Post-Punk T-Mec

Madeline’s coffeehouse was wrecked. Just like the community center had been, only this was much worse because we knew Steve, Mike, Joe, okay whatever his name was, well we used to know him. But he knew us and, he had no idea what we are going to do. We were bored. We were pissed. And we took it out on Madeline’s. The guitar feedback rippled the windows, and the drums vibrated the hubcap display in the automotive shop next-door. Word spread by mouth and with 12 homemade flyers letters taped like a ransom note, “Come or else.” Jacked on Monster energy drinks and the adrenaline of being out past curfew, we gave it our all, and took everything Madeline’s had. Banisters broken into batons, chairs splintered, and tables were crowd surfed right out of the building. The cowards in the parking lot hovered by their cars. 100 stood in a place for 45 pulsating and pumping as the bassist fingered the fret. Even our clothes rejected the compressed heat sloughing off our bodies. 27 minutes later, the cops showed up, we fled, leaving the tragedy of Madeline’s one punk stand behind us.

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