Some fly by the seat of their amps jagoff Beatles cover band had just finished their faux rooftop set in a cursory attempted homicide of Norwegian Wood (it was no good), and were rolling their bussed in geriatric fanclub down the switchbacks of wheelchair ramps along with their stage.
No sooner had they jumpstarted a few hearts, incidentally, off a wall of mutilated sound, were they relocated to barstools in a dark and gutless lounge walking distance away, faux infighting, pitting their Lennon against their McCartney, in decidedly Canadian English to the tune of a couple rounds of Seagrams Sevens lowballs.
Up up and away on the roof where they left it, a blood soaked groupie lay down with ear to the cement for some train come listen frozen still posture, carelessly angled out across the parking space spraypainted parallel white lines.
He was young enough not to discern quality from the wall of mutilated sound washed away. He was old enough apparently to get himself thrill killed. Caught in the cymbals. The cross fissured fractures outlining his skull.
His pulse quickly tapered, his eyes they went dull. Blood pooled all about him. So long, Jethro Tull.