Hey Tony, play me some fucking mountain music

E & M buzzed up to my room at 2.30 Saturday morning. "We got someone with us," they answered to my drunk "HELLO?!" "Get down here & let us know if he's cool or not, so we can get him a cab or something." I went down the 12 floors to the lobby, where E & M were holding up a stumbling, bleeding, pissed drunk kid who, after a blurry moment, I recognized as Tony Two-Fist.

"We found him on the ground in front of the Albert," E told me.

"His buddy's ditched him," M said, "N someone beat him up good."

"If he's too fucked," said E, "We'll call the poor bastard a cab."

"Are you too fucked up, Tony?" I asked the kid, sticking my own wasted face into his.

Tony's head swung, slow, up to face me. "Who are you?" he asked me. He was missing a tooth (from before) & his face was bleeding (from the nite).

"Load him into the elevator," I told them. "If he gets rowdy, we'll throw him out."

We brought Tony up to my place, where a half dozen of us had already powered thru a couple flats of Lucky, & were getting into the third. When E & M had buzzed me down, we'd been on a frantic cell phone search for drugs. Someone got into a bottle of left over malaria pills, & the box of Sudafed was going around, at this point. Tony got put in a spot on the corner of a couch, & somebody cleaned up his wound for him, before he could get blood on the sofa & the white floor. He sat there, mumbling, mostly, & passing out, for rest of the night.

I remembered the kid from a number of punk rock basement shows I'd thrown at my old house, a nearly condemned pigeon coop of a place that barely stands on its hundred year old crumbling foundation. I doubt it will last the winter out, thank God I don't live there anymore. Dan does, though. For now.

Dan wasn't here, but Tony was. His poor face was a mess, again. Every time I seemed to see the poor bastard, it got worse. He got it regurlarly from fists, guitars, microphones & stands,...

Hey Tony, play me some fucking mountain music

E & M buzzed up to my room at 2.30 Saturday morning. "We got someone with us," they answered to my drunk "HELLO?!" "Get down here & let us know if he's cool or not, so we can get him a cab or something." I went down the 12 floors to the lobby, where E & M were holding up a stumbling, bleeding, pissed drunk kid who, after a blurry moment, I recognized as Tony Two-Fist.

"We found him on the ground in front of the Albert," E told me.

"His buddy's ditched him," M said, "N someone beat him up good."

"If he's too fucked," said E, "We'll call the poor bastard a cab."

"Are you too fucked up, Tony?" I asked the kid, sticking my own wasted face into his.

Tony's head swung, slow, up to face me. "Who are you?" he asked me. He was missing a tooth (from before) & his face was bleeding (from the nite).

"Load him into the elevator," I told them. "If he gets rowdy, we'll throw him out."

We brought Tony up to my place, where a half dozen of us had already powered thru a couple flats of Lucky, & were getting into the third. When E & M had buzzed me down, we'd been on a frantic cell phone search for drugs. Someone got into a bottle of left over malaria pills, & the box of Sudafed was going around, at this point. Tony got put in a spot on the corner of a couch, & somebody cleaned up his wound for him, before he could get blood on the sofa & the white floor. He sat there, mumbling, mostly, & passing out, for rest of the night.

I remembered the kid from a number of punk rock basement shows I'd thrown at my old house, a nearly condemned pigeon coop of a place that barely stands on its hundred year old crumbling foundation. I doubt it will last the winter out, thank God I don't live there anymore. Dan does, though. For now.

Dan wasn't here, but Tony was. His poor face was a mess, again. Every time I seemed to see the poor bastard, it got worse. He got it regurlarly from fists, guitars, microphones & stands, empties, boot heels, you name it. Since I'd first seen the kid, & the crew of young fuckers who were just getting out to these shows, at one of our basement gigs that got out of hand, & since then I've seen the fuckers every time I mistakenly venture out to some show that might, possibly, allow minors to get wasted- or at least, made it easy for them- looking for something I can never remember & never, as of yet, seem to stumble across, these days.

Tony Two-Fist, here, he's become that kid every single time. That one you've seen at every fucking show, who all look, in glaringly obvious bad light, no matter where you go or how far you think, maybe you were away from it, the same. That fucking kid, stumbling around, drunk & stinking, who runs into you & spills your drink, drooling, half blind. Grunting, Arg! Belching, Punk rock! Gurgling, thru burst, bloody lips, Kill!

He was out for most of the night, & the rest of us finally found our drug connection, & spent the night snorting pretty decent cocaine on top of stomachs full of cheap beer & random prescription malaria pills. When that ran out, at about 7 in the morning, a few tabs of pure MDMA were pulled out, from somewhere, & crushed, & things kept going till almost noon, when, everyone else long gone, I kicked E & Tony out, telling Tony he couldn't sleep there no more.

He grumbled some thanks, & they left. I remembered, then, earlier, before the full haze of madness & blasting country music, him telling me, You aint punk rock.

Yr goddamn right I aint, I told him, laughing. Play me some fucking mountain music!