>: : : : L I T E R A R Y O U T L A W S : : : :

'Listen man,' he said. 'I just don't see any point.'

Drummer Pete Halligan was seriously pissed off. He'd set up for the gig but he had planned to nip off and have a quick couple of beers with some friends he'd invited to the show that night. He hated interviews. And he was being told to do one.

FINNEGAN SUCKING SOME CORPORATE COCK 'Hey,' he said. 'Listen, we don't need to devalue ourselves by giving every half-ass writer in this fucking shithole of a town a fucking suck and greet.'

Pete thought he was smart by using the 'devalue' line. He'd read about it in a book and had been secretly wanting to try it out. Music was a diversion in his life. He wanted to go into business when he was ready to quit music. He'd started things rolling by reading books about business communication. But his weakness was to get a bit over-confident and declare an early victory when negotiating.

He just stared at Tim, his tour manager, with a gloat. Naa-naa-nan-nah-nah!

Tim had been dealing with the likes of Pete for years and knew how to deal with tossers.

'Bullfuck,' he declared, looking into Pete's eyes. 'You're a fucking dickhead. What does deeee-value mean? If I listen to you, cancelling the interview means less publicity. And that means less people read or hear about the gig. That means smaller shows and shittier rooms. That means less t-shirt sales and fucked-up-the-arse instore appearances where only a dozen kids show up and none of them buy a CD.'

Pete stood there stunned. He was blown out of the water. Tim was a master at negotiation. Even he had to acknowledge it. But he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

'OK, man,' he yelled with fake style and bravado. 'I'll go and interview the small town cunt and tell him he's a shitty little fucking cocksucker. I hate questions from stupid cunts and I bet this prick is full of them.'

Tim didn't care about the abuse. It was just more confirmation that he'd won.

At that moment Pete walked towards the door and opened it. Standing in the corridor was a skinny, wasted, long-haired freak with a hand-held cassette recorder. This would be fun.

Dan was one of those turds who never paid to go to a show. He was a music reviewer. Dan had been sent to interview Pete for 'head shredders' zine. Dan was a music-tosser without a girlfriend. He also had small missing bits from his fringe where he'd set it on fire while having bongs.

Pete was a total fucking animal looking for a kill. He knew the kid was nervous and he wanted to really spin him out. He laughed at Dan as he said hello.

'Would you like me to call you a cunt on tape Dan?' he japed. 'Or how about a stupid cunt?'

Dan just stood there stunned. Maybe Pete was on bad drugs.

Tim excused himself from the room with a bureaucratic smile and Dan walked in nervously. The so-called rock star dressing room was nothing more than a small, ornate change room. Dan sat down and said 'headshredder sent me' in a dazed attempt at explaining who he was.

'That's a fucked name for a magazine, man,' Pete said. 'Shouldn't it be called 'Read By Cunts? No, too long. How does 'shit' sound? One world. One word. One reality. Simple. I like it.'

Dan was speechless. He just stared at Pete and felt worried. What the fuck had this guy taken?

'No, Danny. Mate, I'm only joking,' Pete explained as he realised he was freaking the kid out. 'Hey, thisâll be an interesting beginning to your article though. So many articles start out with some weener recounting a mildly poetic experience he or she had and using it as a springboard into a series of equally dull observations and generalisations about the band. I'm fucking sick of it.'

'OK Pete,' Dan said. 'So can I fire some questions at you?'

'Sure thing, ass-breath,' Pete sang. He felt confident that Dan would appreciate his little joke.

But what Pete didn't know was that this was Dan's fourth interview of the day. And he was fucking bored. And stoned. He was also getting angry. He'd started music journalism with decent intentions. He'd started out in fine form, getting hate mail and some recording industry angst from staging a traditional slagging of everything he possibly could in singles reviews. He was taking the piss out of himself as much as anyone else in the process, but no one seemed to recognize it. In fact, it was his central tenet to writing about music. Don't take Dan seriously. Listen to the fucking record yourself.

But, of late, the music writing wasn't paying so well. This, combined with a general feeling of bleakness, forced him to change his attitudes to writing. It started to become a clinical process. He stopped doing things like mulling up over the phrasing of a sentence because he just wanted to get the job over and done with. The excitement was pretty much out of what he was doing. Unfortunately, he recognized famous people are just as fucking normal as you or I. Sure, the lifestyle can be amazing, but we all shit on the porcelin. Rich people still died or got divorced. Or released crap records.

It was time to give a little bit of shit back to the star.

'OK Pete,' Dan said urgently. 'So shall I refer to you from hereonin as 'third-rate drummer guy'?'

That stung Pete. He was insecure about his drumming. He didn't need to be. He was no Krupa, but he kept an adequate beat. The problem was that he really wanted to be Krupa but lacked the talent. His drum solos were often the low-point of the gig because they lacked imagination and dragged on.

Dan was a mellow guy, but heâd been spurred into being pissed-off by Pete's bullshit. He didn't really mean the drummer question. But here he was, being insulted by a little known musician, who once shagged an over-the-hill porno actress with a massive cunt as a publicity stunt for a solo single.

Interview number four for the day. Well, at least it was different from the other three, Dan thought to himself. Band one turned up half an hour late and forgot their photos for the magazine. They were staging a CD launch but had not got their CD back from the presses yet. That was a crew going places fast.

Interview number two was with a new hot shot pair of tits the record company was trying to launch. She gave the usual spiel about how this was the record she'd always wanted to make and how she'd heard that Moby's manager had a pre-release of her single. Maybe she'd get some remixes done by Moby himself. Wow!

Yup, that was a blast of a listen.

Interview number three was interesting mainly because the guy listening to the questions appeared to nod off while Dan was asking them. He said he was narcoleptic but Dan claimed narcotic in his story. That part of the tale was doomed to the cutting-room floor as the record company would scream blue murder and threaten to withdraw their advertising from the employer if an article made slanderous allegations. Dan wasn't going to stir the shit, no matter how much he cared about integrity. He was in need of the money.

But tonight would be different. He decided to be something that 99.99% of music journalists aren't. Brave. It was his only way out of the malaise he found himself in. 'Fuck it', he thought. 'I've always wanted to do this.'

'Pete, I'm just going to get my list of tired, pre-planned braindead questions out for you so that I have an excuse to look busy and interested while you puke up the same old shit for our readers. How'd you like that? Cunt.'

The comeback unnerved Pete. Dan was giving it back with a smile. Plus he had a confident look on his face. Pete didn't know it, but Dan had just decided to conduct his last interview. He was going to finish his career in music journalism on a strong note.

'So why is the latest record out six months late and a shitty experience to sit through?'

'Is it true that you once sucked Tommy Leeâs cock for a $50 bet while banged up on coke?'

Pete just looked at Dan in recoil.

'No answer? OK, maybe you call tell me why you decided to launch out on a failed solo career by releasing the first ever song you wrote - to people who couldn't care any fucking less?'

Pete exploded.

'Are you fucking serious?,' he stammered. Pete was insecure to the max about his solo record. He had forgotten about his 'game' with Dan and was getting stirred up. 'What was wrong with my solo album?'

Dan had Pete taking the bait good and proper.

'Well, you're not a singer are you?'

'I'm a drummer, mate,' Pete claimed. Then he began to shoot off at the mouth, amusing Dan to no end. Pete had to speak. He was the only one in the room who actually took himself seriously. 'Singing is a passion for me. I know that. You know that. But I really wanted to let off some steam. It was a love song but erotic, you know? I sold over 100,000 copies around the world. Can you beat that? That's more than the average music journalist. Most of them are nothing more than frustrated or mildly talented musicians who go nowhere until they decide to live off the glory of musicians by asking them questions. Know what I mean? Most of you guys are nothing but assholes who failed at their craft who have the fucking cheek to start judging the same craft they failed at.'

Good fucking shot. Dan was wounded. Pete had called it out. Dan was a shithouse bassist, had ordinary songwriting skills but possessed a great falsetto. Unfortunately he hated his faggy voice and concentrated on bass instead. Bad move. He never really seemed to get the idea of it. His band 'Abuse' garnered a heap of it when they played big shows. The group mostly stuck to small rooms or changed their name on a regular basis to get gigs. Anywhere.

Dan wasn't going to let this comeback get him though. He was warming to the verbal joust. It would be his last interview, but his favourite.

'Pete, what was with the porno clip to the single 'Doggystyle Bitch' all about? Mate, don't do porn. You've got a small cock. Your old boy disppeared up the slut you were fucking. We were going to send in a search team to help you out.'

'Fuck you, man. I'll do what I want,' Pete said angrily. 'That video was a real release for me. Know what I mean?'

He looked at Dan with a gloating expression. 'Ever fucked a bitch with a fine body, big tits and a mouth that sucks cock all night.'

'I haven't fucked your mother,' Dan replied. 'Ah, yes, that's right. I have.'

Dan grabbed his nuts and looked at Pete.

'Listen cunt,' yelled Pete in reply. He'd forgotten about the Dan's tape recorder capturing the action. 'Where's your list of faggot boy questions for me to answer? Don't you have any questions to ask me? Like have 'you got any new songs?''

'I had 'em on a sheet of paper Pete. But after I fucked your mother, I wiped her cunthole clean with the list. I'm sure you can read the print marks on her flaps later though.'

Bad luck for Dan. It was a great line, but Pete had had enough. With a fluid two-stepped movment, he caught Dan under the chin with a powerful uppercut. The hapless music writer tipped over in his chair and dropped to the floor like a sack of shit. He moaned and held his head.

The gig was over.

'Looks like I've fucked another soft cunt, then,' Pete boasted as he looked at Dan. He couldn't play drums particularly well, his songs were shit and he was a bit of a tosser. But he knew how to fight. It was his thing. His way of using logic.

Pete looked at his watch. If he left now, he'd still get back to the hotel for a few drinks with his mates.

'Enjoy the show dickhead', he said with a laugh as he left the dressing room. He shut the door and raced up the corridor to leave out of the back entrance.

Dan held his sore head and moaned softly. At least he had his final story. It would be his swansong.