“Name your number, Scott,” Cammie pleads to the bouncer at the door. “I’d sell my souls to be at this show, but I’m offering cash since it’s a more feasible form of bribery.”

“Lady, no ticket - no show. And I’m serious about calling the cops.”

“Fangs Drip Red” light up the entirety of 2nd Avenue as Cammie Johnson sulks past the line of waiting fans. Their first headlining tour and Cammie was going to miss it. She finds a bench at the back wall of the building and decides maybe she’ll at least be able to hear the show (and smell the weed that seems to be sponsoring it.)

She sits and cries and takes another swig of the Diet Coke she’s been doctoring. Jarod’s favorite bar is right around the corner once she runs out, but she figures she’ll wait until the rain lets up.

The shorter the line gets, though, and the smoother the drink starts to feel, Cammie figures she’ll make Scott one final offer. She’s not sure what that is yet, but she rejoins the line and chugs down the drink.

Scott rolls his eyes when she flashes up her calculator for him to scan. “See Scott, a perfectly legitimate ticket that no one would question you scanning through the door. Now please, if you’ll excuse m-“

“David, call the cops. I cannot deal with her again.”

“Scott, you monster! I did all of this for him! Can you not see I’m grieving?”

“The guitarist doesn’t give a shit about you, lady. Now please just go home. You’re embarrassing yourself and holding up my line.”

“No, not the guitarist, dipshit! My husband! I sold my ticket two months ago because he was supposed to have knee surgery today. A knee surgery that was going to keep him in the hospital for weeks. But you know what happened, Scott?” Cammie is practically screaming at this point and the entire line is embracing the opener before the opener.”

“Lady for the last time, PLEAS-“

“He died, Scott. Last week. Never got the knee surgery and thus opening up this lovely Friday night on the calendar. A Friday night we had been looking forward to for months until they found the tumor. Yep, fucking cancer. Stole my husband and now my fucking Friday night. Make it make sense, Scott”

She’s slurring at this point, but the crowd raves inside and she steps out of line. No need to ruin the rest of line’s night, too.

“Do you want my ticket?”

Cammie turns, and the blurry face of a man shines his phone at her, barcode of the ticket on screen.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Cammie sits down on the curb. “God no, those tickets are yours. Go to the show. Tell Micheal Peters I’d flash my tits at him if I could.”

The guy laughs. “No, seriously I hate this fucking band. We would rather someone who actually appreciates them have the ticket.”

Cammie looks around. It might be the alcohol talking, but the man seems to be alone. “We? Who’s we? Your not with anyone.”

He laughs again. “Well, I’m waiting on a friend of my wife’s, but she’s running late. Super cool lady, though! She could keep you company through the show.”

Cammie tries to stand up but stumbles on the gutter grate. “What the fuck, man? Were you gonna cheat on your wife with her best friend?” Cammie’s stuck on the curb at this point, but she’d kick him right in the nuts if she could. “And at a Fang’s concert, dude? Ice cold.”

He chuckles again, helping Cammie off the curb and walking her to the end of the line. “No, no. Not cheating. Her friend offered to come. She and my wife were huge fans of FDR. ‘Intense lyrics, tantalizing harmonies, rhythms so fucking intense, a brick wall would dance.’ They ate their shit up. She bought these tickets for a date night, knowing good well I would have absolutely no desire to go.”

“And yet you came? And brought her best friend?”

“Yea, was not the original plan. Lindsey died about two months ago in a car wreck. I had forgotten about the concert until last week, but my therapist thought it might be a good idea for me to come. Lindsey would much rather someone who loves their music get to go, though.”

Cammie gives the guy a hug as Michelle joins the line…… (out of words lol)