Free Greasepaint by David C. Hayes

they have come to see.
    The other band members can’t help but notice the strange, masked fans staring Michael down. Some musicians snicker at the tortured singer, most try to ignore him while others are bold enough to shoot Michael the bird.
    Skeezer stops the van and clambers out. He joins Ricky at the back doors; Michael and Mona are walking towards them when a voice cuts through the din of gear load in and set up.
    â€œThere he is!” The voice behind that sentiment rings out, carrying through the alley and bouncing off of the concrete walls. Michael and the rest look up to see a group of Orzo fans, wearing masks and clutching photos and DVDs, barreling through the bands, oblivious of what kind of chaos or damage they are causing. The group is led by Orzo39, fresh from his appearance on The Monty Reigns show. The press of flesh is followed by a gaggle of reporters and camera operators from multiple TV stations.
    â€œOh shit,” Michael says.
    Mona steps in front of Michael. Ricky and Skeezer can’t take their eyes off the cameras.
    Mona turns toward the club and pulls Michael in that direction. Before they can make any headway, Orzo39 steps in front of them, stopping their progress. Michael looks longingly into the dark recesses of the club. He can be anonymous in there.
    â€œMichael! Michael! Wow…it is so great to meet you. Do you think you could sign some stuff for us?”
    The Orzo fans, attempting to be respectful to their leader, jockey for position behind Orzo39 with their photos and DVDs.
    â€œHe must have loved you!” a masked fan shouts.
    â€œWhat was he like?” another asks.
    Michael is unable to answer; all around him were the masks, the faces, of Orzo the Clown. He can barely breathe. Recognizing this, Mona takes over and shoves Orzo39, and whatever fans get within her reach. Some tumble backward, others hold their ground. Being with Michael has made her a celebrity too.
    â€œEach one of you bastards is one sick fuck, all right?” Mona blurts out. “Get the fuck out of our way!”
    The crowd presses in closer. Michael, thanks to Mona’s frenzied pushing a moment ago, finds an escape route. Sliding between people, Michael enters the club and pulls Mona along with him.
    The fans press forward until Orzo39 holds up a hand, stopping them. The reporters and camera operators do not follow, either.
    Smiling from ear to ear, Orzo39 calls into the club, “We love you!”

Chapter Eleven
    Each of the bands has a small dressing room, seven in total. Crammed into one of the tiny areas, Corpus Delicti prepares for the biggest night of their musical lives.
    Michael, Mona, Ricky and Skeezer suit up and slather on make-up for the show.
    The dressing room is sparse, nothing more than a mirror, table and light in the room. Milk crates function as chairs. The four of them try to jostle for position in front of the mirror, the tension is thick.
    â€œGlamorous life of the rock star,” Ricky says.
    The mood in the room lightens, instantly. Ricky and Skeezer laugh. Mona manages a giggle and elbows Michael, who cracks a smile. The events in the alleyway grow more distant.
    The door to the dressing room opens and the antithesis of a horror punk music fan strides into the room. Late thirties, clean cut and in a polo shirt/khakis combination, the small dressing area gets even smaller since the new entrant is built like a professional wrestler. He has a gleaming badge affixed to his belt and the department probably thought he had the best chance of fitting in at the club. They were wrong.
    The band looks up and, like always in times of confrontation, Mona takes the lead.
    â€œCan we help you?” she asks.
    The man points to the badge on his belt.
    The band stares at the badge, unable to get around the notion of a cop…in their dressing room. Skeezer shifts on his milk crate, squirming uncomfortably.
    â€œI swear she was eighteen!” he blurts out.
    Ricky