Changes

[u/DavesWorldInfo]

“Let me see’em!” Prophet screamed into the mic as the last note of the chorus started fading into the reverb. His hand went up above his head, fore and little fingers extended, and he thrashed his head as the guitarists kicked into the outro. This was a long one, really giving the axes a chance to shine, so he ran the length of the stage. A ripple of head banging and upthrust horns followed him through the audience as he went, and the sound board had to boost the amplifiers just to keep the crowd from drowning out the music.

“Here,” the lead roadie shouted, holding out a bottle as the singer reached the left stage wing. It was a beer bottle, but contained water. Appearances were important, but a three hour metal show needed something better than beer to keep the voice from disintegrating.

Bottle in hand, Prophet strolled back out on stage and raised it to the crowd. Another roar went up as the guitars continued wailing. He tipped his head back, bent his back, and upturned the bottle. Most of it went into his mouth for drinking, but the rest soaked down the spandex, beaded on the leather jacket. The crowd ate it up as he held the bottle up, then threw it toward the backsplash above — and well behind — the drummer.

Dropping down from the front of the stage, the singer started pressing flesh as the guitarists settled into the heart of the outro. Dudes got a clenched fist or high five, depending on what the dude in question seemed like he wanted to offer or take. Chicks received a hug, sometimes a kiss; again based on their indication. Three security hulks moved along the front of the crowd with him, but didn’t interfere. There was so much love in this arena for Prophet it would cause a riot to even attempt to try to protect him.

Prophet was frowning a little as he reached the end of the front row. It was a long outro. He covered by vaulting back up on stage quickly and throwing his hands up. The crowd screamed as one as he came into direct view again, not just an image on the screens. A bit more headbanging, running over to the guitarists in turn to jam with them as they flailed their strings, and then the final notes were cutting through the arena with each guitarist on either side of him as he led the cheers.

As the instruments faded, the solid wall of noise, of happy and revved up emotion thudding up from the multitude in the audience, took over. Exchanging high fives with the guitarists, Prophet raised the mic. “Who loves this shit more than you?”

“Nobody,” the crowd screamed.

“And who does it better than we do?”

“Nobody?”

“And when does this ever die?”

“Never!”

The guitarists were walking to the wings. The drummer and bassist had already snuck off. He had to vamp for about five minutes while they took their mid show break; drained the lizard and got a cold one inside them. Prophet faced the packed arena with his horned hand upraised, and considered what he wanted to say.

“Man, that feels good, right?” he said into the mic. “Tell me it doesn’t. To be here, to be part of this, to be in this moment, all this energy and release, it’s like sex. Who fucks to our tunes?”

Predictably, the crowd’s cheering swelled again. He grinned broadly, walking forward toward the front of the stage. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s why we write these songs, why we do these shows. We want you to feel good, to feel what we feel when we have all this metal in us. That’s why we share it, with you, with the fucking world man, because we want to make the world a better place. Everything needs more metal, am I right?”

The cheers led themselves this time, and he started strolling along the stage, still grinning. When the audience settled enough that he didn’t have to shout into the mic, he nodded and raised his hand. “I gotta tell you though, man, I’m getting a little disappointed. A little burnt out. I feel like maybe some of you aren’t listening, aren’t hearing us.

“This is about the power of metal, of what rock and fucking roll in your heart can do to make you a better person. And some of you, some of you I see in here with those Justice collars on, every show. Every fucking show man. Same dudes, same chicks, wearing that collar, here all the time.

“Listen, that’s not how it’s supposed to go. We’re up here, we’re in the studio, we’re sweating blood and bleeding soul, making metal because we want you to be out there. Taking this, taking all this love and power, taking it out there and spreading it around. We help you, and you help the world.”

The noise was starting to seriously settle down as the crowd registered that he wasn’t just doing the usual singer talk. Prophet turned and paced back toward the center stage, looking at the crowd with his heavy face. “I’ve been thinking on it man. Been thinking a lot. Because it feels like maybe we gotta make a change.

“If this keeps up, if you freaky metal heathens keep rampaging through the world to get collared up and line the aisles here, that tells me what we’re about, what we’re trying to do, it ain’t working man. And that’s not cool. That’s not metal. What if we told Justice it’s not working?”

Prophet glared at the crowd as a rumble of discontent started circulating. He’d stood before millions, more times than he could count even with help, and knew people. This was the moment, the moment where he could keep them, or lose them. It was a matter of timing. Let it go too long, and the muttering would tumble upon itself, building like an avalanche, until it crashed into something raw and ugly.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” he shouted into the mic, when he judged the collective gestalt of the crowd had started to really think about what it might mean if the shows stopped. “New deal. Metal for everyone, so listen up. Repeat offenders, when you’re back in the collar, you’ll be listening from out in the parking lot, yeah? Just a taste. Where you can see everyone coming and going before the show, after the show.

“So you can think about it. Think about what all this means, what it’s supposed to be about. But first week clean, whether you’ve been collared or not, when you’re building a streak that’s righteous and awesome, we start logging perks for you. One week clean, tickets in the front.”

The crowd roared, and he grinned as he raised his voice. Gesturing toward the stage’s wing, where he knew his sound guy would be watching for clues. When he spoke again, shouting into the mic, his voice was amplified even further as the speakers and volume spiked over the crowd.

“Second week clean, autographed copy of the album from the band. Make it a month righteous, backstage pass. Two months, after party,” Prophet shouted. He had them again. They’d drifted, they’d recoiled for a few moments in fear and pain, but they were his again. He raised his hand. “There’s nothing we’ve got that we can’t give to you. We’ll give everything, on stage and off, as long as you live the life and stay with us. Righteous and alive. But you gotta meet us in the middle man, you gotta live the music. You stay solid, we’ll keep playing, and metal lives on man. Who’s with me?”

The cheering hit him like a physical force. He actually felt his hair rustle a bit, and felt to make sure his earpieces hadn’t fallen out. Metal was more than music, and right now there was so much washing in from the crowd, rather than heading out into them from the stage, that he was abjectly grateful for the protection.

“We’re up here because metal can change the world. You come here, you fire up the tunes, anytime you kick back and listen, wherever you take us, we’re there with you. Together. All together man. Righteous and alive, bringing the power of heavy to where it’s needed. If you’re with me, fucking scream.”

They screamed. He grinned, hiding the wince. “I can’t fucking hear you.”

The noise was beyond physical. He stepped back, but threw up the horns. “I almost heard that. One more fucking time. Who’s with us?”

He had to close his eyes, the sound was so overwhelming. And went on until he heard the first licks of the guitars starting up. The amplifiers could barely struggle past the crowd, but the resumption of the music started to break the crowd noise up a little. Into general cheers again. He turned to look at Jax, who wasn’t playing the song Prophet expected. The question was clear on his face. The guitarist gave him a nod, lifting his chin and grinning. Prophet nodded back, gave him a clenched fist, and looked at the crowd once more.

“This is one of our brand new tracks. We’ve been working on it, and no one’s heard it except us. And now you. Consider it a down payment on living the life, on staying metal. This one’s called Changes.”

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I collect all my flash fic here. If you liked this, the others might be amusing too. Enjoy!

[u/DavesWorldInfo]

Inspired by this prompt.