Oy, mates! So the first day of Autumn (that’s September 22, 2016), I have a new book arriving. This is something a weee bit different than my usual fare. The book is called Punk Ass Punk and it’s a crime thriller.
Yeah, that’s right, a crime thriller. Thing is, however, this crime thriller has the NSA hiring a punk band (aka Punk Ass Punk) to do their dirty work for them. This is a full-on, angst-induced, punked out joy ride that’ll have you scrambling for your Doc Martens and your mohawk-inducing hair spray (Aquanet anyone?).
Wanna taste? I best you do. Knock yourselves out.
ONE
Drug Me Tender
“Fuck you very much! We’re Punk Ass Punk and you’re not. Oy!”
Goddamn, I love being a rock star. Staring out over a sweaty crowd of raging, hormonal men and women, knowing someone’ll pop backstage after the show and have a go with one or more mates in the band. And we’re talking punk fans, so the sky is the fucking limit. Drugs, booze…tits. Whatever the hell we want was just within our reach.
And the whole British act? Yeah, that never failed to sweeten the pot a bit. The fans never knew and the shtick was thick. We’ve got it down and, as far as the world was concerned, we’re the next coming of Sex Pistols.
Fuck them. They recorded one damn album and went down as the most influential punk band in history. PAP’s recorded four.
Dunk.
Growth.
Chug.
And, of course, the album that put us on the map…Smear.
My name is Flotsam. I’m the fekking singer of PAP…the golden boy of punk, they call me. I started this joy ride with my mate Driver. He wanted to be the next Eddie Van Halen, but a serious lack of hand-eye coordination fingered that dream up the ruddy bum. Not a problem. Once Driver taught himself how to play power chords, we had everything necessary to write punk.
Minus a bass player and a drummer.
Who needs ‘em. Rhythm sections were for the weak.
For a year Driver and I were the anti-heroes in the underground punk scene. Just a singer and a shitty guitarist playing chaotic covers of American pop songs. It didn’t pay shite, but it was fucking heaven.
Shite. You saw what I did there, right?
Shite for shit? I’m so fucking punk.
God save the queen and all.
“Hey, Flotsam?” Someone called out from the audience.
The next thing I knew, a giant pair of tighty whities made a rainbow arc from the house and landed square on my face. The smell of shit and piss accosted my nostrils and I instantly went full-on rage.
“Oy! You.” I pointed out the tosser and then dove, fists ready to fly.
It wouldn’t be a PAP show without a fight. Some staged, some not.
All in the name of punk.
The band continued chugging through “Cavity Search” like it was the last chance they’d ever have to play it. On the floor of the venue, the crowd separated to make room for me and Captain Skidmark. My mic doubled as a pair of brass knuckles and the heavy metal connected with the douchebag’s right cheek. He went down and the crowd chanted, “Punk Ass Punk. Punk Ass Punk.”
From the floor I finished “Cavity Search”, moshers and stompers all around me like an ocean of bitter angst. As soon as the song came to its crashing, feedback-y ending, I spat at those nearest me, hopped back onto the stage, flipped everyone off, grabbed my cock, and left the scene. The crowd begged us to return.
Fuck them.
This was punk. Encores were for pussies.
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