Bandom One-shots book 3

Out Ta Get Me ! Part Five !

The lights are still flashing from the show. The roar of the crowd is ringing in my ears, even though it's finally quiet outside. But there's a sour taste in the air now, the kind that comes when things go wrong. The kind that sticks with you long after the music's over.

We've just finished a killer show in Philadelphia—crowd was on fire, the energy was electric—but none of that seems to matter now. Not with the cops swarming us.

It started out innocent enough. Or maybe I was too naïve to think that it was. We were just walking back to the bus, talking shit about the set, when I heard someone yell, "Hey, Rose!"

I didn't even have time to turn around. One of the officers grabbed my arm, hard enough to make me wince. It wasn't like I did anything to deserve it. I wasn't drunk, wasn't starting trouble, wasn't anything but a guy trying to get back to the damn bus after a show. But that never matters, does it? Not when they've got their eye on you.

"Hey, take it easy, alright?" I said, trying to pull my arm back, but they weren't having it. Another cop stepped in front of me, blocking my way to the bus, and then a third came up, and that's when I felt the old familiar tightness in my chest. It's the feeling that hits when you're being singled out, when you know you're the target and nothing you say is going to change that.

"You got a problem, Mr. Rose?" the officer sneered, flashing his badge like it made him invincible. The others stood in formation behind him, blocking the exit, blocking me in. They didn't even give me a chance to speak. They were already making accusations.

One of them muttered something about "causing a disturbance" during the show, but I hadn't done a damn thing except sing into the mic and work the crowd like I always do. I felt my heart start to race, and the walls around me started closing in.

"Can we just move along?" I asked, trying to stay calm. The last thing I needed was to escalate things. But when you've been on the receiving end of crap like this enough times, you can feel when it's about to turn ugly.

"Maybe we oughta run your name through the system," the officer said, his voice dripping with something between disdain and power. "See what we find."

I took a breath, but before I could respond, I heard a voice cut through the tension.

"Hey! What the hell is this about?"

It was Izzy.

I turned my head just as Izzy stormed up from behind me, cutting through the officers like a blade through butter. His eyes were sharp, focused, and his lips pressed into that thin line he gets when he's pissed off but doesn't want to make a scene—yet.

He stepped between me and the officer, throwing a hard look at the guy who was still gripping my arm. "You gonna tell me why you're harassing my boyfriend, or are you just gonna keep wasting everyone's time?"

The officer looked taken aback, not expecting Izzy to be so direct, but he didn't back down. His posture was stiff, his hand still on my arm, but there was something in Izzy's voice that made him hesitate. It was a quiet fury, the kind of anger that didn't need to scream to be felt.

"Relax, man," the officer muttered, trying to wave Izzy off. "He's not going anywhere. We're just asking a few questions."

Izzy took a step closer, his presence commanding without even needing to raise his voice. "Oh, yeah? And those questions happen to be about what, exactly? Or is this just a game to you?"

The tension in the air thickened. I could feel the weight of the situation escalating, but Izzy wasn't backing down. I could tell this wasn't about me at all anymore—it was about protecting me. And Izzy, as quiet and reserved as he is, has a way of standing his ground like nobody else.

One of the officers took a step forward, clearly annoyed with Izzy's boldness. "We don't need to explain ourselves to you."

Izzy tilted his head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're harassing a guy because of what, exactly? Because he's famous? Because you can't stand that some people can get up on stage and actually do something?"

Izzy's voice was soft but venomous now, the words dripping with a kind of quiet contempt. "You should've thought about that before you tried to fuck with someone who's been around long enough to know when people are trying to pull shit."

The officer faltered. Izzy didn't back down.

"I'll tell you what," Izzy said, a dangerous calm in his voice, "You let my boyfriend go, and we'll pretend this never happened. But if you keep this shit up, you're gonna regret it."

I could see the officers exchanging glances, and in that moment, I knew they were just looking for a reason to make it worse. But Izzy's words, calm and measured, seemed to be cutting through their act. They could see the warning in his eyes.

Finally, one of the officers muttered something about having "bigger things to deal with" and let go of my arm. He looked at Izzy for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to push back, but in the end, they all stepped aside, letting me go.

"Next time, you better think twice before starting shit with people who don't take kindly to it," Izzy called after them. And then, as soon as they turned their backs, he looked at me, his expression softening almost immediately. He gave me a nod, as if to say, You good?

I didn't say anything at first. My heart was still pounding from the adrenaline, but something else was rising up too. That old familiar fire. I needed to get it out of my chest. I needed to write.

I gave Izzy a quick, grateful look, then nodded toward the bus. "Let's get back," I said, feeling the weight of the tension start to drain out of me, replaced by that familiar, simmering anger.

As soon as we stepped onto the bus, I didn't waste any time. I grabbed my notebook, flicking the pages quickly, the words flooding my brain. The whole situation was still hot in my chest, and the rhythm of it—the injustice, the anger, the powerlessness—it needed to go somewhere. Needed to be turned into something.

I sat down, pen in hand, and without thinking, I started writing.

"Been hidin' out, and layin' low. It's nothing new ta me. Well you can always find a place to go, if you can keep your sanity. They break down the doors, and they rape my rights but. They won't touch me. They scream and yell. And fight all night. You can't tell me. I lose my head. I close my eyes. They won't touch me 'Cause I got somethin'. I been buildin' up inside. For so fuckin' long"

Izzy walked past me, giving me a quick glance, but I could see the little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He knew what was coming. This was my way of processing it. Writing it all down.

He plopped down next to me, leaning back into his seat, looking out the window. "Think they'll ever learn?" he said, his voice almost wistful.

I didn't answer at first. I just kept writing, letting the anger and frustration flow through me. But then I glanced up at Izzy, my eyes catching his, and for a moment, I let myself feel the warmth of his quiet support.

"They never do," I muttered, the lyrics flowing faster now, taking shape.

But this time, I wasn't just angry at the cops. I was angry at the whole damn system. The whole damn world that kept trying to box us in, make us play by their rules. But I wasn't gonna let them get away with it. Not this time.

"They're out ta get me. They won't catch me. I'm fucking innocent. They won't break me"

And just like that, the song was born. It was raw, angry, everything I felt right in that moment. The powerlessness, the rage, the feeling of being singled out when you don't deserve it. And most of all, the release—the catharsis of finally having a place to put all that emotion.

I looked up again, meeting Izzy's eyes. He didn't need to say a word. He knew exactly what it meant.

This was our moment. The world might be out to get us, but we'd be damned if we let it take us down.

~Based on a true story actually! Axl Rose wrote this song because the cops were harassing him when he did nothing wrong~