There was a long line at the venue. Fortunately Basil had had the foresight to arrange backstage passes so he whistled a little tune as he nonchalantly sauntered past the waiting throng to the VIP entrance. His passes were all-access and one special one that would give him dressing-room access. They really were the best forgeries he'd seen in a long time.
A flight-case on wheels that he was dragging behind him lent his cover even more credibility. It contained, amongst others, Polly, his trusty, rusty, chainsaw.
The venue was dark. The band hadn't started yet. Basil Baxter rather liked the band; they sang about death a lot. He just could not understand why they couldn't be more cheerful. But he was not there for the band. He was there with a purpose. From deep recesses of his, for lack of a better word, person he produced a list. It was a rather short list, but given its origins Basil Baxter suspected that the people on it would be dressed like either Victorian sofas or cheap car seats. All leather, latex and lace.
The names were a bit strange. For the era, in any case. The first one on it quite obviously wanted to be picked last for any team, especially when the teams were picked alphabetically.
'Zapfrudde... no, that is not it... Saephruuu... nah...' he tried the illogical syllables. Oh well... He would just have to rely on his luck. He took up position at the bar, and slipped the bartender a few notes. Basil Baxter and the bartender went way back. Basil Baxter really liked the band, but more importantly; he liked the sort of venues where people were likely to say things like 'I want to die.' It made picking so much easier. (The ones who didn't, obviously. The idiots who wanted to die took all the sport out of it.) But the bartender had also been a loyal friend ever since Basil Baxter met him in Amsterdam. Such a shame that the nice purple-walled bar where Basil Baxter used to spend the few nights he was forced to be in that awful city had gone belly up. Surely the multi-resistant strain of haemorrhagic fever Basil accidentally dropped in the Espresso machine had nothing to do with that. (The lid had been particularly hard to get off.) It turns out that while the city council turns a blind eye as long as the corpses are just pretending and will wake up the next morning with a hangover and a slight case of face-paint poisoning, it does take offence at an entire bar's worth of dysfunctional teenagers actually turning out to be deceased.
After a while, about two vodka-cherry's worth, a young lady joined him. Well, she didn't so much join him as bumped into him. Basil Baxter checked his photographic memory. Ah... nice. Two for two in one. He double-checked by glinting at the bartender. The bartender nodded almost imperceptibly, then held Basil Baxter's gaze so Basil would notice him eye-gesturing at another car-seat aficionado, and another...
Basil turned towards the young lady. She looked like she was in rude health, but pretending to be consumed by ravaging disease. Well, he could accommodate her there. 'Zapf... something, I presume?' Basil followed this rather blunt introduction up with a slight bow.
'Yes, and who are you?' The young woman looked nonplussed.
'We talked online.'
'Yes. It would appear you are rather protective of your friends...'
'My dear lady, do you make a habit of talking in questions?' Basil gulped down the remainder of his drink.
'I think I?m going to go stand with my friends.' The young woman obviously wanted to get rid of what she figured for a creepy internet-stalker.
'All right. Nice to meet you though.' Basil picked up her hand and kissed it before she could object. He had taken care to lace his lips with VX, a powerful nerve agent, before leaving for the show. Just to make sure, though, he also ever so slightly powdered the young lady with Anthrax spores. He had them left over from his latest adventures in the middle-east, so why not use them?
As the young woman walked away, Basil Baxter ticked one name off of his list.
He noted with satisfaction that two of her friends, both also young and female, spotted her as she made her way to a group of vague acquaintances whom she was obviously planning on pretending to be her best friends for as long as Basil Baxter was within sight. The two rushed towards their friend, and it gave Basil Baxter a little tingle of joy to see that she kissed both of them. Out came the list again. Both the 'J' and the 'L' sections were quickly ticked off.
Now only for that Dystopia fellow. If Basil hurried, he might be able to slip backstage and see if he could get the lead singer to cough up that bottle of Chateau Latour Basil had won off him on a bet. (Obviously Basil had won. After all: the entirety of the bar had been hospitalised that same night, including the band's new keyboard player. Technically, Basil reasoned, that counted as "being able to get her into bed.")
Basil Baxter noted him at the back of the room. He was nursing a beer, trying to make the 'cred' derived from being seen drinking alcohol last as long as his allowance would let him.
He was a young fellow. Obviously mad at his parents, his school or perhaps just the world in general. He was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed to the world that Punk was not Dead. 'Great' Basil Baxter mumbled to himself. 'But you are.'
Then louder, as he fired up Polly, his trusty, rusty, chainsaw. 'Heeeeere kitty, kitty...'
The band started to play. Basil Baxter really did rather like them. They opened with that song about Jasmine and Rose. He loved that song. Ronny hit a few false notes, but surely that shouldn't be held against him. After all, Polly was singing along so nicely...
Remember kids: If one pill doesn't work, you should take ten. Sharing needles is a fun activity for the entire family. If it doesn't kill you, you aren?t doing it right.
Basil Baxter Loves You.
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