Lungs Full Of GasolineMature

It was Wednesday night.  The streets were still wet from the afternoon storm.  Streetlights mirrored in dark pools of water, creating a string of luminescence along each block. Alex and Daniel pulled into a vacant lot adjacent the warehouse.  Splashing through puddles, they parked and finished their beers.
“Where are these guys from again?” Alex asked.
“Out west somewhere.”
“Have they played here before?”
“Don’t think so,” Daniel paused to gulp down some beer, “Lets hurry up, I think it started already.”
“Doubt it.”
Tossing their empty cans, they stepped out and headed around the side of the warehouse.  A small crowd was gathered there, smoking and laughing loudly under an external stairway.  Brushing past them, they made their way to the side door.
The door man was covered in tattoos. A steady rumble of muffled calamity boomed behind him.  They each handed him two dollars, which he pocketed while opening the door.
As they entered the warehouse, the air exploded, a wall of sound pounding into their chests at breakneck speed.  Each menacing drum kick sent shockwaves past them, which reverberated through the bare skeleton of the building.  Above them, the rafters shook in a strange chaotic rhythm.
A mad bird in a steel cage.
Making their way through the crowd, they approached the epicenter of the savagery, a punk band furiously blasting through their set.  The cross-eyed front man was writhing wildly, trying to eat the microphone.
“I told you we were late!” Daniel yelled in Alex’s ear.
“These shows never start on time! How was I supposed to know?”
“We shouldn’t have stopped for beer!”
“What?”
“Never mind!”
A single light bulb hung over the band.  Shadows of primal madness danced across the concrete walls, a flooding gallery of turmoil.  Fists flew at random, occasionally finding a jaw.  One could breathe the aggression permeating through the warehouse like a pathogen pouring from the speakers.
Pupils dilating.
Nostrils flaring.
Mind erasing.
The drummer pounded his drums mercilessly as the singer screamed unintelligible obscenities, what appeared to be blood dripping down his face.
Veins popping from his neck, the singer shrieked and pounced into the sea of violence, disappearing among the waves of flailing limbs.
Taking this as a cue, Daniel jumped into the fray.  Alex watched from the back, taking no part in the surrounding mayhem.  He felt he could appreciate the music without being punched in the face.  Pulling a beer from his jacket pocket, he cracked it open, eyes fixed on the band.
Two or three songs passed before he felt a commotion stirring next to him.  A tall punk with a mullet and some teenager with no shirt were shoving each other. 
The mullet yelled something. 
The kid spit in his face. 
Launching into each other, they grappled and fell to the floor.  The mullet put the kid in a headlock and squeezed.
Alex looked on as the kid’s face tightened and his eyes bulged out.  Intrigued by the sudden brutality unfolding at his feet, he watched as the kid’s legs kicked out in vain, his sneakers scuffing the floor.  He stood over them, transfixed.The mullet looked up at him through glassy eyes, grinning.
Drunk as shit.
The music roared over them, a battery of indifference.  About then, some fat girl noticed what was happening on the floor and started screaming. A group of bystanders swarmed in, trying to break up the fight, but the mullet wouldn’t let go, his grip sunk in around the kid’s neck. 
The mullet laughed at them, his demented eyes wide with defiance, refusing to release his prey.  After a considerable struggle, they managed to pull the two apart.  The kid fell limp on the ground.
Still beaming, the mullet stood up and swiveled his head, taking the time to meet eyes with any potential challengers.  No one stepped forward to the towering menace.  Laughing hysterically, he lit a cigarette and strolled to the door.
The kid came to, and was helped to the side of the room.  He sat with his head in his hands, shaking like a wet dog.
Alex turned back to the show, pulled more beers from his pockets, and got down to the business of getting very drunk.  The band was barreling through a brutal crescendo, hot sound spasms ripping and punishing through the room.
Ear melt fuck noise.
The singer began strangling himself with the microphone chord, and Alex downed his last beer.  With no sign of Daniel, he headed out to the parking lot where a fresh six pack waited in the truck.
Outside, a heavy mist hung in the air, glimmering and falling through the streetlights.  The quiet fell upon him abruptly, only the ringing of his ears piercing through.
But as he stumbled through the lot, a soft sound rose over the ubiquitous tone and flowed over into his awareness.  A new call through the stagnant silence of the night.
He turned and found the fat girl sitting on the curb.  She was crying heavily, her jelly rolls shaking.
Somewhere a bird sang, and she cried out.