Street Feeling

3 - The Wine Press

The fight was loud, the yelling and punching and kicking and throwing of glass bottles was a chorus of loud dogs, bet on by no one but themselves. Carp had took their Roland synth out to the car, cold skin still buzzing as it was shocked by the warm air once they had returned inside.

The brawl still continued, almost perpetual. This was bad luck for the general loser-y types that Carp was in their band with, but good luck for someone like them, that the violence continued long enough for a quick stop to put down their stuff, and they still didn't miss it completely. It was troubling that it was more than just the skinhead type picking on puny punks in the pit, though. This was a feud, daresay a real bar fight. They sucked on their teeth, looking for someone to persecute.

From the thick blanket of visual and auditory noise, Carp thought they spotted their friend. Three piece black and white suit under a thick coat, white cap, hair in dreads. Churches, they thought to themself. How is he just standing there? They approached him, taking a while as the war did not think they were Moses and did not part as the Red Sea. Shoved back by the moving wave of people, caught up, almost drowning, eventually they found themselves just close enough to reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

"Churches, did you get hurt?" they called.

Whoever it was they got attention from was not Churches, and he turned around and had a completely different face. Stark, sharp, and with wide, scared eyes. Not like his round, friendly face shape that always contrasted with his clinical stare. Carp thrashed around, looking in all directions, confused. They were pushed about, they didn't know where they were until they fell behind the cocktail counter. They hid, peeking up from the surface. They watched and waited for something to happen, for some meatball to slip and fall, to lose his balance. For someone to lose focus, not pay attention. For their violence to be justified. They lie in anticipation.

"You can't be back here." The bartender, just as scared as they were told them. He did nothing about Carp's presence other than that.

"I'll be out of your hair soon," Carp replied. "I have to earn my living!"

"Wait, aren't you the horrible synth man that was up on stage with that band before this one?" The bartender asked. "Ship of Theseus? The Seuss Noise? The Sauciest Lads?"

"Theseus Noise," Carp corrected. They kept their vigilance, looking for an opportunity to strike. "Yes, I am the synthesist. Yes, I am bloody awful."

"You really were. You put the Noise in your name."

"Thank you very much," they said. "Worst Ska in the U.K., you know that?"

"You're a ska band?!" His jaw dropped.

Suddenly, the back door opened from behind the band currently in the playing area (called The Horrors of Hotdog Hill) and stepped out the real Churches, smudged blood from his bleeding nose on his face, walking on shaky legs, rushing out into the crowd, almost flying on his feet until he was caught down by a Skin. Carp couldn't see Churches anymore, though where he was was a jumping distance away from where the edge of the bar counter was. This is my chance! The feeling of triumph rushed through them even though they had yet to win the fight.

They climbed onto the counter, running start, and leaped, flying squirrel with an elbow stuck out, diving over on themselves, landing on top of the ruffian.

They gave a shout as they hit the floor. "Hey!"

They clawed and punched and kicked and yelled, tearing at flesh with their nails, trying to get at their switchblade to maybe take the guy out of commission, struggling as they held him down. They wailed on him as best as they could, toppling him over every time he got up. Little did the poor pathetic meat head know, Carp was leading them out of the side exit slowly but surely. They were slugging closer to the left wall. Persistence is key. The blood flew, the teeth chipped. It was a fair fight from both of them eventually, the Skin getting on his feet and staying their, punching them. Eventually their fingers got a hold of their knife.