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My love is vengeance

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July1964,No.90 Wardourstreet,Soho,London.            

(Spike's POV)

The Marquee makes honour to its fame. It was hard to find it at first because they changed their address only a few months ago. 'Not bad', you say to yourself looking around. You don't know if it is due to its relatively recent opening, but in the Marquee tonight is so crowded that there is barely space to breathe.
Nursing your beer you fight your way through the crowd until you reach the front row.

The first to go on-stage, between the shouting and dense gray plumes of the cigarette smoke, is a young guitarist. He's tall, ungainly, with a prominent nose, and dark long hair that hangs down covering his face. Stupidly 'his' memory bites you like an angry snake, hissing in your blood, but you numb the pain drinking again. Not tonight, you think angrily.

The band begins to play and only two minutes later you are screaming enraptured by the music. God, they are great, brutal, chaotic. The music embraces you, transporting you beyond your senses until they collapse. It makes you howl, and your voice is lost among the shouts of the crowd. You are all like wild wolves instinctively responding to the Night's call.

The vocalist faces you arrogantly with his harsh voice, nearly spitting some of the words, taunting you. In the background, the drummer strikes the skins like a demon possessed playing with the ghost of your heartbeat. However, the best of all them is without a doubt is the guitarist as he struts up and down the stage, jumping, a prisoner of a delicious frenzy. Chords created by his fingers fly by you, over you, inside you like dense drops of poison. Suddenly, in one of his rounds he stands in front of you; with his forehead sweating, eyes dazed, running his right arm against the strings in a maniac whirlwind.

You lose the notion of time and space. You're barely aware of what you are doing; you think you can hear yourself screaming, dancing in unison with those around you, prisoners as you are, of the madness that emanates from the scenario, like blood from a wound.

Your throat roars hoarsely when the drums shatters, a drumstick flies at speed narrowly missing your head. It is incredible! Those fellas are gods! Their music is a masterpiece, it's an ode to disaster and chaos, a destructive catharsis that culminates when the guitar clatters against the ground.

The dark haired musician drops what little remains of his instrument on the floor once the music stops, and looks around as if he doesn't know where he is. For a second your eyes meet, and although you know that is impossible, during that fleeting moment, you swear that you can see in the bottom of his dilated pupils, the shadow of your lost soul.