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Johnny Steel is on stage, a golden god of rock and roll, his hips shaking with the snake moves that make the girls breathe faster. Somewhere in the smoke and darkness behind him they can see the outline of Johnny's hulking drummer, laying down the beat as if all the crowd has one heart. Over to the side the bone-thin bassist is a statue of black stone, only his fingers moving as he weaves a web of wickedly deep chords that shake their spines. Johnny lifts his guitar and makes it shriek.
"Are you ready?" he half-sings, half-screams. As the girls roar like a tidal wave he blasts out the opening riffs of "Waitin' For the Reaper," the latest of his neometal masterpieces. Jumping, dancing, sliding, singing and playing: he can almost do it in his sleep now. He's got time to check out the front row, the ones the roadies let through, the beauties. They're an odd bunch this time; milky skin and hair like fire and dark, dark eyes. About a dozen of them, alike enough to be sisters. Weird but cool.
Johnny steps forward and teases them by leaning over, way over like he's got a rubber backbone. They lift their hands toward him and say something he can hardly hear over the screaming guitar. Dionysus! Dionysus! Whatever; he just knows they're hot and ready and he can hardly wait to get them backstage. He decides to give them a thrill. He falls to his knees and grins right into the face of the prettiest one, the one with the whitest skin and reddest hair and maddest eyes. Then the Maenads are upon him, and the last thing he feels is their nails and their teeth.
short, but very well done!
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