Steve Tem - Ugly Behavior

He started singing the opening to ‘My Prick Wears A Necklace,’ the serious part, where he’s singing about the diagnosis, got about ten lines in, when somebody threw a bottle up on stage. He picked it up, started to throw it back into the crowd, but stopped himself. If he did that they’d shut the show down for sure, and he didn’t like leaving the stage without singing ‘Ugly Behavior’ first. And the time wasn’t quite right.

If JK didn’t wait for the right time to sing ‘Ugly Behavior,’ if he gave in to all those fuckers who’d been yelling at him since the opening number “Sing motherfuckin’ ‘Ugly Behavior’!” then they’d be getting what they paid for too early and they wouldn’t much want to listen while he finished his set they’d just want him to do something new, something worse and sometimes things just got out of hand, or more out of hand than they were supposed to.

That was pretty much what went wrong that time outside Memphis at the Headlights Roadhouse. He’d been swallowing everything anybody gave him that day, all kinds of pretty pills and sweet liquors, and he did a couple of lines before going on stage, and then they were handing him beers on stage which for the most part he spat back out at them but he drank a lot of it, too.

Then they started in on that ‘Ugly Behavior’ shit, that chanting “We want ‘Ugly Behavior’!” shit halfway into the first song, ‘Ice Pick In The Head.’ It was pissing him off because they weren’t listening. A bunch of drunk college guys down in front were the ones that started it—they’d brought dates. He’d seen it before—the guy brings a girl promising her a freak show which JK could pretty much be counted on to deliver. Well, let the motherfucker feel superior, as long as he paid for two tickets.

It must have been the combination of everything he’d taken that day, plus the hot lights and just the natural agitation that came with performing. Suddenly JK felt warm and wet in the crotch. He wasn’t sure what it was at first—you felt all kinds of sensations on stage—it wasn’t unusual for JK to perform with a hard-on, or with his clothes sweated through, or with his body reeking of spilt beer or jack d. Then he smelled it—JK had just pissed himself. It wasn’t intentional, and that was what bothered him—it would have been okay if it had been part of the act. It being unintentional made him feel like some pissy old man.

About the same time he noticed it the guys up front started hooting and their pretty dates looked embarrassed. He started to feel like he was losing the edge—there was a fine line between offending people and just embarrassing yourself. One was rock and roll and the other was riding the short bus. He had to do something to take control again so he just sat down on the stage, kicked off his shoes and stripped off his pants and boxers. That wound up the crowd pretty good. He paraded up and down the stage just wearing his T-shirt, then he thought what-the-hell and tore that off, too, threw it into that crowd of assholes. Then he pranced up to the front edge of the stage and wiggled his dick.

He’d pulled his dick out before on stage to relieve himself or whatever. And he’d been a little self-conscious the first few times. It wasn’t like he had a rock star pecker; if anything it was of less than ordinary size. A lot of jokers pointed and laughed, but JK didn’t give a shit. Being monster stoned helped. After the first couple of times he’d trimmed the pubic hair back from the base of his dick because that made it look bigger. But he knew it still wasn’t anything to brag about. But that was part of the point, wasn’t it?

So there he was dancing around naked and wiggling his junk for the amusement of the crowd. The band was laughing, playing nothing in particular, just jamming with themselves. He sang a few more lines of ‘Ice Pick’ but he’d lost his place in the song. So he sang a lot more chorus: “Ice pick! Ice pick! Ice pick in the head! Ice pick! Ice pick! Poke me ’til I’m dead!” He made up a verse that wasn’t too bad—if he could remember it later he’d write it down. But experience had taught him he probably wouldn’t. He was pretty sure the gig was going to end soon. He fully expected to be pulled off the stage any second, for the management to shut them down or the cops to arrive. But that didn’t happen, at least not right away, and he didn’t know if that was because the club was making some good money or if whoever was in charge was just asleep at the wheel. Not that it mattered much; it gave him a lot more time than usual to do his thing. But just to make sure, he didn’t break for the second set; he and the band kept right on playing.

The problem was he was still prancing around naked, and he hadn’t yet done the whole ‘Ugly Behavior’ routine, and he didn’t know where else he could go with it. About fifteen minutes into what should have been their second set, the crowd looked bored. There were still scattered insults, things thrown up on the stage, but JK could tell their hearts weren’t really in it.

He figured he’d just jack off onto the front row and call it a day, so he started pumping what little bit of wrinkled pud he had, but as much as he played with it and slapped at it, he couldn’t get his prick hard.

Just to buy himself some extra time to think of something else, he picked up a broken sliver of beer bottle and started cutting on his arms and chest, taking his time to place each mark, applying as much artistic consideration as possible, using the fingers of his left hand to smear the blood, and though that sparked a little excitement, the crowd was soon spending more time talking to each other than watching the show. Rock and roll was supposed to be like a good train wreck—you shouldn’t be able to pull your eyes away.

And JK wasn’t feeling it, either. He was pretty much dragging. He’d been thinking about how they were booked for three hours, and the band didn’t have three hours worth of material. They’d never needed it before—somebody always stopped the show before the end of hour two.

JK kept thinking I don’t need this shit I don’t need this shit and that’s, really, what gave him the idea. His artistic inspiration. Creative people think that way—they trust the notion, they run with the spur of the moment. JK turned his back on the audience, squatted, and shit on the stage. Then he twirled back around in this crazy prehistoric ballet move, scooped up the runny shit and threw it on those fuckers in the front row.

It was pretty gratifying the way things went to hell after that, the cops coming in, at long fucking last, and it became pretty much a riot with those trying to tear JK a new asshole and those wanting the concert to keep going. Chairs and bottles were flying and people were jumping around trying to keep, literally, out of the shit. Bunch of people got bloodied, thoroughly getting their money’s worth. JK and the band snuck out under cover of the confusion. They didn’t get paid but JK kept telling the band it was a valuable contribution toward their artistic evolution.

Word got back to Granny when some local reporter wanted to “ask you about that incident in Tennessee.” She phoned JK up and gave him another long talk about that “ugly behavior” and then wouldn’t speak to him for several months. It wasn’t her fault, she just didn’t understand rock and roll. Rock and roll was all about doing what you weren’t supposed to do. Rock and roll was vile and offensive and breaking the wall and breaking the law. JK felt pretty bad about her not talking to him—whatever their differences, she was all he had—but he didn’t hold it against her. She’d been the only one to ever give a damn and he owed her. People as a whole he’d pretty much take or leave but mostly leave with a kick in the head for good measure. Granny was the only one he’d ever felt any kind of love for. Sure, he’d robbed her a couple of times, but that was just for drug money, nothing personal, he couldn’t have helped that.