Fine drizzle is whipping down on us, dripping off the rusted lip of the old cantilever stand. We’re going mental. I feel the full heaving force, the surge of bodies behind me, the stale smell of drink, tobacco, body odor, wet denim, and boiled onions filling my flared nostrils. I soak up the animal roar that rolls around the dark empty roof space and echoes back off the cold concrete. I jump up and down, grabbing hold of the man in fronts’ coat, shouting in his face. He has a mustache. Looks a bit like Basil Fawlty. He grins back, not caring, he’s seen me around. My mate Rob has clambered up on a barrier and is hanging onto the cage, screaming obscenities at the pissed-off home fans across the dividing lines of fences and police. His eyes are rolling as he punches the air and gives the finger to their element, mocking them. His black leather jacket gleams with the wet.
Jon Tait
jonmarktait@aol.com
Arsenal of Spitwads
Misti Rainwater-Lites
Jon Tait
jonmarktait@aol.com
Arsenal of Spitwads
Misti Rainwater-Lites