Never Been to a Marilyn Manson concert? [Reader P.o.V]

Drinks go 'round. Drugs go 'round. People are on the floor before the first roar of sound has engulfed the room.

The lights dim. Yet the crowd only grows to thicken some, watching the opening gig.

Get to the good stuff- PLEASE!

*

Then it happens. As the stage deserted itself for the main event, a curtain closing off your view, the very thing you've been waiting for has happened.

A lowly, manly, darkly stated, "HELLO."

BOOM! Curtain drops.

Ramierez, Wayne Gacy, Zum, and, can you believe it, MANSON! and all of America's sweethearts on the apron. Manson is center, the microphone stand weilded high overhead in his outstretched arm, willing us to honor the gods of rock with our screams.

"Damn." Your friend leans over in your ear, "That has got to be the tallest human alive!!"

Screams. You seem to be the loudest.

Manson talks not, but begins to drag his prey of fans down his spiderweb of darkness with colored claws, willing you to slip into the most beautiful, musical, nightmare.

His decision to open the show with an oldie was unsuspected, but it pleased the crowd. This one was a band favorite, to which they all lost their shit at the good parts. (( http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&v=fsBh7UlBLL4&NR=1 ))

Rendered helpless to it, you're too busy being lost in euphoria to realize there are people of questionable sex groping you and pushing you around. It's like water, you just go with it, and push right back.

Fight pit.

*

Manson's dress is extensive. In the beginning, he flashed the audience full body in only a little black wire-framed corset and gloves.

Then he was the pope in red.

Then he pimped himself out with white furs.

Never once did he lose the black platforms. Never once did you notice him change- it was almost magic.

The change gives you a notice- how entrapped in CLOTHING everyone was. It was a worse nightmare than any. Your mind commanded you to do it. And you did. Ripping off your shirt, it twirls thrice overhead and then flies like a black bird onto the stage.

Bras from every direction follow. It was getting to be really messy.

"Why. . . Thank you" Manson murmurs, stepping to the side. Everyone laughs, knowing his humor.

To your heart's delight, he bends over and picks up your shirt, dabbing his face with it before tossing it farther upstage.

"Fuck yeah, my shirt's a star!" You must be very proud.

*

An hour and many, many favorite songs later, Manson is ready to retire. The last of the confetti canon's firey shits snow onto you like stars, and you think to yourself, that the night would never actually end.

It was a night that would always live on.

The best part about it is that you got to see a legend in action.

*

"Our parents will get so pissed off if we go home and you don't have a shirt." Your best friend says, they keys are tucked deep in the pockets of their coat, meaning that going home was now a near possibility.

"Worth it."

"No. Come one, we're buying a shirt."

At the counter, there is no line, mostly everyone has left. The clerk takes down a shirt with Manson's ghostly face and shiny blue eye on the front, placing it on the counter.

"$49.oo please. Cash only."

Shit. You spent all your cash buying the tickets! "Do me a solid and get this for me? I'll pay you back." You say, suddenly terrified.

"Sorry dude, I'm saving for gas money to get us back"

You were out of options, the other guys are broke as bones too.

Suddenly, a miracle! Another fan who seemed to wear a Manson attire had come to buy a shirt too. He had the right makeup and height to look just like him, too. Except, this guy had a long trenchcoat and hat, and the face beneath those large sunglasses couldn't quite be seen.

"Excuse me sir. Can you help us? I lost my shirt and I need to come home wearing something or else I'm in big trouble. Can you spare fifty bucks? We can pay you back with a check or something." Yes. Beg. The one downside to an otherwise perfect night. You are serious though.

The man said nothing, but grinned slightly. He reached into his coat pocket and produced something.

At first glance, it could've been a large wallet. Yet astonishingly, it turned out to be a black shirt. Your old black shirt.

You take it in your hands as if it were a fallen star, eyes searching it over with wonder. But how?

"Mister. . ." you say, looking up. By then, he had vanished.

Your friends had lost sight of the mysterious man, too. 

On the ride home, no one could explain your good fortune, the good times, the luck of good seats, the euphoria of a good concert. All that could be said were the familiar lyrics as you sand all the way home:

"Sweet dreams are made of these. . . "

After this night, every night would be a dream.