𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➢ JOHNNY ROTTEN

SEVENTEEN

In the aftermath of a Sex Pistols gig, the usual crowd found themselves congregating near the bar. Marion sat at a table cluttered with pints and ashtrays, her friends surrounding her in a chaotic sprawl. The Bromley contingent was there, mingled with faces Marion didn't quite place—some familiar, others less so. More were scattered around the pub, sitting at other tables and booths.

John, standing next to Marion with his characteristic stance—hunched with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other—was in the midst of a rant. "Can't stand these fucking hippies. They're everywhere tonight. It's like they've all crawled out of the woodwork to piss me off," he complained loudly.

Sid, leaning back in his chair with a boastful air, chimed in. "One of 'em tried to start with me. Got what he deserved, though," he said, puffing up his chest.

Marion couldn't resist the opportunity to tease. For someone who loved to get in fights so much, he sure was shit at it. "Oh, come on, Sid. He toppled you."

John chuckled in agreement. "She's not wrong, mate."

Sid, his pride slightly bruised, shot back defensively, "Fuck off, both of you. I held my own."

The table erupted into laughter, raising their drinks in a mock toast to Sid's valiant, if somewhat unsuccessful, efforts.

Glen rolled his eyes playfully. "This is what we're celebrating? A scrap with a bunch of stoned pacifists?"

"Oh, what would you know, Matlock? You probably wanted to join them for a sing-along," John shot back, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

Steve turned to Cook with a grin. "Here we go, round one. Place your bets, Cookie."

Cook chuckled. "No bet. John's already won."

Glen then lobbed an empty beer can towards Cook, who deftly dodged it, the can clattering against the wall. A minor scuffle ensued, the group laughing as they attempted to break it up.

The noise drew the attention of some nearby hippies, who, annoyed by the commotion, yelled at the group to shut up. Unfazed, the whole table responded in unison, sticking up two fingers and hurling various obscenities back.

"Fuck off, ya flower fuckers!" Siouxsie yelled, her voice cutting through the din.

The table roared with laughter, the tension dissipating into jovial chaos. John, finally relenting, lowered himself to sit next to Marion.

As they settled into a comfortable lull, Malcolm McLaren made his entrance. Marion observed him with a critical eye. To her, Malcolm seemed like more of a self-serving opportunist than a genuine talent manager. There was something about him that didn't sit right with her, a certain air of calculation behind his every move.

John, catching sight of Malcolm, couldn't hide his disdain. "Look who it is. The great impresario himself," he said, grinning mockingly.

Malcolm, unphased by the reception, responded smoothly, "Now, now, Johnny. No need for hostility." His tone was light, almost playful, but it did little to ease the tension.

John's reply was sharp and biting. "I'm all out of pleasantries tonight," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Steve, sitting across from them, tried to ease the tension. "Ignore him, he's just pissed off about the hippies," he said, nodding at Malcolm.

Malcolm smiled, a wry twist of his lips. "As ever, the voice of reason," he remarked. John, clearly unimpressed, rolled his eyes in response. "Actually, Steve, can I have a word? In private?"

Steve glanced briefly at John before standing up. "Yeah, alright," he agreed, walking off with Malcolm.

Marion leaned in toward Helen, who was seated next to her, and quietly confessed, "I don't really get Malcolm. Seems a bit much."