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STUCK BY A DRUMMER
This short work in progress orginally appeared on the RIGHT STUFF message board. Here it is in free-flowing, easy to read format!!
PART SIX
Before I could run for Steve's life, a tall, wiry figure shot like lightning from between two parked cars and made a beeline for the fight. The long dark hair and slender build made me think it was a woman at first. But when the figure sprang into the melee waving a piece of pipe and screaming, "GET THE FUCK OFF HIM, YOU MISERABLE CUNTS!!" I realized it was PETE, and slumped against a car door in shock.
At five foot ten and maybe 150 pounds soaking wet, Pete on his own was like a whippet attacking three grizzly bears. But the violent, ruthless way he weilded the pipe made up for what he lacked in size. Teeth bared and eyes afire, he assailed Steve's attackers with a ferocity that made me sick just to watch.
It didn't take long. He was so fast and heavy-hitting that none of the men had a chance to get a blow in edgewise. They left Steve crumpled on the ground and took off at a dead run, bleeding and limping. Pete stared after them, nostrils flaring, and lowered the weapon until he finally dropped it.
I ran back over, heart pounding in both relief and dread. Together Pete and I bent over Steve, who was curled up on his side, moaning and holding his stomach.
"Oh my God," I said, trying to stay calm, "are you all right? How badly did they get you?"
"I'm fine," Steve croaked. "Got them worse than they did me." I had to agree: his knuckles were coated with blood, suggesting that broken noses and missing teeth were now a problem for the three rejects.
Pete glanced quickly at me. "I was coming out of the club to get some glitter gel off my kit on the bus. Thank God I did. I'm not gonna even ASK how this happened." He bent over and extended a hand to his bandmate, who had rolled onto all fours. "Steve, can you get up?"
Steve licked the blood from his lip and braced himself to rise. Pete and I took his arms and helped him stand. He looked horrible. His trouser knees and shirt were torn, and at least one black eye and purple lump decorated his face.
"I'm fine," he said, again, in stronger tones this time. "My own fucking fault. I was just in a fighting mood and took it too far."
Pete frowned at him. I silently marveled over the singer's fast transformation from flamboyant, fickle singing star to sober, concerned friend. "You look rough, mate. You reckon you should go to a hospital?"
"No." Steve shook his head and walked around a bit, "I'm fine, really." He stopped in front of me. "At least they didn't touch you."
"No." Just the thought made me start shivering. Despite his injuries, Steve put his arm around me and drew me close.
"Where's your car?" he asked.
I pointed in the general direction, glad that he was well enough to escort me still. Sounds selfish, I know, but with drunken assholes on the prowl tonight I didn't want to stag it even the short distance to the car.
Pete and Steve accompanied me through the maze of parked cars, Pete muttering and complaining that he should have "brained those bastards." I understood how he felt; his pre-stardom days in Liverpool had been plagued by characters like those, mindless subhumans who ripped out his earrings, threw garbage on him, and worse.
We were at the car now. But as I stared at it, I wished I was miles away- anywhere but here. Even Pete and Steve were stunned at what we saw before us.
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