Whip.

       Crack!

       Whip.

       Crack!

       "Lawrence..."

       A scream of agony filled the corridor, piercing the silence the darkness of night held. 

       Whip.

       Crack!

       A violent thud against the wooden floor, followed by rapid and heavy footsteps.

       Whip.

       Crack!

       Red. Red. Red.

       Whip.

      Crack!

      "Lawrence! That's enough!"

      "AAAAHHHHH!"

      "ENOUGH!"

      WHIP.

      "I SAID ENOUGH!"

      CRACK!

      "CHARLIE!"

      "..."

      "Charlie?"

      "..."

      "Charlie, are you alright?"

     "..."

      SLAP!

      "Charlie!" 

      Ricky Kennedy's abrupt shout combined with a slap to the face snapped the thirty-year-old Charlie Skalbeck out of his nap. Flinching in surprise, he quickly raised his resting head off the table. "WHAT THE FUCK GIVES---?" only to meet the gaze of his similarly-aged best friend who stood across the table, fully dressed, and somehow slinging Charlie's own signature electric guitar, a specific high-end Les Paul. It was an obvious indication that the show was about to start.

       "Shit, man... What time is it? H-how long have I been down?" asked Charlie, scratching his moderately dizzy head. Observing his surroundings, the green room was as luxurious as he remembered it was earlier. Very fitting for a big celebrity, such as a certain extremely popular band. 

       "Seven thirty-nine. Time to get fucking ready. You've been down ever since I came into this room since I arrived late and I was told to luckily share the same room as yours… and that was about an hour ago, by the way. If you ain't feeling good at the moment, you want Pedro to fill in for you tonight? He had been waiting for me for a while to arrive, apparently. Dude was more than stoked about playing your fancy solos. Too bad he ain't never born to be a backup singer, though." 

        "Guy's a genuinely competent colleague, but eh, I'm alright. I just need a little joint is all. Got any?"

        Ricky dug into his fancy white trousers. "You sure, dude?" he asked while throwing the joint in Charlie's direction. "You were all mumblin' and shoutin' incoherently like you've seen a ghost and you had me concerned for a minute or so. Nightmares, perhaps?"

        "Dunno, man," answered Charlie, effortlessly catching the joint with a hand while his other moved on to rub his rough and dirty-blond-bearded face, particularly the part where he got slapped. "Well… probably? But the last thing I remember was…" he hesitated, before sighing and continuing in a significantly lower volume. "... quaffing some Budweiser's."

         "How many?" asked Ricky, taking the slinged guitar off him, placing it on the table safely. Turning his back to Charlie to check himself in the mirror, he proceeded to use a hairspray on his dark shoulder-length shaggy hair, and provided a small-sized comb to fix his mustache.

         "I lost count, as usual." Charlie lit the joint up with his lighter.

         "Goddamn…" muttered Ricky without looking back, mildly regretting his choice of giving his friend the joint. "Okay, then…" he quickly went back to Charlie and sat across from him. "What's going on this time?"

         Ricky knew all too well that an excessively drinking Charlie meant the man was going through a hard time. While Charlie was normally a drinker, he was never one to push his limits. 

         Charlie puffed out a mouthful of smoke and leaned back on his chair. "Ah, this is the good shit… It's nothing big, don't worry."

         "Bullshit," Ricky said. "I know it is something big. Now tell me… what is it?"

         Charlie sighed frustratingly. "Fuck, I told you it's nothing, okay?" He proceeded to take another suck from his drug. 

         "Nothing?"

         "Nothing at all."

         "Like, nothing-nothing?"

         "It's nothing, I said!"

         "Hey, don't fucking pretend like I haven't known you for fourteen years, Charlie. I know you're carrying something heavy right now. Lemme try to lighten the load for ya, at least." 

         "Okay, okay! Jeez!" Charlie yielded, before pausing for a second. His dear friend has always been a pushy and nosy guy. It had never changed at all. He never changes at all… save for the physical aspect, of course; everybody ages. "Alright… okay… I do have an issue. I just don't know whether you could consider this a big one, or if it is objectively big, or if I'm just too small myself to lift such a burden that everyone can probably do so on their own."

            "Hmm, go on, go on," urged Ricky. 

            "It's… hold on." Charlie cut his statement off after realizing something. "What the fuck were you doing with my guitar a while ago?" 

            Ricky chuckled when shrugging. "I just had fun with it for a while using an amp they provided here, don't worry. I got so fucking interested in its unique sound I was tempted to play it for a while. And since you're such a heavy sleeper, I'm sure a little noise wouldn't hurt." He had to resort to slapping in order to wake Charlie up. Ricky was a professional keyboardist. He, however, could definitely decently play a guitar in gigs if he chose to.

           "If I was a guitar shopkeeper and not your friend, I probably would've kicked you out of the room," Charlie stated passive-aggressively as he released the smoke through his nostrils. "But anyways… I'm very much feeling… weird, nowadays."

           "Weird? In what way?"

           "Dunno… it's just…" Charlie paused, as if it required a great effort for him to convey something. He shifted his position on the cushioned seat to cross his legs, and comfortably lean against the chair's equally cushioned back. " … Lately, I feel… empty."

           "Empty?"

           "Yeah... empty, on the inside. There's this underlying feeling that… that nothing satisfies me anymore. You know how much I loved football. You know how much I loved creating unique melodies and guitar solos for all of us to use. You know how much I loved contributing to this band. I mean, yes, I still get enjoyment out of them, but I sense them slowly diminishing into nothingness. I'm slowly, but surely, losing interest. 

          

            "I feel like there's something missing within me, something my subconscious wants me to find… something I want to find. It's as if said subconscious was desperate enough to remove every distraction that might hinder me from doing what it wants me to do. From being what it wants me to be. And those alleged distractions are, of course, my current interests. 

             "However, my taste for drinking never changed. In fact, I was otherwise more inclined to hit the bottles much harder than usual. 'Cause aside from this feeling of emptiness, there was this certain sense of… dread, accompanying it. And from what it's like, it's basically… theoretically speaking… an instinctive response to the threat of losing something I don't have. Something my subconscious wants me to find as long as there's still a chance… before it's too late, 'cause by then, something tells me that I might regret it big, big time. Drinking or weed basically… temporarily dampens it, or drowns it, if you will. I don't want that fucked feeling to linger, man. It's getting worse, and drinking is a reliever for it, except it doesn't last long. And when I start, I never stop. 

             "I-I mean, I don't know whether or not I should do what it wants me to do. Should I? Or maybe all of this is just…" he felt the pace of his own heart beating faster than normal as he tried to continue. "... All of this is just… is just… bullshit, you know? Maybe I just need some proper rest after all these tours. Oh, fuck, I dunno anymore."

             Ricky opened his mouth to try speaking, but was immediately cut off by Charlie.

             "Glad I got that shit out of my chest, thanks to you, but it's not like you'd be able to do much about it, anyway."

             "Wait," Ricky finally interjected. "I hope that doesn't mean leaving the band soon."

             "Maybe. Maybe not. Eh, who knows? Only time will tell. Or… I probably really just need a break."

             Ricky sighed. "Look. Yeah, it's true that I can't really help you with the shit you're going through at the moment myself." He gave a smirk. "But if you think this fact is gonna stop me from trying, you're dead wrong, man."

             With those words, Charlie, at least, felt a little sense of assurance. A feeling telling him that with such a support from a friend like Ricky, he could likely get a higher chance of eventually finding a solution to this stupid internal conflict. 

              After two seconds of silence between them, Charlie abruptly let out a moderately loud laugh which lasted for five seconds. "Fuck, that last sentence sounded so cheesy," he managed to state between his breaths. 

              "Guess it is," Ricky chuckled lightly. "Anyway, like I said earlier, if you want some rest, Pedro can really fill in for you. And I suggest you do so, dude. 'Cause who knows? Could be the issue."

              "You're right. But yeah, no thanks. I'm performing tonight."

              "You sure?"

              Charlie nodded in response, getting rid of what's left of his joint. 

              "Right. I'll just be meeting up with the others in the other room," said Ricky. The rest of the members were in the other green room, located in the opposite wing of the stadium's backstage. Ricky began to leave, when he halted. "Oh, yeah. Forgot to ask something."

               "Hm?"

               Ricky paused in hesitation before dropping the question. "May I ask who Lawrence is?"

               Upon hearing that name, Charlie felt his entire body freeze, somehow. "L-Lawrence?"

               Ricky raised his eyebrows, intrigued by his friend's reaction to hearing that name. 

               Charlie paused. "He's…"

               An unexpected knock at the door startled the two instantly. 

               "Who is it?" asked Ricky after a few more knocks.

               "I smell weed from here, you know that? It's faint, but detectable," said the person on the other side of the door.

               "Ah, shit. Get in here, fucker," muttered Charlie.

               Obligingly, Ricky hastily made his way to unlock the door. It was Chuck James Cornell, their irreplaceable lead vocalist, lyricist and frontman, sporting a frilly-yet masculine outfit, accompanied by his clean, smooth face with strong features, and straight coal-black hair reaching the middle of his back. He naturally visually stood out the most out of all the band members due to this; as a frontman, it was a part of his job to stand out. Visually by his fashion, and sonically by his powerful vocals. 

                "Got any left, Rick?" asked Chuck enthusiastically.

                "Nothing left. Sorry man. Charlie beat you to it. And I wouldn't want that incident to repeat again, if you don't mind. It ain't never a good idea for a guy like you to perform while stoned."

                Chuck laughed nervously. "Oh… yeah. Never again." Unlike the two thirty-year-old men in the room, Chuck was four years younger, and he gets under the influence of drugs very easily. They were, for some reasons, twice as effective on Chuck. After curiously trying acid provided by Charlie for the first time as an innocent lad before one of their shows started about a year ago, Chuck's vocals were temporarily reduced from being angelic to the sound of a dying rooster that somehow got horny when he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hen's cloaca. Unable to form proper decisions at that time, Chuck took his pants off, exposing his cheeks and genitals in all their glory for the thousands to see, before proceeding to empty his bladder on a portion of a crowd and Charlie, while under the illusion that he was in a bathroom. Despite heavily regretting the incident, that initial acid trip pulled him into the world of psychedelics, much to the careless Charlie's dismay. Fortunately, the frontman knew how to control himself. 

                "So… what's your business here?" asked Ricky sarcastically as if Chuck was nothing but a mere stranger. 

                "Oh, Colin and I finally were able to come up with what our third album is gonna be. He wants to share it with you two himself."

                Charlie and Ricky exchanged glances, before returning their attention to Chuck. "Can only hope it'll be good," said Ricky. 

                The pair immediately proceeded to follow Chuck, wasting no time, aware that the show would officially be starting within twenty minutes. Ricky, however, decided to separate from the two a bit later to head out for the bathroom. Walking through the corridors, Chuck began to spark a conversation again, although this time, it was only between him and Charlie.

                 "Johnny Carson called me last night, by the way."

                 Charlie raised his eyebrows, tightly holding his guitar. "Oh, good for you, then."

                 "He wants me and you to appear as guests in his show."

                 "Then how come I never--"

                 "They tried reaching you last night. I tried reaching you last night. Not even once did you pick the telephone up."

                 Charlie paused. 

                 "What happened to you last night, dude?"

                 Charlie could not remember much of that night, but he knew how excessive alcohol knocked him out cold up until sunrise. 

                 "Nothing eventful, really. Just decided to catch up on my lost sleep. All this touring kinda took a toll on me. About Johnny Carson, though, did you accept the offer?"

                 "You kidding me? Of course, I did!" exclaimed Chuck happily, acting as if he was still in his teens, which was a behavior he typically showcased before his peers. "It's easy and extra money aside from the ones we get from these tours and our records! It'll undoubtedly increase our rising fame too, which means more money and fans! In your case, however... well, I could try to contact the guys from The Tonight Show again for you."

                  "Eh, don't bother. Just go on your own as the band's representative. I'm not gonna do well at interviews at the moment."

                  "Oh, well. Whatever you say. Get some rest as much as you can if you get the chance again, dude, 'cause you do look like you really need it."

                  "I will, thanks."

                  Now finally reaching the door of their other members' green room, Chuck clasped for the knob. He, however, hesitated, before looking back at Charlie. "Try to minimize your alcohol consumption too, man. 'Cause you reek of it. A lot," he concernedly advised Charlie, who was unable to say anything to respond to those words.

                 Swinging the door open, they were greeted with a room just as luxurious as the one Charlie and Ricky were provided. At the center of the room was a small table where a radio was placed. Charlie overheard that it currently broadcasted news regarding President Richard Nixon's announcement to already stop sending draftees to Vietnam, hopefully signifying the blasted war to end soon. Surrounding the table were two sofas that looked like they belonged to a royal family. In each one, a band member respectively sat. One was John Stewart Phillips, or Stew, as he was casually addressed by his friends. He was the band's drummer, a twenty-nine-year-old short, curly-haired man who always brings his drumsticks with him wherever he goes. 

                  The other is Colin Gaudreau, the band's bassist, main lyricist and founder (alongside Charlie) with a tall and athletic body build. He, just like Charlie and Ricky, was about thirty. Unlike the rest of his mates, however, he despised sporting fancy outfits, and instead wore a plain black tee on a daily basis. But his most defining feature, no doubt, was the large, recognizable scar which ran across the bridge of his nose from left to right. And somehow, this only increased his physical appeal. 

                   Ricky coincidentally managed to enter the room before Chuck could close the door. 

                   "Hey," greeted Colin.

                   "So... what's your idea this time?" asked Charlie plainly.

                   "Just to be clear, I don't take full credit for this. Chuck and I came up with it together," stated the bassist matter-of-factly. 

                   "We're aware, Scar-face, thanks, but whatever," Ricky replied. "Better cut to the chase, Cole."

                   "True," Charlie agreed. "Try not to dump info like you usually do. We're running out of time, man."

                   Chuck nodded. "Further elaborations can be saved for later, dude."

                   Colin stood up. "Fine." The affirmation forced a smirk of relief in Ricky's face. 

                   "Or at least, I'll try," added Colin. 

                   Ricky's smirk instantly vanished. 

                   "Alright," Colin provided a marker and a wet rag. Colin proceeded to walk towards a whiteboard placed on the wall, something Charlie and Ricky somehow never noticed at firsthand. It was already scribbled with… apparent gibberish.

                   Ricky sighed in frustration. "Okay. That's not cutting to the fucking Chase, Cole."

                  "Just give this a chance, okay?"

                  "Do you mind summing it up in a few words, instead, please?" Charlie suggested while being as calm as possible. 

                  "Uh, no. I need to do a… QUICK analysis of it in order for us to fully understand it, 'cause it's a concept album."

                  Ricky sighed in annoyance. "The album being conceptual does not make your reasons any more valid!" 

                  Stew simply watched the scene unfold amusingly, refusing to do anything to interrupt it nor raise even a whisper, the latter being due to--

                  "Can't you really give it a chance now? Look!" Colin retorted, raising an arm to point at the whiteboard, by which everyone instinctively followed his finger, just as anyone instantly would when a friend just suddenly wants you to look at something behind you only to find nothing when you turn around, and no one when you finally turn back to the area where your friend should have been standing. Except in the band's case, the gibberish written on the whiteboard being pointed at by Colin is something, and it seemed no one but him understood it. Well, Charlie, sort of did. 

                Examining it further, Charlie could actually make out something. It is gibberish, and remains so. However, it isn't just gibberish; it's a large group of gibberish. Of course, you would wonder how a single gibberish and a group of it makes any significant difference whatsoever. Whether in the shape of random words or random lines, individually, it would make zero sense. As a group, however, each one acts as an essential puzzle piece of a mosaic art. Specifically, mosaic art of a certain industrial building. The art, however, while beautifully done, was not immediately comprehensible due to the way it was arranged. One would have to focus in order to fully see it. And Ricky was anything but focusing at the moment. "Sorry, Cole. I still don't get it, so no. It just seems to me you wanna insist on doing this your way without considering it'll waste our limited time. So if you can't even give us the gist of it, you should've just waited until this concert ends. Or…" He turned his attention to Chuck. "Chuck, I know you and Cole have come up with this together. And that means you must know the ways of the very, VERY simple act of summarizing, right?"

                "I can explain it to you guys quickly myself, of course," replied Chuck. "I just want to respect Colin's request, since he's really serious about this topic."

                "Then do you mind doing it yourself now?" Ricky asked passive-aggressively. 

                "I mean, yeah. Fine, if you want me to. It's titled as 'Pencil Factory', and it's about--"

                "No!"

                Everyone looked at Colin.

                 

                Pausing for a couple of moments, the scar-faced bassist then spoke up. "Sorry, guys. It's just… leaving out some vital information bothers me so much… it'll give me some sort of an anxiety attack. Keeping it to myself without being able to share it longer is gonna fuck me up, so I wanna make sure everyone knows everything about it by sharing it myself."

                 With that explanation, Ricky's face softened, instantly feeling like he was being a dickhead to his friend as a result of feeling pressured by the limited time they have before the show started.

                 "Oh. Is that why you're so bad at keeping secrets?" asked Chuck.

                 Colin laughed nervously. "Yeah.".

     

                  "So that explains why you wouldn't stop explaining every single line of the lyrics you write." Charlie said, recalling their previous recording sessions, which was for their debut album, the only album they have at the moment, released a year and a quarter ago.

                  "But… but why didn't you tell us way sooner?" asked Ricky. 

                  "If there's any secrets I can keep, it's my personal infos, fortunately. My anxiety only gets triggered by recently-learned information that I wasn't able to share. I knew this day would come, but I definitely preferred that no one found out about this… whatever illness I have. I utterly despise being treated as some sort of a disabled man. I'm sorry."

                  "It's okay," Ricky spoke in a tone lower than his usual, before sighing again. "Sorry about that, Cole."

                  "Nah, dude. You're good. Your reaction's very understandable. Dealing with--"

                  A sudden knock on the door caused Colin to be interrupted, as well as Charlie and Chuck to be slightly startled. 

                 "Who is it?" asked Rick.

                 "It's McKeon. Just here to tell you boys the show's about to start now." announced the knocker. It was the voice of approximately someone in his mid-forties.

                  With Ricky hastily opening the door, they were greeted with a very formal-attired man. He was Sean McKeon, the band's manager ever since they started their ascent to fame. 

                  "About time," he said. 

                  "Finally!" the vigorous Chuck exclaimed.

                  "Alright! Time to go, guys!" Charlie declared. 

                  With that, everyone unhesitatingly moved to evacuate the room… with the exception of Stew. Taking notice of this, Charlie approached him. Raising both of his hands and letting go of his guitar, Charlie moved them to form multiple specific gestures one by one, which when read together, created the sentence: "What's the matter, dude?"

                   Stew gestured back in response, which read: "I just need a few more minutes before I proceed."

                   "You okay?"

                   Stew nodded, before gesturing again. "I just have a very mild fever. But a few minutes of rest would do the trick for me, don't worry."

                   "I can ask McKeon for medicine or something, if you want. Or you could just take a break for now."

                  "No thanks for either. It's not that bad. I still can do my job, thanks."

                  "You sure?"

                  Stew nodded in affirmation, which led Charlie to give him a thumbs up, before letting his hands do the communication again. "I can count on you with that. See you in five minutes." 

                  With that, Stew returned the thumbs up with a very assuring smile as Charlie grasped his guitar again and began to leave.

                  Stew, the band's drummer, was never fortunate enough to have functional auditories ever since he first came into existence, resulting in his inability to speak. Only Charlie and Colin were able to directly communicate with him in the band. Despite this, he, fortunately, was not completely deaf. He could somehow excellently detect vibrations, especially the ones coming from the drums, which he grew to love as a child. This ultimately turned him into a rhythm machine his mates can fully rely on.

                  A second before Charlie's legs could even reach the doorway, Stew abruptly tapped the table with his drumstick to get his friend's attention. As Charlie looked back, Stew's signs read:

                  "Have you been drinking a lot lately?"

                      ------

                   Directly from backstage, Chuck took a peek at the tens of thousands that gathered to witness their upcoming performance, and it always fueled him with excitement to the core. Though somehow, the darkness of the evening made their numbers look more intimidating. With him were Colin and Ricky, standing by, waiting for their two members to arrive, before officially climbing up the stage and presenting themselves. The two were having a chat about something, in which Chuck automatically eavesdropped. 

                   "Has Charlie ever told you about his situation?" Ricky asked Colin. 

                   Colin frowned. "No, I don't think so. But I noticed him reeking of beer tenfold stronger than usual."

                   "Apparently, he's going through something… what's the word… mental? Psychological? Ah, don't know, man. All I know is he's trying to drink them issues away."

                  The statement raised Colin's eyebrows. "Issues? Psychological? Can you be more specific, please?" 

                  "I think… I think there's a pretty good chance he's leaving the band in the near future."

                  "What?" Colin and Chuck exclaimed in unison, both instantly outraged. Charlie was largely an invaluable member, being the one with the biggest contribution to the band's songs sonically. Despite Colin being considered a conceptual and lyrical genius by the critics, one can only appreciate the message behind them so much without the interestingly complex music that perfectly fits them like a glove. After all, they were a "Music band, not a group of Shakespearean-poets-about-to-raid-Broadway-or-somewhere," according to Chuck during one of their debut album's recording sessions (he attempted to describe Charlie's importance in order to express his respect towards him, trying to sound smart and all, only to make a fool of himself, much to his friends' amusement). 

                 "But why?" asked Colin.

                 "He said he's slowly losing interest. He wants to focus on something that bothers him right now. Something he doesn't even know what."

                 "Bothered by something he doesn't know? How does that even make sense, man?" muttered Chuck. 

                 "Did he… try to explain what it is?" requested Colin. 

                 "He did, yes. He wants to do or be that something… whatever that means."

                 "I see." Colin placed a hand on his chin as he pondered something. 

                 Noticing his behavior, Ricky immediately asked Colin." You got any ideas or something?"

                 "Well, I think… I think he should seek either a psychiatrist or a psychologist."

                 "I don't need either, thanks." 

                 The three were too caught up with their conversation to even notice Charlie's presence. He was standing still at the doorway leading to the backstage corridor. 

                  "I recommend doing so," insisted Colin. "They'll be a great help, trust me."

                  "I can deal with this on my own. Don't worry about it. If you guys are worried about me quitting, don't. I'm not leaving, okay?"

                  "Yet," Colin replied in a barely audible volume. 

                  "I mean… we're just trying to help, man," said Chuck. 

                  "I appreciate it guys, but I can deal with this on my own. Trust me."

                  "Okay, are you actually expecting us to buy that assurance?" Ricky joined in. "We're not relaxing until we're fully sure you're doing well."

                  Charlie felt a hand holding onto his shoulder. It was Stew, just recently satisfied by the quick break generously given to him. 

                  "What were you guys discussing?" he signed. "Aren't we gonna get up there or what?"

                  Taking advantage of Stew's interference in the three's interrogation session with him, Charlie shifted the topic.

                   "Stew's right. We can't keep the crowd waiting. Let's just get to it."

                   A smile formed on Chuck's smooth face. "I second that. Let's go!"

                   With that, all of them began to take the short stairs leading up to the highly elevated stage in a line. 

                   "We'll continue this later," reminded Ricky, which caused Charlie to respond with an eye roll. 

                   "Fine."

                   Upon finally reaching the stage, Pedro awaited them. In charge of assisting the band by helping prepare what they needed, filling in whenever one member was unavailable, he was a plump thirty-seven-year-old bald man who also happens to be their trustworthy record producer. With him were a group of guys he was guiding in setting up the stage equipment, instruments and effects such as lighting and the sound system. 

                  

                   "Everything's ready, my dudes," he declared. "Good luck, Lymantria!"

                  The crowd, noticing their presence, cheered and applauded as loud as they can, before starting to synchronously chant:

                  "Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria!"

                  

                  The spotlight following him, Chuck delightfully waved at the thousands upon thousands of individuals willing to see their performance live as he walked his way to the center of the stage where his mic stand was placed. The audiences cheered excitedly in response. 

                  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted through the microphone. "You've been waiting for quite a while? Well, here we are!"

                  The crowd roared in happiness. 

                   "Are you ready!?" 

                   Everyone showed their affirmation by screaming at the top of their lungs. 

                   "I can't hear you-- ARE YOU READY!?"

                   Everyone screamed even louder. 

                   "Alright. Enjoy the show, everybody."

 

                   As everyone clapped in response, the scar-faced Colin began with his bass riff. The crowd, recognizing the haunting, yet groovy arrangement, once again cheered to express their delight in hearing one of their most popular songs, The Search For The Fountain of Youth, played in minor key. It was solely conceptualized by Colin himself. Ricky and especially Charlie took care of the music, as usual, of course, but with the aid of Colin's mouthful of suggestions. That being said, a little bit later, Charlie was able to signal Stew in perfect timing. The mute drummer, without ever losing the rhythm, began his violent-style drumming. Four beats later, Ricky played a hauntingly beautiful melody with a synthesizer called minimoog. At this point, Chuck was already dancing. The majority of the audience would have been dancing along as well had there been enough space for them to do so. Regardless, their heads were banging along the beat enthusiastically.

                    Charlie had to admit that fuzz was his favorite guitar tone, and this song exactly requires fuzz, hence it turned out to be his second favorite song of theirs. Thus after a minute into the song, it was his time to add another layer into the music with his guitar. In order to signify his entrance as well as to reward the instrumental buildup made by Colin, Stew and Ricky, however, he gave his guitar a hard strum. The rough sound the fuzz pedal gave mixed with the way Charlie handled his strum created a sound that would instantly send goosebumps to any listener. Shortly after, he lightly strummed the strings in a way that the guitar sound would be essential to the song, yet not prominent. For the prominent sound of the song would have to be Chuck's vocals. 

                   With a loud, yet angelic voice, Chuck began to sing, accompanied by the subtle and soothing backup vocals of Charlie.

                Remember what you did

                Remember what we did

                Don't give up on your fantasies, kid

                Don't forget all your fantasies, kid

                Immediately after these lines, another haunting instrumental portion would be played, although this time Ricky would take the lead with his keyboards, which would urge people to dance along (if they could) much more than before.

                The time it ends, Chuck picks up again with the vocals, although this time unaccompanied by Charlie. 

                Before I get swallowed by Oblivion

               I will search for the Fountain of Youth

               In the dead of night, I'll search for the truth

               I'll be flying, but I won't run no more!

               Chuck emphasized the "no more" portion of the lyrics by pulling off a fifteen-second high note, which led people to go crazy yet again. But truth be told, Chuck was enjoying it much more so than any of the audience in the stadium.

             

                Immediately after that, the song entered a low point, where everyone would stop playing, except Colin, who would continue playing his bass. Several seconds later, Stew would follow up with a very soft and lengthy cymbal swell to add more eeriness which was already present in the music. Several seconds after this, Chuck ominously whispers:

                There won't be another chance.

                There's no going back.

                During this portion of the song, Charlie would now have enough time to brace for what he'll be doing. Stew's cymbal swell ended, replaced by a drumming that indicates a buildup of something. Ricky began to play again as well, using a tone which also indicates a buildup of something. And suddenly…

                "Bring it on, Charlie!" shouted Chuck while pointing at him. As he did, all the spotlights focused on Charlie, while Stew transitioned his drumming into an overwhelmingly violent one, and Ricky's playing went just as wild. These were Charlie's cue to execute his guitar solo, the song's climax.

                Next thing Charlie knew, his long fingers on the fretboard danced like excited spider legs. His playing was incredibly fast, yet decently accurate. Now, he was no Hendrix, but his unique solo arrangements are what made him popular enough to be considered among the greatest guitarists of the 70s, so far. And speaking of his solo arrangement, it was inexplicably terrifying yet soothing at the same time. And believe it or not, the audiences were fully into it.

                 His fingers continued working and working, running across the neck nonstop. Scanning his surroundings as he did so, he could see the majority of the audience being in tears due to how good his solo sounded. It was, of course, to be expected to happen as it was a usual thing every time they played the song in their tours. 

                 He ended his portion of the song with a bang by playing as fast as he could and hitting every right note at the right time that forced even more tears to come out of their listeners. Immediately after this, the music shifted into a slower tempo as it transitioned into the outro, where everyone's playing goes softer and calmer, in contrast to the hard and haunting music earlier. The music at this point seamlessly gets changed into major key, and Ricky took the wheel of the song by playing a short yet ethereally comforting synth solo. This final portion of the song seemed to act as the well-deserved and relaxing time of rest after a harrowing and exhausting journey. Eventually, the song finally ended.

                   The band received a heavy and wild applause which, somehow, lasted for about five minutes… only to be prolonged by the repetitive chanting of their band's name again. 

                    "Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria! Lymantria!"

                    Distracted by the shower of praises, Charlie nor his bandmates were completely oblivious of an attractive woman wearing a fancy red dress getting up the stage and charging towards him. Having caught him off guard, she was able to pin him to the floor with ease, before lowering her face down to his until both the lips of hers and the extremely baffled Charlie interconnected with each other.

                    Charlie had to admit, it felt really good. So fucking good he instinctively returned the kiss. Never in his life had he been able to touch any woman he had set his eyes upon, which resulted in the teasing of both Ricky and Chuck about his virginity still being intact at the age of thirty. And now, while creepy, most straight virgin men probably wouldn't mind a very pretty girl dashing towards them to steal their first kiss. For a moment, Charlie wallowed himself in happiness and bliss upon finally being able to touch a woman for the first time in his life. The feeling immobilized him. 

                    The woman parted her lips from his and slightly raised her head up in order to see Charlie's face fully, and Charlie to see hers as well. She had the face of a supermodel. While that may be good news, her stare hinted otherwise. 

                     That stare was completely indifferent to the one of a hungry lion, awfully delighted to have successfully caught its prey after a long time of chasing. Within a split second, all that happiness and euphoria simply ceased to exist within Charlie.

                      "I want… your babies."

She then proceeded to immediately strip the red dress off her body.

                      Charlie's eyes widened upon seeing she did not have any lingeries to cover her intimate bits.

It was like she planned to do this from the start.

                      By the time she began aggressively digging for his crotch, Charlie was already panicking. But before she could even release his junk from his tight underwear, two pairs of buff arms abruptly snatched each of her own arms strongly and firmly, automatically subduing the crazy woman. She, however, started screaming in outrage.

                       "YOU FUCKS!" she screamed maniacally as she was being dragged away by security. "LET ME UNITE WITH MY ONE TRUE LOVE! I WANT HIM! I WANT OUR BABIES! I WANT HIM TO CUM INSIDE ME! I WANT HIM INSIDE ME!!! I WANT HIM TO---" the rest of her disturbing outrage was never heard as she was finally taken out of the band's sight. 

   

                       As he pushed himself to his feet, he saw Ricky, Chuck, Colin, Stew and Pedro running after him. 

                      "Fuck, you okay, man?" asked Ricky worriedly. "That was fucking creepy." 

                      "Well, there goes your first kiss, Charlie," said Colin. 

                      "Don't rub it in, Scar-face," Ricky replied in annoyance, before remembering something, in which he quickly sarcastically declared. "Oh, sorry. My bad. I forgot you were born to rub everything in."

                      Colin rolled his eyes.

                      "I'm just glad we're not being broadcasted on television, but I'm alright, guys," assured the blushing Charlie, carefully hiding his trembling hands. "We can't let that stop this show."

                      "Gotta say though, you're very lucky she's hot," pointed out Chuck. "Doesn't change the fact that she's a total nutjob, but she's hot regardless. Could be worse, you know."

                     "You're sure about that, Charlie?" asked Pedro. "While she's a woman, do you realize that was a rape attempt on her part, right?"

                     "And I know he'd like it," Chuck added. 

                     "I'm fine, okay! Geez!" snapped Charlie. "Just… just… just get on with the show."

                     "If you say so," replied Pedro, which was followed by everyone else complying.

                     "I hope you really are okay, man," said Ricky before leaving him.

                     As they returned to their specific spots, Charlie was left behind with his guitar and…

                      … The red dress?

                      Just in time he had his attention to it, one of the security took it and left to return to the crazy woman, who ninety-nine percent was likely arrested. 

                      The woman was hot, and gave him a bit of happiness for a while, but she was undoubtedly crazy regardless. He admittedly had no idea what to feel about his first kiss being taken away from him, but the very recent incident was indeed nothing short of traumatizing for him. But that dress… somehow, he felt his right hand wanting to reach for it. The dress...

                       It was gorgeous.