There was pressure in her torso.But she was alive. And she remembered.Growls came from her chest as she crawled, fury swirling through her mind. She would kill them.Finally, her pain and exhaustion caught up with her, and she just looked around for a moment. Sometime after she had passed out in the shed, a radiation storm had swept through, and she had that spell of pain. She must have crawled outside during her fit, crawled down the slope and fetched up against the scrap stacks, near the cooking fire, not remembering a second of it. She had to figure out what to do.Despite her body protesting, she struggled to her hands and knees, and then to her feet. Something was wrong.She swayed in place, her body on fire. Her chest was so tight!Fumbling at the buckles that held her armor on, she let her chestpiece fall to the ground, which immediately felt better. Her hands felt the raider leathers over her chest, which covered something that wasn't there before. With a slight panic, Paige. About half-an-hour into the show, some fat asshole in the back yelled, "Go fuck yourselves, faggots!" Before I tell you what happened next, let me tell you about what Suicide shows were like in the early-to-mid Seventies. Picture two leather-clad guys, one scowling and torturing an organ, the other striding around like some Fifties housewife's nightmare of a rockabilly (who had come for her daughters and sons, of course), both intent on making as much trouble for themselves as possible. Add an audience full of punks, people who were there to beat up punks, lost tourists, and a few true believers like me, and you have a recipe for... an interesting experience, that's for sure. Anyway, Alan heard that and said, "What's that? You said you wanted to fuck us? You couldn't handle both of us." Fuck off, commie faggot!" (They had played "Che" a few minutes before.)"You know, that's the seventh time you've called me a faggot. That's not cool." He lit a cigarette. Most of the audience were.
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