Before the riots, there was the audition, which you could say was the touchpaper that lit this particular dirty bomb. And this is how the audition went down -

She walked in soaking wet from the rain, her Mohawk semi-limp from the weight of the downpour and her kohl running like bloodstains down her cheeks, dragging a chipped and stickered guitar by its neck. Dragging a murder victim, dragging her self-esteem.

She froze when she saw three faces staring back at her. “I’m here for the audition?”

A question, like she thought she’d gotten the wrong place.

“No shit,” one of them said. Tall, thin, a mostly-shaven head with a slim strip of green running up the middle like so many others. “We were just about to split, had nothing but fucking timewasters so far. You’re not a timewaster are you?”

One of the others, shorter and with tattoos taking the place of a t-shirt, smirked, swaying slightly against a mike stand. His hair was teased into a ball of spikes, a padlock draped around his neck, a withered cigarette stuck between his lips. Hiding behind the drum kit was another man, this one more heavily built than his fellow band members, thick arms folded over a snare. Almost invisible in the darkness of the corner of the room were two woman slumped on the floor, arms around one another, watching her blankly. One blonde, one dark haired.

“Only one way you’re going to find that out isn’t there?”

The man shrugged. “Plug up.”

What is this, an audition or a fucking interrogation ...?

So she did and the rest of the band did too and Travis kicked out a wicked beat on his kit just as he had with the ones who had come before the girl, fast and trippy to try and catch her out. But she kept up and started screaming vocals into the mike as if she were trying to murder it sonically, stumbling around once they had gotten going and thrashing the guitar into a static mess. Finally Fincher dropped his own guitar and signalled for the jam session to stop.

The woman was choking for breath, raindrops now replaced by sweat, mohican slumped to one side. She continued to grip the microphone, guitar slung low by her hips.

“Okay,” Fincher said, reluctance tattooed on his face. “Two things. First, you drop that guitar. I play lead, we don’t need any accompaniment. This isn’t a fucking orchestra.”

The woman stared back at him for a moment. “Okay.”

“Second, our last vocalist has just been sentenced to fifteen for a supposed armed robbery and we’re not interested in finding another replacement in a month’s time. You got a record?”
“….”

Fincher waited, turned to the others. Travis remained peacefully perched on his drumming stool, sticks in hand. Sid stared was grinning vaguely at the opposite wall.

“Well?”

“What is this, an audition or a fucking interrogation?” the woman snapped, yanking the cable from her guitar. “You Policie moles or something? Fuck this…”

She stormed past them, grabbed her bag and slung it around her shoulders.

We dont' need any accompaniment, this isn't a fucking orchestra ...

“Hey,” Fincher said. “Hey!”

The woman stopped, turned. “What?”

Fincher held up one hand. “Public nuisance, three counts. Two counts assault. Eight for destruction of private property but only one for trespassing. Theft of a vehicle. Resisting arrest.”

He turned to Sid. “Sid?”

“Ummm … disturbing the peace, arson. Grievous Bodily Harm. Three counts theft. Ummm .. something else. Assaulting a police officer, couple of times. Resisting arrest. Yeah.”

“Travis?”

“Disturbing the peace, assault, making threatening phone calls. Vandalism of public property. Destruction of public property. Destruction of private property. Arson. Resisting arrest.”

Fincher turned back to the woman, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

She hesitated for a moment but then thought better of it. If this was a sting, she was close enough to the door to make a quick exit. “Possession of a deadly weapon. Common assault. Aggravated assault. Theft. Handling stolen goods. Arson. Criminal damage. Violent disorder. Breaking bail.” A pause. “Resisting arrest.”

Sid snorted a laugh, eyes rolling around in their sockets.

“You sure you’ll have time to fit in gigs in between all of that?” Fincher asked.

“I think so.”

“I’m Fincher. This is Travis, Sid. The girls are with me – Ana and Mina.”

“Katja,” the woman said.

“Well Katja … welcome to The Stumps.”

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