Waiting for THE MAN

So, me and Pete are milling around outside of some dump movie theatre up in Rogers Park that was showing Rocky Horror, waiting to score some acid off this chick whose inside playing Magenta. It's like two in the morning and were doing our best not to look suspicious while we wander around and smoke and read the same movie posters over and over when the usher guy comes out to cast disparinging looks our way every couple minutes. We don't even know if she has the acid or not, but we've got nothing better to do and the heat in our loft got turned off, so we might as well just hang out on the streets and hope for the best.
There's this fat, scummy dude who appears to be doing the same thing nearby. Me and Pete joked that maybe he was trying to score acid, too. He's one of those weird punks who straddles the line between punk rocker and legitimate crazy street person and was also the size of an NFL offensive tackle. We kept our distance.
Eventually the fat guy came over to bum a smoke off us. He smelled terrible. Even outside.
Pete gave him a Camel and the dude lit it, exhaled, and then just kinda lingered there. Shit. He's our buddy now. He asked us what we were doing there and we told him we had to give someone a ride home. He said he was waiting to score some coke off someone inside. Pete and I looked at each other.
"Hey, you guys look like rock and rollers, y'all wanna join a band?" he slurred, leaning in too close.
We had just started Lunkhead the summer before, but even if we were indeed bandless; I wouldn't share a cab with this winner, let alone a stage. We told him vaguely that, yes, we had a band.
"That's too bad, I'm starting a new punk band and need a guitarist and drummer. It's more of a backing band, though."
"A punk BACKING BAND? What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Well, we really just need some guys to back up our singer. We got an AMAZING singer..." he said.
I was too scared NOT to ask.
"Who's the singer?" I asked.
Fat Guy took a long, conspiratorial drag on his smoke, "Y'all ever heard of GG Allin?" he leered.
Fuck. I shoulda known. Fat Guy was a scumfuck, one of those insane GG Allin superfans who actually like to get GG's blood and shit on themselves, or get maced by him, or whatever. I always viewed GG as a circus freak, not an actual musician. Sure, he had a couple good tunes ("Don't talk to me" springs to mind), but, seriously, the guy's a douche and his music and fandom both totally suck. Not to mention I didn't believe a word of this guys schpiel. He swore he was in GG's new band, apparently offended that we didn't believe him, and we ignored him while we studied the exiting crowd behind him, looking for our connection. We saw her, and scooted outa there.
Turns out she didn't have any acid and we somehow ended up at an apartment inhabitated by two witches, a dude in all black and a chick in all white. We were there till the sun came up.
A few months went by and one day we were all hanging out in Pete's room when a friend of ours showed up with a haggard-looking videotape.
"It's GG Allin! Like 5 shows!" he practically squealed.
We put it in and laughed derisively at the clown and his antics. A couple shows went by (the shows were short, a couple songs that degenerated into a clusterfuck of stupidity and self-mutilation. Suddenly, one of the stages looked firmiliar...
"Isn't that Medusa's?" Pete asked.
We ejected the tape and on the tattered labels were all the show locales, and sure enough, this WAS Medusa's (the legendary all-ages punk club/goth dance hall (where I once saw Sludgeworth play one of the greatest sets I've ever seen to, like, 7 people)). The Medusas show was surprisingly sedate, for GG. In fact, he seemed to be spending most of his time making fun of the bass player, just berating him.
Oh. Fuck.
Upon further review, the fat bass player was, undeniably, unbelievably; the Fat Guy! No shit! We rolled over laughing while on the screen GG punched, kicked, and otherwise assaulted and slandered our once and future bandmate for the better part of half an hour. It was great.
They say opportunity only knocks once, but Pete and I were happy to not have answered. You never know, we coulda been somebodys, we coulda been contenders, or we coulda been Toilet Rockers...