What do you get with a bisexual druggie of a singer, an absolutely normal-and in love- drummer, a whore of a bassist who makes a crack at any mistake anybody makes, and a hyperactive guitarist that...
Well, a band.
Sound spread through the room like fire. Guitar in hands, I played.
Ian screamed into the beginning of the song, the small crowd being- well, a crazed, most likely drunk pack of early twenties or (not drunk) late teenage kids. Ben smashed on the drums, Syn rocked out on his bass, and Ian head-banged to the beat of his rhythm guitar. The lead singer leaned into the crowd, everyone leaning forward and rubbing his hair.
Except I had this pit in my stomach. That feeling you get when either something good is going to happen, or something utterly horrible is going to smack you in the face. Well, it did get me in the face. But it wasn’t smacking me there. It was more of a punch.
The man collided with me before I realized it. My guitar made a screech as he smashed against me. Alcohol reeked on his breath- and it showed in his actions. He scraped something across my face. I shoved against him, almost getting him off when Syn came to my rescue. The one security guard there was knocked out, so when the man lunged for me and smashed me across the face all I did was smash back. He jumped forward and everything went sort of blurry. All I knew was that my right wrist hurt really bad all of the sudden.
The bassist held the man back, sounds carrying through the room as the security guard seemed to come back from his unconscious state.
An awkward moment passed, blood dripping out of my mouth and cheek, as the man was escorted out by the now-awake security guard.
“Dammit, you idiots. Keep fucking playing.” I said, spitting out the blood on the stage.
“Panda-” Syn began, but I flashed him a bloody smile.
“Have I ever stopped a performance? No. Let’s go.” I smashed into the chords of the next song, and Syn just smiled.
When the show was over, cameras flooded towards us.
“Are you seriously hurt?”
“What was the man doing?”
“Did you punch him back?”
“Are you going to the hospital?” Scowling, I shoved one of the cameras away, accidentally smearing blood on it.
“Fucking cameras. You’re like leeches, god dammit. Do I look like I fucking need to go to the hospital? I have blood fucking draining from my face, my wrist is fucking hanging at my side. Now fuck off, all right? I don’t fucking care.” Came my response, still scowling at any cameras near me.
“Do you need an ambulance? Are you going to press charges? Why did you continue the show instead of getting help?” Called another person, and I wanted to scream at him.
“Somebody’s fucking gonna to need a fucking ambulance in a couple of fucking seconds if you keep fucking asking me fucking questions! Fuck off!”
- - - -
“Yeah. That’s Panda.” Gerard said, leaning back in the tour bus couch.
“Do I know that guy? He looks really familiar.” Ray said, staring at the screen.
“Dude. We’re touring with them? AWESOME!” Frankie exclaimed, taking another drink of his beer. The TV screen flashed a picture of the boy’s bloody smile, the words ‘KYLE (PANDA) LIVERICI’ next to it.
“Who picked out the name?” The man asked, leaning against a wall.
“How am I supposed to know?” Asked one of the other boys, and he just shrugged.
“Why? You like it?” Bob ran a hand on his chin.
“Lemonade Stand... It’s original, I’ll give them that.” Mikey had a laptop on his lap, and he was looking at some website about them.
“It says they were originally named Road Wet When Raining when they didn’t have the guitarist Panda.”
“Lemme see.” Bob said, plopping on the couch near Mikey and lazily looking at it.
Lead singer & rhythm guitarist- IAN WASHBURNE
guitarist- KYLE (PANDA) LIVERICI
drummer- BEN BVOUSKI
bassist- SYN O’MALLY
The History Of ROAD WET WHEN RAINING (before lemonade stand):
Bob skimmed down to the name of the guy who got beat up on-stage, Panda.
Panda Liverici was born in 1983, Chicago, Illinois. (Wondering why his nickname is Panda? He STILL has his pet panda “Adnap”). He began playing the guitar around ten years old, when he first received an acoustic guitar. Panda’s Mother (Alexis Liverici) died when he was 10, which left him with his step Dad and four step brothers. His mother had divorced before he even knew she was pregnant and shortly married to Don Frank. It was rumored that his father abused him, but that’s not true. Panda moved in with Ben’s family in sixth grade (once he returned from his three year life in New Jersey), and worked at a Starbucks (that his friend Ben’s father managed) to pay rent.
Panda moved to New York first chance he got out of high school, with his friend Ben Bvouski. He found an interest in New Jersey, so later he moved there with (he had to drag him) Ben. In Newark, NJ, they found Syn. Finally they moved over to Florida (looking for another member) and found Ian there. The boy is the proud one who got the idea to make up a band, though he wasn’t in it until Lemonade Stand.
A COUPLE OF PANDA’S QUOTES-
“When I was younger, I was always thinking, ‘I want to be in a band.’ My Dad of course was very optimistic and went on saying how I’d never make it. But you know what? I just said fuck that. Fuck him. Or rather, don’t.”
“I was the kid you would see running into the wall on the first day of school.”
“Nobody really uses the word fuck the way there supposed to. Like, ‘fuck that.’ No, you don’t want to fuck that. It’s not an insult to fuck something. So fucking shut up about fucking things. Honestly...”
“I would date Bob Bryar.”
His eyes widened at that one. He was a fan, then?
“Hey Mikes. I’m on this guy’s list.” Bob pointed to his name on the screen, and Mikey laughed.
“Nice, Bobbie. Try to get a girl next time.” The boy shook his head and looked back to the screen, taking a swig of his beer.
“I don’t even know what he’s from. I just know his last name is pronounced like the ice cream brand Breyer’s. I always wanted to meet a guy who’s name was pronounced just like a brand of ice cream.” Bob bit his lip. Okay, not a fan.
- - - -
“Did you say... Sprained?” The doctor nodded solemnly. “No, it can’t be sprained. I’ll miss the shows!”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t rock too hard on stage tonight. If you did, you probably would’ve done more damage.” Muttering curses, I leaned back into the hospital bed and crossed my arms. In a pout, I glared at the light cast on my wrist.
“Can I still play-”
“No.” The doctor cut me off for the second time. With a curse I slid from the bed and shook my head, dizzy from the encounter with that... crazy male. “You might not want to...” The doctor began, but I shook my head.
“I’m fine. I just want to leave.”
“Four weeks!” He called, and I glared at the cast on my wrist.
“I want to get fucking drunk and have a good time. Let’s go wherever the others are.” I said to Ben as he led me out of the hospital.
“You sure you’re up for that?” Looking up at the orange-haired, blue-eyed drummer, I couldn’t help but smile.
“Duh, dummy. All I did was sprain my wrist.” He laughed, and I smirked. “Let’s go.” Sliding off my wig, I shook my head and pulled out my hair tie to let the waves fell loose.
So I had a few secrets. Who doesn't?
The story got all fucked up...
Hopefully it will be all better now.
R E V I E W, loves.