Outsider by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

another dancer, not as
wild, but pogoer. Baby Dyke would stand at the other end of the
dance floor. Tonight, it was a diminutive rectangle of floor.
    She wondered if the gorgeous woman with the
so long black and white mohican, always wearing sexy, black clothes
and dancing on high heels, would be there tonight. The innocent
groupie had a rising tendency to panic when the stranger was
around. This stranger had a habit of disappearing with a woman in
tow at every gig. Baby Dyke hoped in hell she’d never be one of
those.
    As a matter of fact, when Baby Dyke turned
around…
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    Tonight, she was wearing a strapless little
black number, matching the high-heeled boots climbing up to her
knees. Her dark eyes, as gypsy as ever, were enhanced with black
mascara. Hunger was almost a rumbling noise in her throat. She
exchanged a few words with the dark-pony-tailed woman working for
Second Look, looking around at the same time, checking the growing
crowd, searching for the prey she had been dreaming of for 22 days.
Tonight she would taste Sid’s blood; she would feed and feast on
the coppery sweetness hinted by the smell. Yes, Sid was right
there, with her tall friend, in the deep thralls of a conversation
with the red-haired rock singer. Deep thralls. The immortal
creature felt like impersonating a hissing snake. She could hear
the writer’s heart beating faster than normal. But Sid would be
hers tonight. By any means necessary.
    The gypsy-eyed woman’s graceful walk took her
to the bar where the whole staff sported T-shirts claiming their
allegiance to the rock band of the night. Waiting to order a drink,
her selective ear was spying on the writer’s conversation.
    Terri: “I read your story. I liked it!
Actually you write very well. You should get published!”
    Sid: “Good. You don’t mind me killing you
then?”
    Terri: “It’s ok, I get killed all the
time!”
    Sid: “I’ve got another story for you.”
Digging an A5 envelope out of her bag. “But actually I don’t kill
you in that one.”
    The barmaid asked the gothic spy for her
order, while Terri walked to her microphone to get a quick sound
check. Sid and Judy started to play paparazzi and shoot performers
and punters alike. Dawn smiled for the cameras.
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    Sid had already sipped some of her third
schnapps by the time Second Look made their slow start of the
night. A song about the eternal subject of your other half being
out late and not ringing you to let you know. Probably drinking. Oh
yes, Sid knew the story alright. Hers had a threatening phone call
added for good measures. She could laugh now, years later, thanks
to this song. About every song performed by the band could make her
laugh her head off, occasionally to the point of hysteria. Maybe
she should cut down on antidepressants.
    The camera still in her hand, Sid started to
dance, singing along. She had done her homework, practicing with
the now in-built music tape in her walkman.
    By the end of the third song, Sid had kicked
out of her black biker boots and red, spidery socks. Barefoot she
was even more at home in music. Even more obsessed, more possessed,
more belonging to music than ever. And now, she was also obsessed
with Second Look. Without obsessions her life would have been a
total void. At least she could play with her obsessions, and
currently Terri and Dawn were a great inspiration for her feverish
writer’s brain. She knew she needed to have a word with her
irresponsible psychiatrist and change antidepressants. She also
knew it was time to face the truth: she couldn’t hate Second Look.
She knew the truth deep down herself, she knew she’d have to face
it, sooner would be better than later. This band, in her book of
standards, was not good: they were disgustingly brilliant. They
were the band she had craved for back in her solitary teen years,
their absence had been the motivation to pick up a guitar and sing.
She loved them, but claimed to hate