"THOMAS YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!!!" The booming voice of the bar's manager rang through my ears. I figured that my safest option would be to sprint out of the bar and past the other patrons, ignoring the sounds of panicked chatter and frantic movements around me.
Was this my fault? You could say that. Though I hadn't started the barfight--I merely finished it.
I won, obviously.
Although, my bleeding nose and bashed up face would say otherwise. I've looked worse though.
The bar owner huffed and stepped closer to me. "Thomas. I'm sick of your shit! Why the fuck would you sing that type of garbage shit here?! In my bar?!" I looked away as he grabbed my shirt collar and spat in my face. I gagged and winced.
I chuckle lightly. "Your breath smells like shit-!" I yelp in pain as he punches me, the impact sending waves of pain over me. I spit in his face, blood and saliva mixed together now coating his ugly face.
The man stares at me with wide, evil eyes, full of hatred. "Thomas. I am going to fucking kill you." He sneers, his crooked teeth sending shivers down my spine. I squirm in his grasp, my eyes wide and frantic.
"HEY UGLY!!!" I hear a voice call. I turn to the sound, smiling with relief as Jon stands behind the man. He bashes him over the head with a beer bottle, making the bar owner let go of me.
The owner grunts and yells out at us as we sprint away. I hear him get up and start to swiftly follow after us.
We run through the busy London streets, dashing into dark alleyways and passages behind the tight houses. I panted, my breath heavy with laugher and adrenaline as I ran faster, rain beginning to pour over my teased hair and blue hoodie. I turned behind me for a moment, hearing other footsteps pattering against the sidewalk behind me. I grinned, seeing my fellow bandmates had made their great escape with me. "Any of you guys still have your phone?"
"Its back with our stuff! Probably worth a lawsuit if he doesn't give it back. Odd's in our favour if that happens." Pat, our lead singer and guitarist. Voice of an angel and a mind like no others. We met by chance in college, and have been friends ever since. She's seriously the prettiest gal I've ever seen--totally out of my league; or anyone else's to be frank. She doesn't take any shit, and tends to use her smarts to get us out of our shenanigans. (Or Tomfoolery, as she says--since I tend to get us into most of our trouble.) She smells like an old library, and a nice latte.
"Mine's dead, sorry! Maybe there's a payphone around here?" Jon, the drummer. Literally one of the nicest people I've ever met. We met a few years back, him being my neighbour at the time. We got to chatting and hit it off! Since then he's been the more laid-back friend. He's always there if any of us are in a bad place, and he's the best cook out of us. He smells very fruity. He says its this body spray he's obsessed with.
And last but not least, yours truly, Tom. The bassist/pianist/ukulele player and vocalist. (I dabble.) The idea for this band came to me in a dream--a VISION--and ever since we've been spreading our "woke punk ideology" wherever we go!
Which just happens to be the match the lit the burning blaze that is our current situation. We were playing one of our sets as usual, and apparently people don't like when you sing about hating the government.
And they call us the snowflakes.
I turned down an alley, finding it blocked off by some rich dudes truck. I groan. "What the fuck?? This place has been abandoned for years! Why buy it now?!" I sigh in frustration and drum my fingers against my leg.
YOU ARE READING
The Cicada
Fanfiction"Sick of his own face; sick of his skin, of the dark. He crawls outside himself to sing-a better poet than most." Tom himself is a cicada, always has been. The fear and panic forcing him further underground as everyone around him strives to reach th...
