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Improvisation	By : Rina76 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel Views: 1721 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Georg Listing, Tom Kaulitz, Bill Kaulitz or any members of Tokio Hotel. This story is a complete work of fiction and not true. I don't own this fandom am not making any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
The next morning during makeup, Georg wonders how Tom will treat him today, if the kid will remember what happened last night, when he was high. Georg wonders if Tom will remember what he asked Georg to do to him and if he will be embarrassed about it or regret what he said. He seemed really happy when Georg returned with the food and was still happy when Georg left. But maybe he didn’t wake up happy. Georg wouldn’t know as he went back to his own trailer to sleep and woke up alone, as usual.

However, when Georg greets his co-star on the set, Tom appears exactly the same, like every other day. Maybe the kid forgot it all and has no memory of what he said. When they have a few minutes spare to go have a smoke in their rock garden, Georg broaches the subject, hesitantly asking Tom what he recalls from the evening before.

“Everything,” the boy replies in a casual tone. That answer seems a bit too vague so Georg presses further, enquiring if Tom remembers specifically what he asked Georg to do. Tom shrugs affirmatively, blushing a little but only out of a lover’s shyness, not out of shame. He admits that it was good of Georg not to do it, adding that most other guys would have taken advantage of the situation. Georg reminds him that he’s not like most other guys, Tom nodding in agreement. Tom also says that it was pretty awesome of Georg to go fetch hotdogs for him and adds that he can’t wait for their dinner at the Mexican place tonight.

“Me too,” Georg says with a grin of anticipation. For two guys who are only supposed to be friends, they’re probably both a bit too keen about having a meal with each other but neither of them cares. They’re just glad they’ll be getting out of their trailers (and the studio lot) and doing something together like normal adults.

After Gustav releases them from the set late that afternoon, Georg readies himself for the date and heads to Tom’s trailer wearing a cream cotton sweater and sun-faded indigo denim jeans. Over that attire is a light brown tailored woollen blazer left unbuttoned, the earthy tones and fabrics relaxing and comfortable to wear. He’s glad to get out of the dark and dangerous black trench coat; Miles’s signature clothing. When he puts that vinyl coat on it makes him feel edgy, as if he has a volatile, dual personality which is perfect for his acting but not for real life where he aims to be as laid-back and easygoing as he can.

Ready when Georg knocks on the door, Tom has already showered and changed into baggy jeans and a printed shirt underneath a black and white puffy bomber jacket with elasticized cuffs. His long mane is pulled back into a baseball cap, keeping the blond-tipped strands out of his face. There are the usual sneakers on his feet and the silver key-chain around his thigh. The lip-ring is in place as are the two black circular earrings in his lobes. All up, he looks completely comfortable and Tom-like and Georg wouldn’t have him any other way. It’d be weird if Tom opened the door wearing a three-piece suit or something.

“What?” Tom says doubtfully at the close scrutiny given by Georg’s shrewd green eyes. He plucks at his jacket. “Not right? I’ll go change.”

Georg smiles teasingly. “Why do you care what I think of your clothes?”

Tom blinks, realising he’s acting like a teenage girl on her first date. He’s never cared a damn in the past what anybody thinks of what he wears. He normally doesn’t bother himself with trivial crap like that.

“I don’t,” Tom replies with a shrug, adopting his devil-may-care attitude once more. “I don’t give a shit what you think. I was just making small talk. Now, let’s go already. C’mon. I wanna eat.”

“Okay, boss,” Georg says agreeably, standing to the side and gesturing for Tom to exit. “Let’s hit the road.”

After Tom locks his trailer up, they stroll down to the parking lot to Georg’s truck. A security guard with a gun and a radio on his belt recognises the two actors, nods and says hello. The studio, the set and the lot are patrolled daily and nightly by security guards to stop fans and photographers getting in to disturb filming or take candid pictures of the stars. Nobody drives into the place without stopping at the boom gates to show identification. If they can’t show ID or prove who they are, they aren’t let in. That’s how the stars of the film can sleep alone in their trailers at night - knowing they have a gang of burly guards protecting them and watching their backs at all times. Tom and Georg, just like Hannah, are well known by security staff so they are free to come and go as they please.

Georg takes Tom to a Tex-Mex restaurant called Gringo’s, which is decorated inside with an eye-catching display of both Mexican and Western items mounted on the walls such as wagon wheels, saddles, whips, old pistols, brightly-coloured woven rugs, painted jugs, sombreros, ten gallon hats, cattle skulls with the horns still attached, and photographs of natives and cowboys. Near the entrance is a huge cactus – fake, with plastic needles for safety’s sake – and beside the door hangs an antique coat and hat rack made out of weathered black metal spikes hammered into vintage railway sleepers. Old-time oil lanterns line the ceilings, giving the interior a soft glow and ambience. There are rectangular padded booths along the east and west walls, and square tables located in the middle. There is a set of swinging saloon doors that lead into the kitchen and wait staff push through them laden with large, steaming plates of steaks, wedges and fajitas. Most of the tables are full of seated patrons, chatting and exchanging pleasantries while tucking into their meals, the delicious aroma of which can be smelled down the street - free advertising that works like a charm and draws in droves of peckish customers. Up one end of the restaurant is a bar and there is a mannequin dressed up like a Mexican man slumped on one of the stools, resting his head on weary arms, as if he is taking a siesta. The bar is populated by enthusiastic drinkers and between them and the diners the place is abuzz with voices and laughter.

“Popular place,” Tom decrees, looking around, impressed with the décor. “And look at all the cool shit!”

“I know. Isn’t it awesome?”

Georg knew Tom would like his choice of venue. A lot of other discerning folk like it too, it seems. With the amount of people already milling around, Georg’s glad he made a reservation. Along with the themed interior, it’s an inexpensive, unpretentious restaurant, bawdy and raucous, created simply for hearty eating and drinking, a place to have a good time with friends without blowing the budget or worrying about table manners. Eating with the hands is encouraged here. A waitress soon takes them to their booth and gives them cutlery and napkins, asking if they wish to order any drinks. Knowing he has to drive them home, Georg asks for a light beer and Tom, knowing he doesn’t have to pay for it, orders a blue margarita and receives a salt-rimmed glass filled with fruit-flavoured, crushed ice and tequila, a lime slice perched on the rim. Happily taking a slurp of his drink, Tom indicates to the table of the booth, which is decorated edge to edge with a striking mosaic of small turquoise and green tiles, held in place with white grout.

“They even have cool tables. And look at that!” In open admiration, Tom gazes over at the far wall of a large black and white poster of James Dean in a cowboy costume, thumbs hooked in his pockets, all sultry eyes and pouting lips, the very image of defiance and seduction. The teenager stares at it calculatingly.

“That’d look perfect on my bedroom door.”

“Well, you better buy one because there’s no way you can take that off the wall and get away with it,” Georg informs Tom, sure that’s what he’s thinking. “Not with so many people around.”

“Too bad,” Tom sighs wistfully, turning back to the menu set in front of him, picking it up and squinting at the small script. “Can you tell me what’s good here?”

“Of course I can,” Georg generously says, going through every item on the list and pointing out what ingredients are in each dish, telling the kid what his particular favourites are. As an entrée for the both of them to share, Georg orders The Three Amigos, which is a stack of corn chips with three separate dips - sour cream, guacamole and salsa. Most of the dishes on the menu have quirky names, contributing to the uniqueness of the restaurant’s theme. For his main meal, he picks a Road Runner; a grilled chicken breast smothered in smoky barbeque sauce, on a bed of refried beans and rice. Following much consideration, Tom finally chooses a Fire Breather – a bowl of Chili Con Carne - plus a plate of Peyote Prawns; king prawns that are coated with breadcrumbs, deep fried and served with a spicy dipping sauce, not hallucinogenic drugs as the title suggests. Tom is famished after the day’s hard work so he also asks for a side of Tarantula Legs which, thankfully, don’t contain any spider parts whatsoever, only crinkle-cut fries with melted cheese on top. When the food arrives, Tom is in heaven. He loves to eat and he loves to drink and when he can do both at once, he couldn’t be happier.

To stay under the blood alcohol limit for driving, Georg sticks to orange juice after his one beer while Tom tries another cocktail or three. In between stuffing his face with wild abandon and inhaling the mixed drinks as if they consist of nothing but air, Tom carries on a conversation with Georg, both of them needing to speak a little louder than usual to be heard over the racket of the other diners. Crowded and noisy, it is the perfect place for both of them to blend in and remain anonymous.

Or so they think.

“Um, excuse me.”

Georg hears the chirp about the same time as he feels his blazer sleeve get tugged. He turns to find two young girls, no older than nine or ten, standing beside him with feverishly bright eyes and pink cheeks.

“Are you that guy on Teen High?” the first girl questions.

“Why, yes he is,” Tom jubilantly enlightens them, a wide smile dimpling his cheeks. He waves a prawn at Georg. “That’s your bronzed teenage god right there, all grown up. But I’m afraid he’s a bit too old for you now.”

Shooting Tom a threatening glare, Georg puts his fork down, faces the girls and says sweetly, “I’m Georg. And who might you lovely ladies be?”

“I’m Destiny and this is my sister Hope,” the girl says, nodding to her sibling.

“We love you on that show!” Hope pipes up, showing a gap-toothed grin.

Tom kicks Georg gloatingly under the table but Georg ignores him.

“Well, thank you very much, darlin’,” he returns with a charming smile at Hope. He smiles at Destiny too. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Can...can you sign these for us, please?” Destiny nervously asks, shoving a pen and two red napkins in Georg’s face.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replies magnanimously, scribbling on the embossed scarlet paper, addressing his signature and a short note of gratitude to each of the girls. He takes both of their hands in turn and kisses the back of them in an old-fashioned gesture which makes the girls giggle hysterically.

“There you go, ladies,” Georg says with another dazzling flash of his teeth. “You have a good evening, all right?”

Clutching their precious napkins, the two sisters stammer out their thanks and run back to their own table, proudly showing their parents the results of their daring approach.

When he turns back to Tom, Georg finds him smirking.

“Are you that guy on Teen High?” Tom imitates mockingly.

“Don’t you say another word,” Georg warns him with a pointed finger. “They were very sweet.”

“I’m not arguing,” Tom agrees, casting a glance over to the girls, their eyes fixed on the green-eyed actor as if he is Moses with the Ten Commandments. “They’re still staring at you. In fact, I think a few more people have figured out who you are.”

Sneaking a look around the restaurant, Georg sees that this is indeed so and can’t help feeling self-conscious at the unwanted attention. Due to the popularity of his early television show, he’s always had kids and teenagers recognize him and since his most recent films came out, the older generation is starting to notice him too. Because of his selective, eclectic role choices and deliberate avoidance of romantic heart-throb characters, he’s trying to evade the harrowing experience of having screaming mobs of fan girls chasing him down the street and so far it seems to be working. He’s not a mega superstar who needs security everywhere he goes but he’s not a complete unknown either. He exists somewhere in the middle. He gets a lot of those where-have-I-seen-that-guy-before? kind of looks, as if people think he was in their high school class or something.

Most days when he’s out taking his dog for a walk or trawling the vintage wardrobe stores he gets stopped for an autograph or a picture, even when he’s at the grocers buying bananas and mangoes. He knows that if he didn’t want to be recognized, he shouldn’t have become an actor but acting is a part of his life, like breathing, and if he stopped doing it he’d probably suffocate. He got into the business to express and fulfil himself creatively, not to become a celebrity but that’s how it has panned out. Every movie he makes only puts him further into the public eye and with more recognition comes less privacy. Other than quitting his job or having plastic surgery to change his looks, there’s nothing he can do about it.

Seeing Georg squirming in his seat and pretending not to notice the eyes on him, Tom chortles, stirring his drink with a straw.

“Sucks to be famous don’t it, G?”

Scooping up a forkful of rice, Georg prophesizes, “Just you wait, Tom. Your turn will come soon.”

With Tom’s as yet untapped wealth of talent, Georg is sure his co-star will know all about the perils of fame one day in the near future so if he’s wise, the boy will enjoy his anonymity while he still can.

“If I make as much money as you then bring it on, dude,” Tom replies unconcernedly, tossing a corn chip into his mouth.

Despite the stares, Georg is grateful that nobody else approaches him at the booth while he and Tom finish feasting. Perhaps they can sense that he doesn’t want to be disturbed any further. Not like some of the stuck-up actors he knows, Georg understands the value of having fans and will talk to them every single time, genuinely thankful for their support, and would never snub them or be rude to them but on this particular evening, he just wants to be a human being, not a performer. He doesn’t want to sign autographs all night; he just wants to spend time with Tom and silently radiates that wish for respectful distance. He’ll play movie-star another time. It is with a small measure of relief that Georg pays the bill, which is quite large, thanks to Tom sampling every costly cocktail on the menu.

Once outside in the cooler air, Tom nudges Georg, saying, “Hey, look what I got.” He shakes his jacket sleeve and tobacco pipe made out of a dried corncob, formerly hanging on the wall of Gringo’s, falls into his waiting hand.

Georg gapes at his delinquent dinner guest who sticks the wooden end of the pipe in his mouth with an exaggerated air of importance. “How on earth did you get that, Tom? I didn’t even see you take it!”

Grinning tipsily, Tom twirls the carved instrument in his nimble-fingered hand and declares, “Magic.”

Smacking Tom on the upper arm, Georg scolds, “I’ve half a mind to drag you back in there and make you give it back, you little thief!”

“But you won’t,” Tom confidently proclaims. “Anyway, if they didn’t want anyone to take it, they should have nailed it down.”

Georg shuts his eyes and sighs, wondering what he’s gotten himself into, associating with someone like Tom. “I’ll let this one pass but don’t do it again, okay? You’re gonna get caught and I don’t want be with you with you do.”

Poking Georg with the smoking implement, Tom quips, “You’re just jealous ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to take anything.”

“I don’t NEED to take anything,” Georg replies sourly. “I have money and can buy whatever I want.”

Not paying attention to Georg’s caustic castigating, Tom admires his new toy, running his fingertips over the preserved kernels of the hollowed-out corncob that form the bowl in which tobacco or other dehydrated leaf is stuffed. He pronounces, “I’m gonna smoke up big with this baby later.”

“Put it away,” Georg compels, glancing around uneasily. “Before someone sees it and recognizes where it came from.”

“You’re such a square,” Tom jibes but he does as he is told, slipping the stolen object into the inside pocket of his jacket where it can’t be seen. Georg begins strolling down the pavement away from the restaurant in case the head waiter comes charging out to accuse them of theft. A flashy gold pimpmobile cruises past them on the road, the sound of heavy, thumping bass following in its wake. Hyped up on sugar and liquor, Tom lights a cigarette and dances around Georg as if he’s in a boxing match, throwing quick jabs and punches that stop just short of connecting with the dark-haired male’s head and torso.

“Tom,” Georg protests, dodging a flying fist. “Quit it! I’m not in the mood.”

“Loosen up, old man,” Tom says casually. “Y’know, if you took that stick out of your ass, you might actually have some fun.”

“I know how to have fun,” Georg argues, spinning around to keep an eye on Tom’s jabbing hands, using his forearm to deflect the other boy’s blows.

“Then c’mon, G,” Tom provokes, skipping lightly from foot to foot on his sneakers, fists held up close to his own chin, cigarette held in the corner of his mouth. “Let’s see how fast you are. Try to hit me.”

“No.”

“Come on. Try.”

“No!” Georg jams his hands into his coat pockets, fast losing patience with Tom’s drunken behaviour, especially now that they are in public. It doesn’t matter how the two of them behave when they are alone in their trailers but out here anybody can see them and Georg wishes that the kid would act more sedate. Tom seems to forget that Georg wants to be known as a serious actor and as such, has a reputation to uphold. And that does not involve mock-sparring bouts in the streets with intoxicated co-stars. Or more to the point, pictures of mock-sparring bouts in the streets with intoxicated co-stars that might be splashed over the gossip pages of celebrity magazines. Mercifully, Georg cannot see any photographers lurking about in the shadows like rabid raccoons but he doesn’t want to stick around in case they do show up.

Georg’s passivity makes Tom remark, “I don’t get you, man. You can play all these bullies and badass characters in your films but in reality, you’re like a timid little field mouse. I bet you’ve never hit anyone for real in your life.”

“I’m about to hit YOU in a minute if you don’t stop it,” Georg says darkly, beginning to stride off again, his short brown hair showing burnished highlights under the street lamps.

Tom follows him, grinning at Georg’s threat. “That’s the spirit. You need to toughen up, old man.”

“You need to stop calling me that,” Georg throws from over his shoulder. “Hurry up, Tom. You’re drunk and we’re getting out of here before the paparazzi shows up.”

“I’m not drunk,” the long-haired boy quarrels.

They head down the street past buildings and shops towards Georg’s vehicle but a flashing sign on the sidewalk and the sound of muted music from within captures Tom’s attention.

“Karaoke! Let’s go inside,” he urges, pulling on Georg’s arm. “Come on, I feel like singing.”

“Actually, I thought we could go -” Georg starts to say but Tom’s already yanking him through the door into the dim, smoky club. Their ears are immediately assaulted by what sounds like a cat screeching and Georg wants to walk right out again. Noise pollution not affecting him in the slightest, Tom’s on a mission to get to the bar and he shoves through the crowd to get there, dragging Georg along with him. With an expectant smile, Tom holds his hand out for money and, feeling like an automatic teller machine, Georg fishes his wallet from his blazer pocket and doles it out to him. All cashed up, Tom orders two bourbon and colas and hands one to Georg who doesn’t really think he should have it although he accepts the drink, hopeful that one more won’t put him over the limit. Even if Tom doesn’t intend to stay sober, Georg does.

“No more for me,” Georg shouts over the din. “I’m driving you home, remember?”

Giving the thumbs up sign, Tom gulps down his beverage and promptly replaces it with another. Hoping his booze-loving co-star doesn’t want to stay in this place for too long, Georg nurses his drink while Tom stares at an inebriated female on the stage who is murdering a Tina Turner classic tune while wobbling on her high heels. There is an ultra-violet light on the roof and any white or fluorescent clothing or jewellery worn by anybody standing nearby glows like neon, including the white parts of the bomber jacket Tom is wearing and the stitched logo on his hat. Tom says something to him but Georg is unable to hear anything through the torturous shrieking coming from the woman with the microphone. The only word Georg distinguishes is “fuck,” and that’s purely by reading Tom’s lips.

“What?” Georg calls out, turning his head to the side. Tom puts his mouth right up to Georg’s ear and practically yells, the only way they can communicate over the dreadful cacophony.

“I said: somebody ought to put her out of her misery! She’s fucking terrible!”

“At least she’s pretty,” Georg yells back kindly. He receives a punch on the arm for his remark.

“Hey, you’re on a date with me,” Tom reminds in outrage. “You’re not supposed to be checking out anybody else!”

“Who said we’re on a date?” Georg cries, rubbing his arm. “And, ow!”

When Tom continues to glower at him like a jealous wife, Georg places a hand on the blond boy’s lower back, leaning in to speak to him, his lips brushing Tom’s pierced earlobe.

“If it makes you feel any better, Tom, you’re way prettier than she is. And you are a much better singer, too.”

Satisfied with that reassurance, the teenager smiles and drains his drink, Georg buying him a replacement without being asked. He’s not just being a gentleman – Georg doesn’t want Tom to get quizzed by any of the bar staff when they see how youthful his face is close up. Should Tom be sprung for underage drinking, there’s nothing Georg can do to help him and he’d have to watch the kid get carted away by the cops and locked up like an animal at the zoo. Thankfully, nobody asks to see Tom’s ID.

When there’s a gap in the amateurish karaoke routines, Tom announces that he’s going next and Georg groans inwardly, thinking that malt liquor, Tom and microphones are probably not the best combination. But he knows that when Tom has made up his mind about doing something, Georg cannot talk him out of it. The eighteen year old worms through the crowd, heading over to the MC to put his name down on the prospective performers list and on the way, gets elbowed by a huge, beefy male with a crew cut whose neck is the same thickness as his head. Almost stumbling off balance, Tom turns with annoyance, reprimanding, “Hey! Watch it, dude.” With beady grey eyes, the solidly-built man glares at Tom at if it’s his fault for getting in the way and then swigs from a bottle of beer, deliberately scorning the boy and not offering any apologies for the rude shove.

“Asshole,” Tom mutters loudly and jostles up to the stage. Perusing the catalogue of available songs, Tom chooses one, leaves his name with the MC and awaits his turn under the spotlight. There’s about three other people in front of him but when his name is finally called, Tom’s gonna show them how a real rock star does it. He's gonna do air-guitar and everything.

On the way back to the bar, the sour, muscle-bound moose with the fat neck gives Tom a spiteful sneer, looking at Tom as if the eighteen year-old actor is a smelly dog turd, something vile and hideous. Tom gives him an acidic glare and returns to where Georg is standing in the swarm of club-goers.

Scowling, Tom leans in and says to Georg, “That guy over there is really starting to piss me off.”

“What guy? Where?” Georg scans the room, eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

“Over there.”

Georg follows Tom’s line of sight and spies the guy in question, a hulking male amid a much smaller group of revelers, lurking next to a round table with a beer held in his meaty fist. The guy is also looking at them. No, not at them; at Tom. And he doesn’t appear to be a fan.

Muttering, Tom deems, “He’s got something against me.”

“Why?” asks Georg, a small frown of worry rumpling his forehead. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing.” Tom has a sip of his drink, warily squinting at the thug over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t do anything. He elbowed me when I was trying to get to the stage and ever since then, he’s been eyeing me off. Look at the size of the sucker. He’s probably on steroids. Having his ball-sack shrink to the size of a walnut is probably what’s making him so mean-tempered.”

Almost on cue, the fellow puts down his beer and starts stomping over to them.

“Oh crap,” Georg breathes, getting very nervous indeed. The approaching man-mountain is almost bursting out of his tight polo shirt, his chest like a wall of carved rock, his thighs similar to tree trunks stuffed in a pair of beige slacks. He probably trains by ripping phone books in two. Georg would hate to see what he could do to a boy like Tom.

“Don’t antagonize him, Tom,” he hisses, Georg's heart tripping with alarm. Tom calmly sits his drink down on the bar, tenses up and lifts his chin, preparing for a face-off.

The hefty male approaches Tom, towering over him like an obelisk. He’s not a very attractive man with his lumpy, spider-veined nose, slit of a mouth, protruding prehistoric forehead and fuzzy caterpillar mono-brow. His cheeks and ears are red from alcohol consumption and his eyes are bloodshot. In a deep baritone, he demands, “What are you lookin’ at, punk?”

“Nothing, dude,” Tom answers, shrugging his shoulders. “I got no issue with you.”

Beer-breath wafts in Tom’s face as the barbarian steps nearer. “Then why do you keep lookin’ at me?”

“Seems to me like you’re the one doing all the looking,” Tom parries, getting bristly with his personal space being intruded. “What’s your deal? Want my phone number?”

Georg almost pees himself. Tom should not have said that. But he can’t tell the kid to keep quiet because his throat is frozen with fright.

The man puffs out his chest like a gorilla. A threatening note enters his already booming voice. “You watch your goddamn tongue, boy, or I’ll have to tear it out for you.”

“Look, I’m just trying to have a drink with my friend, okay?” Tom states irascibly, the harassment angering him instead of terrorising him which is what the bully wants. Being a New Yorker, Tom will not allow himself to quiver before anyone, even if they are twice his size.

“So, back off outta my face,” he recommends, fearlessly meeting the burly male’s challenging gaze. “I got better things to do than look at your ugly ass.”

As if someone pulled a plug in Georg’s head, he feels the colour draining from his face, down his neck and into his feet. In a matter of seconds, things have gone from bad to worse. Much, much worse. Why can’t Tom shut up? Does he want to die?

The bodybuilder’s eyes widen upon catching Tom’s remark. “What did you say?” he thunders, neck veins bulging. “You want to repeat that, you skinny little queer?”

Taking immediate offence, Tom grabs his own crotch, suggesting, “How about you suck my hairy nuts?”

Unprepared for Tom’s comeback, the muscleman gawps in surprise. Nobody is game to talk back to him after he uses his scary voice. His scary voice always works. This scrawny, long-haired femme-boy should be shaking in his sneakers right about now. But he’s not!

Seeing the stunned expression on the gigantic ox’s face, Georg’s survival instinct finally switches on and he uses the moment to escape, digging his fingers into Tom’s arm and quickly reefing his suicidal co-star away from the bar before he becomes mincemeat. Bulldozing through the people packed into the club like sardines, Georg hopes to lose the other man in the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Tom struggles against Georg’s manoeuvring. “Let me go. I wasn’t finished with that asshole!”

“Are you crazy?” Georg yelps, yanking with more strength. “Come on, Tom, let’s just go. It’s not worth it.”

Bellowing from behind them, the two actors hear, “Hey, come back here, pussy!”

“Oh shit. Run!” Georg commands, hauling Tom through the door and out onto the street. Keeping hold of Tom’s arm, Georg is just about sprinting them towards his truck, Tom swearing all the way. Georg’s blood ices up when he hears a gruff voice in close proximity and the noise of thudding footfalls. Both he and Tom whirl around to see the guy they are trying to flee from marching right towards them. They are so close to the safety of Georg’s vehicle yet so far away from it. Only a few feet separate them from the truck. They could make a run for it but even being inside the truck is no guarantee that they will be safe and secure. Arms as broad as the body of an anaconda, the guy could smash right through the windows as if they were made of toffee.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?” Tom’s new enemy barks. “You don’t just walk out on me!”

Swallowing his terror, Georg pipes up, forcing more authority into his voice than he really feels. “Leave him alone. He didn’t do anything to you.”

“Was I talking to you?”

Having the mammoth creature turn on him with such ferocity scares Georg into silence and he can only tremble under the shadow of the large, looming man, praying that somehow he and Tom get out of this alive.

“No?” The bulked-up beast answers for Georg. “Well, then shut your cocksucking mouth unless you want a piece of me too.”

Too intoxicated to be as intimidated as he should be, Tom jeers, “Such big words from someone who has such small balls.”

“Tom!” Georg bleats helplessly. “Don’t!”

Discounting Georg’s warning, Tom, who is surging with adrenaline and testosterone, takes his jacket and cap off, tosses them on the ground and entices, “C’mon monkey-man. You and me. Let’s rumble.”

To seal the deal, Tom blows the guy a kiss.

Georg can only watch on in dumbfounded horror as the bodybuilder roars and leaps forward like an enraged bull. Pumped on fight-hormones, Tom runs up and meets the assault head-on, ducking the first swing and landing a thump to the other man’s solid belly. He may as well have shot a spitball out of a straw, for all the effect it has on the immense male. Darting away from another swinging arm, Tom brings up his left leg in a kickboxing move and knees the ogre viciously in the ribs, causing him to grunt but not double over or back away. Much thinner than his heavyset challenger, Tom’s simply not strong enough to hurt the guy. However, he is quicker than his opponent, skipping around like he did before with Georg and evading punches, used to fighting in and out of the ring. Being so big and bulky, the other man is lumbering and slow but he possesses a substantial amount of power behind those ham-sized fists and when he finally lands a lucky blow to the middle of Tom’s breastbone, the smaller male gets knocked back as if slammed with a cannonball. Georg cries out in distress, fearing for Tom’s life. Falling backward onto his ass, Tom clutches his chest and gasps for air. If that blow had been any harder it could have stopped Tom’s heart. He could have easily died with that one punch.

Seeing the bigger man about to pound Tom again, Georg does what any protective boyfriend would do and races in to stop him, more afraid of Tom being harmed than himself. Reacting with instinct and fear when the behemoth faces him, Georg hits the other male in the jaw as hard as he can with a closed fist, which feels much like hitting stone and has about the same result. Impervious to the attempt on his face, the larger man lashes out and Georg gets belted with five sausage-shaped fingers and the back of a hand like a slab of sirloin. It’s like being slugged in the side of the head with a full-grown Atlantic salmon. A frozen one. Dazed by the backhander, the dark-haired actor stumbles and crumples to the pavement on all fours, his sight graying out temporarily; ears ringing like a school bell.

Given a few seconds to recover, Tom scrambles to his feet and joins back into the fight, panting and hell-bent on revenge. Spitting out swear words, he launches himself at the stronger man and before Tom can get in any wallops, two massive arms coil around him, halting his attack and squeezing the air out of him. Ropey veins are streaked along the man’s forearms and squiggle up his biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his polo shirt like large worms under his skin. Tom wrestles against the unloving embrace but can’t wriggle free. The male holding him laughs in his face and Tom would have told him to buy some chewing gum for his horrid halitosis but he can’t breathe, never mind make smart comments. Pinned to the front of his competitor, his arms and legs useless, Tom hits the guy with the only weapon he has left. His skull. With a bestial growl, Tom snaps his neck forward and head-butts the second male, feeling extremely gratified when his forehead smashes the man’s nose, flattening it like an egg with a hammer. As bones shatter and cartilage spreads across his face, the older male trumpets with pain. Tom pulls back just in time to see a ruby-red fount gushing forth from the nasty injury like water.

Tom’s victory is short-lived as he is soon yanked back painfully by his hair and ferociously thrown to the cement sidewalk like a rag doll, his agility no match for his rival’s brute force. Before he can regain his footing, Tom is sat on by scale-busting pounds of furious man-muscle, held down on the pavement by the heavy load, the second male’s tree-trunk thighs astride Tom’s narrow hips. Scarlet drops from the man’s wrecked nose sprinkle down onto Tom’s shirt like warm raindrops. No amount of bucking or pushing will get the colossal bleeding troll off him. Witnessing the knuckles flying towards his face, Tom realises he’s pretty screwed and regretfully wishes he’d ran when Georg told him to.

The sickening sound of fist connecting with face jars Georg out of his daze and he lifts his head to see Tom unable to defend himself, his head getting whacked from side to side with each hit, eyes flat and unfocused, blood smearing around his mouth. He is being slaughtered right in front of Georg and the hulking giant astride Tom is not even really trying. He’s toying with Tom, like a cat with a mouse, knowing he is the superior human male of the species. Georg can just imagine the boy’s lip ring getting torn out shortly, leaving a horrific scar. When the guy gets tired of toying with Tom, that’s when the teenager is in severe danger. Never mind scars - this beating could end up fatal. Tom could get his head crushed into the pavement. Georg knows that to save his co-star he’s got to do something, fast. While Tom’s adversary is busy pummeling the younger boy on the ground, Georg shakes the ringing noise out of his ears, stands up, runs over and jumps onto the enormous man’s back, locking an arm around his fat neck, Georg using his lesser weight to heave the guy off Tom. The move has taken the aggressor unawares and like an oak being felled in the forest, he loses balance and crashes backward onto Georg, squashing the smaller male beneath his weighty, chemically-enhanced mass. Wondering why the punches stopped coming, Tom lifts his woozy head, glassy eyes focusing, the taste of blood in his mouth like copper coins. He makes out Georg lying on the pavement, the huge guy on top of him, his broad back to Georg’s chest and stomach. Tom blinks in disbelief when he sees what his normally peaceful co-star is doing. Georg’s choking the dude!

There are two carotid arteries in the big man’s throat - one on either side - and Georg’s biceps muscle is pressing against the right major vein, his forearm against the other, taking advantage of the double pressure points to deplete the flow of oxygen-rich blood to the second male’s head. No oxygen to the brain will make the guy black out. Pulse throbbing loudly in his ears and black spots dancing before his eyes, the large man knows he’s in trouble and panics, his throat closing up. He splutters and twists about, attempting to get free but with Georg clinging tenaciously to his neck he is like an upended turtle on its shell trying to flip itself over, legs flailing futilely. Held captive and feeling fainter by the moment, the giant grapples at Georg’s forearm, trying to pry it off and almost succeeds except that Tom scampers over, coming to his buddy’s aid. Raising his bent arm, Tom drops down and elbows the man in the thigh, using his full body weight to add impact to the sharp blow. Tom knows that with his light frame he can’t truly wound the goliath-like male that much; he is just trying to help by diverting attention away from Georg to himself. The ploy works; the strange man hollers and tries to grab Tom who deftly rolls away and stands up, keeping the gym junkie occupied by taunting him just out of reach, Tom periodically diving in to stomp on his shins, leaving sneaker imprints on fawn-coloured chinos.

Struggling to keep his arm around the thrashing man’s throat, Georg uses his other hand to grip his own wrist, tightening his squeeze, determined not to let go until the guy on top of him passes out. Or dies. Georg doesn’t really care what outcome he achieves, as long as he stops the bastard from hitting Tom again.

As he’s cutting off the blood supply to the bodybuilder’s brain, Georg snarls through bared teeth, “Don’t you ever touch my boyfriend again, you ugly prick!”

Abruptly, the man ceases fighting and sags against Georg, his eyes closing, hands falling weakly away, coming to rest beside his chunky thighs. Familiar with the bad-guy-suddenly-comes-back–to-life-and-kills-unsuspecting-victims routine as seen in many action movies, Georg gives it another half a minute to make sure the fellow is fully out cold and then releases his choke-hold. Without Georg’s supporting elbow, the man’s chin drops to the side and his unmoving body remains lying on top of Georg’s midsection.

“Get this ape off me, Tom,” Georg croaks, attempting to pull himself out from under the unconscious lump of flesh and bone. “He weighs a ton.”

Tom assists Georg by giving the comatose man a rough push with both hands, rolling the limp body sideways to the ground.

“You okay, man?” Tom queries, crouching down beside Georg and offering a hand.

Shoving a log-like leg off himself, Georg takes the hand and sits up, groaning with the effort. “Well, I’m not dead.”

Sparing a glance for the shape lying next to Georg, Tom asks, “Is he?”

“What?”

“Dead. Did you kill him?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

Tom pokes the toe of his sneaker into the lifeless man’s buttock. No movement.

“Looks like you did.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Georg says, not sounding awfully convinced. “Did I? Oh, shit.” Freaked that he accidentally strangled the guy to death, Georg scoots over and checks the second man’s immobile form for any signs of life.

“Phew, he’s still alive,” Georg pronounces in relief, finding a pulse in the unresponsive male’s neck.

“Good,” Tom says acrimoniously. “Now get away from him.”

Detecting the spiteful intent in the order, Georg backs off, standing to the side and biting his lip, unsure of what Tom’s going to do. The teenager sniffs, wipes his nose with his sleeve, spits blood onto the sidewalk and swiftly drives his foot into the gut of the figure on the ground while cursing, a savage kick accompanying each word of abuse. Kicking a man while he’s down is usually viewed by Georg as an unforgivably cowardly act but after what that bodybuilder did to a much smaller Tom, he won’t stop his co-star from exacting some payback. He wouldn’t dare try to stop Tom with the rage he’s exhibiting. The guy on the ground deserves it, even though he won’t feel the bruising until he wakes up. Which could be any minute now.

“Fuck you, fucking knuckle-dragging Neanderthal!” Tom’s violent foot hits home with dull thuds, making the motionless man’s body shudder. “Eat shit, motherfucker!”

“Uh...Tom, I think we should go now,” Georg hurriedly advises, laying an urgent hand on his co-star’s shoulder. “Right now.”

Not only is the man on the ground regaining awareness, moaning and stirring, but people are coming out of the bar into the street to see what’s going on. It won’t be long before someone whips out a camera. Georg can see the headlines now: HOLLYWOOD ACTOR INVOLVED IN BRUTAL KARAOKE CLUB BASHING! If this disgraceful incident is made public, Georg will never live it down. His clean-cut image will be dragged through the mud and nobody will want to hire him after that. His fans will be disappointed in him and boycott his films. His career will be destroyed. His mom won’t speak to him. He’ll have to move to some remote Italian village and become a pig farmer or a wine maker. Tom’s reputation won’t be tarnished because he already has a chequered past and criminal record. This episode will only add to his mystique as he is already a bad boy who breaks all the rules. Georg isn’t. And he doesn’t want to be known like that. In fear of security appearing and detaining them until the cops arrive, Georg forcibly escorts Tom away once more.

“Wait! My jacket,” Tom puffs, jogging back and snatching up the item of clothing from where he dropped it before the fight. Tom doesn’t particularly want the black and white bomber jacket as he owns more than one; he just wants the object in the pocket. Stolen pipe back in his possession, he rejoins Georg and they speedily hobble back to the truck, clambering inside and slamming the doors shut. They are both breathing fast, their hearts thundering in their chests like locomotives. Leaving the semi-conscious male on the blood-splattered pavement for the paramedics to deal with, Georg starts the engine and he takes off with a squeal of tires, checking in his rear vision mirror to be certain nobody is following them.
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