
A short whoosh of static preceeded a good natured come-back catching Talon by surprise.
“Hey, that’s the most excitement we’ve had tonight. Even Duvall’s had more action than us. There was a big meth lab explosion, huge fire, the works...”
A lump of hot ice melted in Talon’s enormous gut.
Meth lab explosion in Duvall.
“Saints preserve us,” said Talon with a phoney brogue. He grabbed the single blue light from the floorboard and, rolling down his window, reached up and attatched it to the roof before firing his siren. As he pressed the accelorator to the floor, he thought to himself how fortunate he was to have Simon Templar on his side.
The ignition of multiple encore flashpots showered the stage with eruptions of eye-searing illumination and crowd-pleasing pyrotechnics. The thrashing performers threw themselves about the stage with the religious fervor of an addlepated Saint Vitus; the similarly afflicted multitudes responded with equal ardor and greater enthusiasm, dousing the beefy security line with wet fear and oppresive apprehension.
Concert promoter John Bauer, watching from the VIP seats, covered his eyes and prayed for the encore’s conclusion. He sensed mob mentality taking possession of fifteen thousand former individuals, transforming them into one howling beast of massive mindless reaction. He blanched at the thought of anyone suffering physical injury. Besides, the term “rock n roll riot” was bad for business. Bauer remained unaware that the stage’s southward perimeter had already been violated by a plucky youngster fearing for her life. It was only moments, however, before the crowd caught their first glimpse of what appeared to be one of their own cavorting unhindered with Grand Theft. If she could do it, so could they. The security line locked arms in futile attempt to stall a crowd as determined to swarm over the stage as would a rapacious cloud of army ants consuming a helpless water buffalo.
“Stop the music! Stop the music!” It was Joe Fiala bleating orders at the band, but it was Surush Josi in the Seattle morgue who pressed the stop button on the Walkman clipped to his belt, cutting short the rousing rendition of “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof.
He bent over the body of Salvadore Alisdare and loosed a low whistle unrelated to any Broadway musical. Strapped to Alisdare’s body was a sleek black micro-recorder who’s tiny tape had yet to complete recording the entire length of side two. Josi pressed the stop button, a slight whirring sound ceased, and the cassette lid popped open from his finger’s pressure. A small piece of cardboard ejected with the tape and fluttered unnoticed to the floor. Josi walked to the telephone and placed an evenly worded call to the on duty Chief of Detectives. He, in turn, called the Chief of Police who’s eventual obligation was to make late-night contact with Seattle Mayor Walter Crowley. If the Mayor was upset over the lateness of the hour, he was even more outraged over the contents of the little tape found on the body of Salvadore Alisdare — the vocals were clean and crisp, somewhat stacatto, and devoid of musical accompaniment. The words embedded on the thin strip of mylar were illuminating beyond any known candlepower.
The brash intrusion of megawatt houselights scattered the Coliseum’s mood if not the audience. Crowbar ceased strangling his six-string and opened his eyes to the reality of immediate danger from the fans who loved him. Scrambling to vacate the stage, his peripheral vision snared Buzzy struggling against the grip of a uniformed caterer. But even that vision was soon obscured by dozens of other youths — male, female, and undecided — scuffling with the security crew and clawing and pawing towards his own famous personage.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Fiala pulled at Crowbar’s fringe, entreating him to make a quick getaway.
The riotous pandemonium, although beginning to slack, poured over the stage, toppling bodies into the corridors and holding areas. The sound of smashing guitars and ravaged drumsets told Grand Theft that the tools of their trade were being both demolished and stolen — ironically, “Demolished & Stolen” was the title of track two, side one of their second LP.
With rented security chasing fans from the dry-ice fogged ramps, and Grand Theft’s own road crew making valiant attempts to protect the remaining equipment, no one noticed Little Buzzy being dragged off-stage by an officious looking man in a caterer’s uniform.
Buzzy thrashed wildly, resisting captivity with youthful muscle and few good nails which she forcefully raked down the side of her assailant’s cheek.
“Ya little brat,” growled Major League, shaking her violently, “you think you’re hot stuff.” He pulled back his ham-sized fist and slugged her full force in the face. Her head snapped back like a Pez dispenser, an ugly carnival of green and red lights swirled stupidly behind her eyes, and blood poured from her tiny nostrils. The pain erased all vision, replacing sight and will with dull throbbing numbness. Her little body collapsed, trembling with shock and fright. If she ever got out of this alive, she vowed to kill herself once and for all. She would go along with anything, everything, until they were done with her. Then, in her own way, in her own time, she would prove ultimate control of her own life by ending it. The prospect didn’t fill her with morose fascination nor moribund delight — it was simply an admission of exceptional desperation coupled with resigned recognition that her life was not, and would never be, anything resembling healthy, happy, normalcy. For now, the only escape was to shut down all response in a limp, tear soaked faint.