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Angry lyrics scream over the sound system, accompanied by screams and growls into the microphone, and I find myself bobbing my head as I finally reach the spot I knew I’d find in a crowd for music this heavy.
The pit.
Letting out a heavy breath and stopping at the edge, I watch as several shirtless guys in the spaced-out center all bounce to the beat, their sharp eyes on each other instead of the stage.
There’s already bruises coloring their skin, busted lips, and brows. Hair a mess. Dirt sticking to sweaty skin.
But grins on most of their faces.
Adrenaline courses through the air, making it almost crackle as those around the pit hold the crowd safely back and prep to keep the participants not so safely in.
And it’s exactly what I fucking need.
I feel the beat rising, that repeated low hum echoing through my chest, slowly coming faster with the drop that’s going to blow this venue up.
Which means it’s time to get in or keep them contained.
So I whip my shirt back off of my torso, letting the material fly up in the air, and step into the opened space with the rest of them.
“You know the drill.”The vocalist points his horns in our direction as the pit paces, the energy rising with each passing note, despite the straightforward signs next to the stage warning againstwhat’s about to happen. “Let’s light this shit up!”
And with the slam of the bass, the pit erupts. The group of rowdy guys all run right for one another—myself included. Bodies fling and elbows fly as torsos bounce off of shoulders and skin slaps against skin.
An elbow lands on my cheek as the pit fills in even more and we’re quickly packed in so tight that any movement makes contact with sweat-slicked body parts.
Pushing hands and shoving chests direct the flow of the crowd and I’m quickly swallowed up in the mass as feet carry us in a giant rotation, even as more bodies pack in.
Circling, running, keeping up to not get trampled, I hear the singer call out to the pit in encouragement.
And my lungs finally loosen the tension as I let the flow carry me with a grin that almost feels right.
Almost.
“Open it the fuck up.”
I feel the rumble before I see it, and I grab onto anyone within reach. Bodies slam into me and force the entire circle several yards closer to the stage, and now I know that this one is going to hurt.
It’s been a while since I was inside a Wall of Death.
And still, I find myself laughing as another surge flings me forward, now only a few feet from the lead singer that motions for yet another one.
“You guys are insane!” He laughs right along and rolls his hand in the air for another surge to build as his band heats up the beat at his back. “Grab him.” I see his gesture in my direction and I’m thankful for the hands that propel me forward and push me over the metal barricade into the alley that separates the mob from the artists.
With a heaving chest, I jut my chin up at the man on stage who shakes his head of frizzy faded hair.
“That’s what I thought,” he says to me, holding the mic awayfrom his mouth. “It’s a real honor, man.”
I return the tatted fist bump he holds out as his mic holding hand comes back to his chin.
“Did y’all know you were moshing with a fucking legend?” He backs up on stage, pointing repeatedly in my direction.
And because why the fuck not, I lift my ass up until the stage hits the backs of my thighs and I look out over the crowd, the ones closest to me with wide eyes and flashing phones as I sit proper and wave like a prom queen on a float.
“Finland Montgomery!”
The crowd roars in response, claps and horns rising above the sea of heads.
“Man, would you mind?” The singer—hopeful and starry-eyed—is speaking to me again, his head nodding to the guitarist who eagerly lifts the strap of his piece up off of his shoulder. “It’s a serious honor that you’re out there, man. Even if you don’t know who we are.”
