Any Readers Out There?

[paranoiawilldestroy]

Prologue 
‘… He sees your thoughts as sin,
Exposed and bare like skin,
I am in service to the muse.
Forever lost, unsought,
He comes when I have not,
My final service to the muse.’

The song’s climatic line sheered the air: rays of sunshine, unveiling a frozen morning. The raw melancholy distilled throughout the contestant’s performance lingered, shivering the audience as if they had just been released from a naked embrace.
The singer bobbed into a bow and the Glasgow Arena detonated. In her thirties, and petite, with arresting, green eyes, the vocalist beamed at the crowd’s delight. Their thunder intensified.
‘Amazing!’ Johnny Gale—one of the “Talent Attack” judges—declared into his microphone. Johnny’s cheeks were webbed with purple veins, testifying to his fondness for hard liquor. He had managed some of the most successful pop acts in Britain over the past two decades, however.
Pauline Austin—the second “Talent Attack” judge—daubed at the tears dribbling down her Botox cheekbones. Pauline had packed out stadiums herself in her youth and was no stranger to the admiration of the masses. 
‘Marvellous,’ she gushed.
‘Thank you,’ the contestant said, in a guttural, Glaswegian accent. ‘I’m Alison. I’d like tae thank my mum, my dad, my boyfriend… Anyone who’s ever shown me support. This is a dream come true!’ 
‘You truly are a “Talent Attack”!’ Damien Powell interjected, rising to his feet to join with the applause. 
“Talent Attack” was the record industry magnate’s brainchild, and Damien the final judge. Slim, and in his fifties, with a full head of black hair, the grin he targeted on Alison never touched his dark, glittering eyes; he weighed her as a wolf would a succulent pig.
‘I didnae come here tae compete, actually,’ Alison replied. ‘In fact, you can eat my arse!’ 
Stunned gasps exploded amongst the stands. The judges were poleaxed.
‘You can’t say that!’ Damien exclaimed. ‘You’re live on…’
‘Fuck you,’ Alison said. ‘You dobber.’ 
Damien’s expression was an axe descending. Pauline and Johnny looked away, each discovering something more interesting beneath their feet.
‘Parasites!’ Alison continued, showing each judge—in turn—the bird. ‘Yous distract fae the great artists of this era, those who would bring culture and support tae the disaffected! Yous ram money down the throats of any wae ability when you’ve less than I dae in one finger! I widnae piss on any of yous if yous were on fire, never mind contribute tae this cancerous institution!’
She strode down the stage’s steps and forged towards the exit; a hubbub swelled in her wake. 
‘I am sorry,’ Pauline said, addressing the audience. ‘We never suspected that anyone could show such disrespect. We’re appalled at her language…’
‘Fuck!’ Damien’s curse boomed; it had been picked up by an errant mic. 
‘We’re live,’ Johnny murmured, ‘the show must…’ 
The whine of a guitar cut him off, loud even from behind the amphitheatre’s doors. A tic pulsed above Damien’s left eye. 
‘A phone!’ he snapped. ‘We cannot work in these conditions! Get me the police, now!’ An assistant scurried a mobile over, which was snatched from her grip. ‘This is Damien Powell! I am trying to run a show here and this woman just…’ 
‘What do you mean, you’re aware of the situation?’ Damien’s mouth formed an “O” as he stared at the cameras, as though noticing them for the first time. ‘You must also be aware that we are a multimillion-pound enterprise?’ 
He listened, then hurled the phone down in a pique. He stormed towards the main entrance.
‘Follow him,’ Pauline said, gesturing to a camera operator. ‘This will make great telly.’
#
Damien screamed for security, who drove the herd of spectators spilling into the foyer from his path. 
Alison’s vocals soared over the chaos:
‘My senses, so distinct, unique,
In this blue, bourgeoisie boutique,
I’ll tyrannise senescent skies,
Accumulate each major prize.
Appropriate lavish jewels,
Avoid the directives of fools,
Discern abundance with my touch,
In glossy magazines and such.
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.
Alongside the righteous spectre,
I’ll imbibe ambrosial nectar, 
Will you soak in fortune's wellspring?
Will you vibrate Cupid's bowstring?
When they sink me into the ground,                
And celebrate around that mound,
I’ll sow dreams from another frontier,
Always relieving the palsy of fear.
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.’
The camera operator emerged into sunshine to train his lens on Alison, who strutted atop a makeshift platform with her band. A generator—hooked up to gigantic amps—churned the stench of petrol into the air. 
A rock ‘n’ roll maelstrom burst out the amps, sucking the curious audience ever closer to the stage. Muscular roadies had formed a line against the Arena’s own guards; the two groups were locking horns, shoving, swearing… Blows looked likely to soon be thrown. The song dissolved into a screeching cacophony. 
‘Hello Glasgow!’ Alison howled. 
The drummer immediately pounded a resounding rhythm, while the bassist throbbed a heartbeat. The guitarist pirouetted, shining instrument levelled at the heavens… And discharged an insurrection. 
‘Act your age!’ Damien shrieked, as a woman—ten years his senior—tried to get him to dance. A skinny fellow whipped his T-shirt off and launched it onto the stage. Youngsters thrashed with abandon, pinkies and index fingers outstretched. The gathering degenerated into a gleeful riot of bouncing bodies. 
A flash of blue flared into the camera lens; its operator spun to find the source. Further down the boulevard, two police vans had halted and were disgorging officers. Their sergeant assumed point, clutching a megaphone. 
‘This gathering is unlawful!’ he cried. 
The music faltered. The roadies slunk away as the cops tramped closer. Boos sounded out. Someone amongst the throng shouted, ‘Fuck the pigs!’ 
Discontent rippled: either at the police, or at the person shouting, or both… It was hard to say. The sergeant scowled and fingered his holster, loaded with pepper spray. Alison spotted this and raised her hands, palms held out. 
‘Please,’ she beseeched. ‘If yous want tae hear mair, our album is available on Spotify. We are “Due to the Muse”…’ 
‘How dare you plug your album on my show?’ Damien yelled, yanking people aside. ‘How dare you? Don’t you know who I am…’ 
A precisely thrown apple burst against the back of his head, showering him with sticky pulp. 
‘They have roused a rabble!’ he sputtered. ‘They should all be arrested!’ 
A hail of missiles whistled towards Damien. The police surged to slap handcuffs onto the band, who were hauled towards the meat wagons. Damien—dripping refuse—reached the cameraman and switched the live feed off.
#

 

Edited April 23 by paranoiawilldestroy
Less is more

[paranoiawilldestroy]

P.s I'm not at Alison’s level, but I did spend 10 years teaching myself how to sing. No lessons, began aged 31ish. Sounded shite then, sound like this now.

 

Details in the final novel.