You were at another show, in another bar that stunk like something between death and vomit. You didn't mind, not when it was for Scott and his band. You stood in the crowd, screaming along to the lyrics of some mediocre song. Wrath of the Gods was horrible and amazing in a way you couldn't explain.

The show went on for hours, or maybe minutes. You found your way backstage, searching for a particular greaseball. "Babe!" Scott shouted.