Strong Arm, Sad Man

After you forcefully ushered the first potential stage diver back into the crowd it was apparent that you weren’t fucking around. No mercy. Your ponytail was like a battle flag flapping proud through the smog of war. Another shortsighted youngster hopped to the stage and did a little dance for the bassist before you pounced. He was in a headlock tight enough to castrate a bull. Then Mac, the guitarist, the lead singer, the reason the hundreds of us were here, tried to separate what I assumed was pent up anger due to an unfulfilling childhood from the child who wriggled in your grasp. You pushed him in the neck with your forearm and cocked your right hand as if to swing. The crowd hissed violently. Your employers groaned just as loud. You left the stage furious and I didn’t see you for the rest of the night. I imagine you spent the remainder of the evening lost, looking for your job.