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Shenanigans: Apparently It’s a Coldplay Fan-Fiction

Texas Rez

By Texas Rez
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Texas Rez

Texas Rez

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This is my third attempt at writing a complete fan-fiction story (with the first two attempts being a Pokemon and F-Zero fan-fiction about three years ago). Hopefully this time will be the charm that I finally finish a fan-fiction story. I've felt the need for more practice with my writing anyway, so why not practice with a fan-fiction? As always, I'm open to suggestions, feedback and constructive criticism.

 

Vol. 17

Shenanigans: Apparently It’s a Coldplay Fan-Fiction

By Anthony Romero

 

17-1: “This Is Just the Beginning to a Long, Boring Tale About How Rezzy Ended Up Meeting Coldplay by Accident (Get ‘Comfortable’)”

It all started with a joke—and need I say that it all ended on a joke as well. It was such a shame, if you ask me. It was fun knowing and getting a real kick out of Tim. Timothy Alford Desmond. It was fun from the first day I met him. It was also the same day I met Mary, Mylo and Steven, but that’s for a different story I’ll tell later. I’m just simply here to tell you how shit really went down, the shenanigans I mean.

 

It was around 9 a.m. and I had just finished my usual morning routine of eating a brunch that I’d describe to you, but I’m not here to make you hungry. I’m here to tell you how shit really went down. I’d laze around, jamming to my 180-gram Radiohead records on the record player that was built-in with my high-tech and super-expensive surround system in my flamboyantly-decorated room. I was sitting at my desk that was situated right next to my bed, listening to my Kid A record as I was writing a “bucket list”—an ambitious list that would consist of things I know I’ll never accomplish:

 

• Meet president (dead, alive, in office or simply just a former president)

• Meet Radiohead (Thom Yorke, to be specific)

• Meet my b(i/e)tter half

• Make arrangements on my wall for the abundant amounts of Radiohead posters I’ll be receiving in the mail in about a week or so (A good $124.53 spent if you ask me)

• Go on a re—

 

That was when Tim called me on my cell, derailing my train that was running full steam ahead of the absurd goals I was thinking of. I reluctantly removed the needle from the record and answered Tim’s call.

 

“What the hell do you want? I’m in the middle of doing something important,” I said, slightly irritated.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, Rezzy, but I need to ask you something,” Tim said.

“Ask.”

“Well, it was two months ago that I bought two tickets for the Coldplay concert tonight.”

“Okay?”

“And I know I’ll be going, of course, but I’ve been struggling to find a person to go with. I don’t want to waste this ticket, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Does that answer your question?”

“No, that wasn’t a question. Do you want to go with me to the Coldplay concert? That’s the question.”

 

That wasn’t a question; that was a joke. I started laughing like a hyena would. I don’t even like Coldplay at all. I actually loathe Coldplay. The singer whines a lot and they’re a band that only girls would listen to. And to think Tim would ask me to go with him to a Coldplay concert tonight?!

 

I picked up the phone, trying to regain the composure that I had before Tim gave me the punch line, sniffling and wiping tears from my face from all of that laughter.

“Of all the people you could possibly ask, I ended up being the ‘lucky’ one,” I said.

 

“Well, yeah… I asked my parents and they don’t want to go; they don’t like Coldplay. My mom’s too busy listening to her R&B records while my dad is on his Black Sabbath binge for, like, the billionth time. I couldn’t ask Mylo ‘because he’s studying in New York. I thought Mary would go with me for sure, but she has night classes tonight. Then I thought ‘Why not ask Rezzy?’” Tim said.

“Count me out.”

“Come on, Rezzy. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease? I don’t want to stand outside of the venue trying to sell an extra ticket.”

“From the looks of it, you might just have to resort to that.”

“If I do try to sell it, will you come with me?

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll let you keep the money if someone buys it.”

“If not?”

“You’ll suffer with me.”

Then I thought about it… and thought about it... then thought about it some more. As much as I’m not a fan of Coldplay, that ticket doesn’t deserve to be wasted.

“Deal, although I’d rather hitchhike my way home than to sit through a concert filled with screaming girls.”

 

Continues with 17-2 here...

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Texas Rez

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Oh wow. You actually took my suggestion seriously? THIS IS AMAZING.

Yeah, I did. :P I'm dry on ideas and a Coldplay fan-fic with Rezzy in it was bound to happen anyway :lol:

 

was this intentional

:nod:

 

Whatever happened to Shredder1? :thinking:

He died in a freak accident.

 

Who's Rezzy? :uhoh:

Your guess is as good as mine.

-----

 

17-2: “Sexy Is Baaaaaack!”

According to Tim, the doors to the Deaf Music Hall didn’t open until 7 p.m…. Tim and I were standing outside of the venue in the sunny summer heat at 3 p.m. with hopes that we’ll actually sell the ticket and that I’ll be able to keep the money—well, at least I think Tim wants me to keep the money. None to my surprise, Tim and I were the only people (I would’ve said fans instead of people but, well, you know I’ve already established one fact and that fact is that I’m not a Coldplay fan, so allow me to establish another fact; I’m only a fan of Chris Martin’s body.) standing outside of the venue so early.

 

Tim was holding the tickets and used them as a fan to cool his face from the scorching heat. A couple who were wearing Coldplay shirts walked by us as Tim would stop them as he jumped right in front of their way, waving the tickets at them as if he were intending on selling them both.

 

“Excuse me!” Tim said out of desperation to the couple. The couple stopped as they approached Tim. The heat must be getting to him, I thought. “Do either one of you need an extra ticket for tonight’s show?”

 

“I would’ve bought an extra ticket from you if my child was born already,” the girl laughed. I’m assuming she’s kidding because she didn’t appear to have a baby bump at all.

“Aaaw, you’re pregnant,” I said. “Will it be a boy or a girl?”

“We won’t know until weeks later,” said the guy. “We only found out she was pregnant two weeks ago.”

“Can we name him ‘Mylo’?” she laughed as she looked at her boyfriend. Immediately I thought about the Mylo—may he rest in his dorm room in New York—I know.

“No.” He turned his attention back to Tim and smiled. “I’d hate to cut our chat short, but my gal and I need to make it to our 3:30 reservation at the Hard Rock Café.”

Do they even take reservations? I thought.

“Oh, okay,” Tim said in disappointment. “Thanks for your time anyway. And good luck with the baby!”

“Thanks!” the girl smiled as she and her boyfriend continued their way down the sidewalk. So far, so bad after seeing how bad we failed at our first attempt at trying to sell a ticket.

 

I spent the next few minutes pacing around a pouting Tim as my hopes for money in my pocket were gradually dying. Well, that was until Tim stopped my pacing with a loud “WAIT, STOP REZZY! LOOK AT THAT GROUP OF PEOPLE OVER THERE!”

 

Upon Tim’s request, I stopped pacing around him and looked where he was pointing. A group of people suddenly emerged out of the blue. They were a bit too far for me to recognize them upon first glance so I waited for them to walk a little closer to us… well, a little closer to me. Tim ran to the group and was again waving the tickets in his hand as if he were intending on selling them both. I stood there, watching Tim socializing with the group. Seconds later, I could hear him screaming like a girl. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t his screaming, but it was no good. I decided to run to Tim and the group to try to figure out what he was screaming so manly about.

 

When I was finally close enough to make out who Tim was chatting with, my heart stopped beating, time stood still and the Deaf Music Hall finally lived up to its name. Chris Martin’s body was right. there; I didn’t care much about his fellow bandmates as I was too busy checking out Chris Martin. I could feel myself drooling—and I know it wasn’t my mouth that was drooling—from his sexiness. What do I say to him?! I frantically thought to myself. What do I even do to him?!

 

Continues with 17-3 here...

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Texas Rez

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:inquisitive:

 

Ohh some fapping material here.

Right... some... fapping... material... :|

 

I get the strong sense that this will turn into a slash fanfic extremely quickly.

:nod: Everyone dies in the end.

 

-----

 

17-3: “I Forgot to Give This Part of the Story a Name Until Now, So This Will Be the Name I Guess.”

I could feel the temperature rise all of a sudden—I could feel the heat radiating from Chris’ body. Me sweating in front of an attractive person like Chris Martin would be the last thing I’d want to happen… for now. My mind continued racing; there he is, smiling right before my very eyes, chatting it up with Tim.

 

“This is my friend, Rezzy,” Tim said to the band. “He’s not a fan of your music.” Way to introduce a friend, right? A guy with a hat and some—but not too much—facial hair looked at the tickets Tim was holding in his hand then looked back up at Tim.

“Are you two coming to tonight’s show?” he asked.

“To answer your question, Jonny, yes, I am,” Tim said. “I’m not sure about my friend, though.”

“Is it because your friend is not a fan of our music and you’re trying to help him sell the ticket to our show tonight?” Chris asked. CHRIS MARTIN SAID SOMETHING IN MY PRESENCE! I thought, suddenly having that leg-weakening sensation.

“Yes,” I immediately answered, striving for Chris’ attention. Two well-built guys in black shirts and slacks (bodyguards, I’m assuming) then stepped in between the band and Tim and I. Cock-blocking, much? I thought.

“We’d love to stay and chat with ya, but it’s almost time for the boys’ sound check,” one of the bodyguards said.

“WAIT NO!” Tim said, busting out his phone. “Can I take a picture with the band before they go do their thing?”

“Wait,” an almost-bald guy with facial hair said to the bodyguards. “Let’s take a picture with our fan right quick.”

“Thank you Will!” Tim said, hugging him. “You truly are a champion,” whatever that meant. The bodyguards sidestepped out of their way as Tim and Coldplay positioned themselves standing next to each other in a line shoulder-to-shoulder for a picture.

“Razzy, don’t you want in on this?” Chris said.

“Rezzy,” I corrected. “And sure, why not?”

 

I squeezed in between Chris and Tim to position myself for the picture. Tim gave his phone to one of the bodyguards. The bodyguard walked in front of us and held Tim’s phone up and sideways. At this moment, I could feel the left side of my body pressed against Chris’. Trying not to get too, ahem, excited, I smiled a cheesy smile and said aloud “Cheeeeese!”

 

“You’re a bit too early on that,” the bodyguard said from behind Tim’s phone. “Okay, on a count of three, I want to hear ‘Coldplaaaay!’ Okay? One… two…” Ch-ch! The camera captured the moment. Then I felt Chris disconnect from my body. I wasn’t ready for that, no; not one bit. I died a little inside when it happened.

 

“We’re glad to meet you two!” said a guy from the band. According to Tim, his first name actually is Guy. Huh. Tim and I then shook hands with the band and their bodyguards. Then they made their way into the Deaf Music Hall, leaving me stranded on the city sidewalks with Tim again. I turned to look at a speechless and star-struck Tim. He looked so happy, I thought for a second there that he was going to cry because he met the band he loved dearly for their music, not that I cared or anything… I wanted to see the only picture that I share with Chris Martin’s body!

 

“Lemme see the picture!” I elbowed Tim, causing him to snap out of his moment.

“Oh now you care!” Tim said. “Sure, let me… just…,” he paused midsentence and searched his pockets for his phone, “get my phone…”

“Don’t tell me…,” I said as I watched Tim’s face morph from astonishment to deeply concerned; it was almost as if he was on the verge of freaking out.

“Did the bodyguard give my phone to you Rezzy?”

 

I tried to remember what happened two minutes ago. All I could remember was Chris’ smile and his body being pressed up against mine for a picture; I was unable to recall one of their bodyguards returning Tim’s phone to me. I searched my pockets in hopes of having Tim’s phone in there, but only my phone was to be found. I took my hands out of my pockets when I finished searching and shook my head to Tim to inform him that I didn’t have his phone.

 

“Shit,” Tim said, running a hand through his hair as he begins to pace back and forth. “Then the bodyguard must have accidentally taken it inside with him.”

Hm…, I thought. I was just as determined to see the picture on Tim’s phone as Tim himself. “Where do bodyguards usually go at their band’s venue?” I asked Tim. He stopped pacing and thought about it for a minute. He snapped his fingers. “Their dressing room!” he exclaimed. It was the only good guess I could know of—I’m not a bodyguard.

“We’ll need to come up with a plan to sneak into the venue first while it’s still empty and then into their dressing room so that we can attempt to track down the bodyguard who ‘stole’ your phone,” I suggested.

“I don’t want to take that risk, Rezzy. I don’t.”

“What other option do we have?”

 

Continues with 17-4 here...

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Texas Rez

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This mofo was buried THREE PAGES DEEP in The Lounge! :angry:

 

1080998_502017186551621_1968816441_n.jpg

 

he even looks pervy

 

He does, in a very hungry sort of way. :uhoh:

 

Oh yes. You can tell from the look on his face that he wants someone's sex. :wink3:

 

(Also, credit goes to my friend, Luis, for illustrating Rezzy. :wacky: )

 

now Shredder2's gone too :(

I guess the freak accident took out both Shredder1 and Shredder2. :uhoh:

 

-----

17-4: “We’re On a Mission, Dammit!”

“Let’s break those glass doors and get inside through there,” Tim suggested. What a stupid idea it was.

“That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all day,” I bluntly said.

“Great! Then let’s do it! I’ll go find a rock,” Tim said, clearly not detecting the satire in my voice.

Just as Tim was about to walk off on a rock hunt, I pulled on his shoulder. “No, Tim, I was only kidding. We’re not really going to throw a rock at the glass door and break in through there.”

“Aaawww, whaaaat? Why not?”

“Because I have an even better idea. Follow me.”

 

I led Tim around the venue to the backside where the garbage dumpsters are. We weren’t too close to the dumpsters (yet) so the stench from them weren’t burning our noses (yet). We stood there as I kept my eyes focused on that backdoor, waiting for it to open.

“Uuuh… Rezzy?” Tim whispered to me. “What’s this ‘better idea’ you speak of?”

“Shh! Shh! Just wait,” I said, maintaining my focus on the backdoor.

 

The door opened minutes later with an employee wearing headphones, slacks and a white polo shirt rolling a trash can out of the venue. As he stopped to place a brick down on the ground as a doorstop, I could hear him singing aloud as if nobody heard him; he was obviously oblivious to the fact that Tim and I were actually watching him sing as he was doing his job. He was too preoccupied in his own world of loud music, so Tim and I being too noisy ourselves weren’t a concern. “WHEN THE WOOORLD IS RUNNING DOOOWN, YOU MAKE THE BEST OF WHAT’S STILL AROOUND!” he loudly sang as he threw a bag of trash from the can and into the dumpster. There’s our chance, I thought. This is the Olympics and I’m representing the country of Radiohead. Rezzy Leon, making his track debut. Will he make it to the finish line alive?

 

I kneeled down as if I was preparing myself to run a marathon. “What are you doing?” Tim said over my shoulder. With my eyes focused on the open door, I could feel Tim’s stare.

 

“We go NOW!” I shouted as I started to make a mad dash to the open door. Those were the longest fifteen seconds of my life. I felt the wind brush through my hair and my tongue hanging out of my mouth as if I was a dog sticking my head out of a car window. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage in an attempt to jump out of my body; it was a matter of life or death!

“Ugh! Wait for me, Rezzy!” I heard Tim yell from a distance.

“I HATE THE FOOD I EAT!” the employee sang with his back still turned to me, keeping his attention to his garbage duties.

 

Finally, I made it through the door and inside the venue. Wait, where’s Tim? I thought to myself as I looked behind me to see if Tim followed. Thankfully he did; I wasn’t going to wait on him for another second. We’re on a mission, dammit!

He ran inside to meet up with me and stopped to catch his breath.

“You… almost… left me… behind…,” Tim said as he was still trying to catch his breath.

“I told you I wasn’t going to wait up for you,” I said.

“No you didn’t! All you told me was ‘We go NOW!”

“Hey, lower your voice, will you? I don’t want us to get caught. We’re not supposed to be in here, y’know; we’re supposed to be in Coldplay’s dressing room negotiating with the bodyguards to get your phone back.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s get this shit over with.”

 

We made our way down a hall that had its walls tagged with autographs of the musical artists and bands that performed at the Deaf Music Hall in the past like David Bowie, Björk, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Boards of Canada, Neutral Milk Hotel, Def Leppard, Paul McCartney, Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam, Beck, Lil’ Wayne… The list goes on. Unfortunately I didn’t see Radiohead’s autograph on the walls anywhere. Do I have to climb up these walls to get a glimpse of Radiohead’s autograph? I thought. Anyway, I started to realize how distracted I was becoming from looking at the walls as I heard Tim from behind me whisper-shout “Hey! I found their dressing room!”

 

I took a few paces back and stood with Tim in front of their dressing room, staring at the laminated piece of paper that was taped on the door that read “Coldplay” in a really bold font.

 

“I thought each member of the band had a dressing room of their own,” I said, holding my gaze at the piece of paper.

 

“No, they don’t,” Tim said. “Ever since solo artists became a fad, bands have to share a dressing room. Besides, I’m sure the boys in Coldplay love to compliment each other’s bodies as they change in front of each other.”

 

“I’d ask you ‘Since when did solo artists ever become a fad?’ right now, but that’s not significant; we’re on a mission, dammit!”

 

“Right. So should we knock and see if anyone’s in there?”

 

Ignoring Tim’s question, I pressed my ear against the door and waited to listen for any movement coming from inside the dressing room, prompting Tim to suddenly be on the lookout for any employee of the venue who may be walking down the hall. I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. After a good five minutes or so of listening to dead silence from Coldplay’s dressing room, I finally backed away from the door.

 

“It’s dead silent in there,” I said to Tim.

 

“Should we knock and see if anyone’s in there anyway?” Tim suggested again.

 

“No. I have a better idea; we try to see if the door’s unlocked.”

 

“I don’t like that idea, Rezzy. I don’t.”

 

“What other option do we have?”

 

Tim shook his head and shrugged at my idea as I reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath, bracing myself for any possibilities as to what might be behind the door. My mind started to race as I could feel my hand freezing on the doorknob; What if they’re rubbing oil on each other’s bodies? What if they’re all naked comparing the size of their you-know-whats to each other? What if I ask myself another “What if” question?

 

Finally I worked up the courage to turn the doorknob. Holy shit, it’s unlocked! Then I slowly pushed on the doorknob as the door screeched open. The sound began to irritate me, giving me the serious case of the goose bumps, equivalent to the sound of nails scratching against a chalkboard. “This door…,” I thought, “…needs some WD-40.”

 

Continues with 17-5 here...

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17-5: “Running Away from Your Problems Won’t Solve Anything (Again)”

Finally, I opened the door to Coldplay’s dressing room. I poked my head in to look around and then made my entrance with Tim following as he cracked the door, afraid of making too much noise. I looked around the room in disbelief; their wardrobe with such bold colors, chairs positioned in front of mirrors and an acoustic guitar resting against the wall were the only things occupying the room—Coldplay wasn’t anywhere to be seen nor their bodyguards.

 

“I don’t believe this,” I said in denial. “They’re not even in here! Shouldn’t they be in here?”

 

“They’re doing sound check, remember?” Tim said. I could hear in his voice how annoyed he must’ve been with me at the time. “Let’s just go back outside and wait for the doors to the venue open. It’s safe to say my golden picture is lost… gone, if not.”

 

“Tim, don’t be so pessimistic! I’ll find a way! I found a way to get into their dressing room without getting caught, right?”

 

“Yeah… but… Yeah. Whatever.”

 

Suddenly we heard footsteps and chatter gradually fading in through the crack of the door. Tim and I looked at each other, exchanging facial expressions that read “Oh shit, we’re screwed!” Tim decided to quietly widen the crack to the door a little to leave enough room for him to poke his head through and look down the halls to see whose feet and mouths were making all that noise. Seconds later Tim promptly pulled his head back in the room and cracked the door… again.

 

“Shit! It’s them! It’s the bodyguards from earlier today! Aren’t we going to go talk to them?”

 

“Why would we do that? It’s not gonna be that easy. They’ll be questioning about why we’re here and stuff and I don’t want that to happen—it’d be too dicey,” I pointed out. A light bulb then lit in my head, prompting me to bust out my secret weapon—my phone.

 

“I don’t think 911 will be able to help us out of this situation, Rezzy,” a timid Tim said.

 

“I’m not going to call 911, Dumbass,” I said as I was scrolling down my list of contacts, pressing the call button on the contact named “Dumbass.”

 

A ringtone echoed down the hall from the pockets of one of the bodyguards—a song that had a voice singing “Carry your wooooorld,” aloud. I’d like to believe it was Chris Martin singing, but I’m not sure; I’m not a Coldplay fan. I’m only a fan of Chris Martin’s body.

 

The tapping sounds of shoes walking on the tiled floor and chatter suddenly died as one of the bodyguards answered the ringing phone. “Hello?”

 

“Yes, is Tim there?” I said as Tim mouthed something to me; I wasn’t sure what it was that he mouthed to me, but I think he was saying “Oooooh,” as if he knew what I was up to with my idea.

 

“Who’s Ti—” the bodyguard hesitated “—oh shit!” I suddenly heard footsteps double-time down the hall.

 

“Wait, where are you going?” the accompanying bodyguard—I’m assuming—said.

 

“I forgot to give that guy his phone back! Remember? When I took that picture with him and his friend and Coldplay and whatnot?”

 

“Dumbass! Why did you do that?!”

 

“I swear, it was NOT intentional!”

 

“’Not intentional’ my ass,” Tim mumbled.

 

The footsteps and chatter among the bodyguards faded out as they walked back out to find Tim, who was actually in the dressing room, closing the cracked door. He shot me a cold stare, followed by a malicious slap across the face.

 

“What the hell was that for?!” I said, holding the right side of my face in pain.

 

“For leading us in here! Had you called them when we were outside, they would’ve returned their phone to me and we could’ve been looking at the picture by now!”

 

“Don’t start pointing fingers, Timothy!”

 

“NO! SHUT UP! I HATE MY NAME!” He stormed out of the dressing room in disheartenment—I reluctantly followed him.

 

“Running away from your problems won’t solve anything!” I said to Tim’s back as I closed the door behind me. Tim was leading the way down the hall as we continued walking. I wasn’t sure where Tim was going exactly, but something told me that he was going to track down the bodyguard(s) who was/were in possession of Tim’s phone. If that was the case…

 

I then followed Tim right (literally, right) around a corner. Right when we made our way around the corner in the hall, Tim bumped into someone. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties and buttoned-up white shirt and khakis and an earpiece with a microphone and was wearing a backstage pass around her neck to make it look like she was an important person or something. Her clipboard fell to the floor upon impact against Tim. As I kneeled down to pick up her clipboard, I could hear an apologetic Tim ramble to her.

 

“I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry, ma’am! I… I did not see you there.”

 

“No, it’s okay, really,” she said as she brushed Tim’s filth off of her. “I’ve had worse impacts.” I returned the clipboard to her without looking at the papers that were clipped on; it reminded me that I still have at least some integrity left in me, despite the fact that Tim and I sneaked our way backstage to Coldplay’s dressing room.

 

“Where should you two be anyway?” she finally asked—no introduction whatsoever.

 

“We’re close friends with the band,” Tim said with a concealing smile. “We were personally invited to watch them do sound check.” He then pointed to me. “As a matter of fact, my friend Rezzy and I were just making our way out to the floor right now for the occasion.”

 

“Oh, okay.” The woman smiled. “Just be sure to not get accidentally caught. I don’t want either one of you two to be kicked out of the venue because of people thinking that you’re not supposed to be here. I’ll see you two later after the show, okay?”

 

“Erm… Sure! Sure.”

 

She walked away, cheesing a smile. It was a strange, uncertain smile. I picked up odd vibes from her; as if she just got laid or something. I couldn’t help it.

 

“She wants your sex, Tim,” I nudged him. We continued our way out to the floor.

 

“Now what makes you think that?”

 

“I don’t know. It was something in her smile as she walked away. Need I add that she was talking to you for the majority of the conversation?”

 

“Whatever.” Tim didn’t believe me. Then again, I didn’t think I believe myself either.

 

Suddenly we found ourselves walking down a tunnel-like hall, one that basketball and football players would walk out of in a stadium or arena. At the end of the hall, we saw a black curtain. To our right is a door that read “Enter… Stage Left.” Tim and I exchanged looks with each other, wondering which way to go.

 

“I think we have more of a shot of encountering the bodyguard if we enter through that door,” I said, pointing to the door.

 

“Why would he be behind that door? I’m sure he and his ‘co-worker’ are out there looking for me to give me back my phone.”

 

“Maybe Chris Martin could give us some details on their whereabouts?”

 

“Is Chris Martin the only member of Coldplay you know?”

 

“No. Just because I’m not a Coldplay fan doesn’t mean that my Coldplay knowledge is that low! I can prove it; Chris Martin, Guy Berryman, Will Champion and Jonny motherfucking Buckland.”

 

“Wow… For someone who’s not a Coldplay fan, I must ask you… Where did you get that information?”

 

“I got it from WikiColdplay.” I smiled.

 

Tim sighed out of annoyance. “Let’s go through the door,” he said, placing his hand on the doorknob. “I hope you know what we’re doing.”

 

Before he even got a chance to open the door to the stage, a simple, laidback and yet, intriguing—and catchy—drumbeat started to blast through the autographed walls and the black curtain as the band would begin their sound check. Bass and guitar riffs simultaneously joined in to support the drumming of Will Champion.

 

Anticipation sparkled in Tim’s eyes as anxiety radiated from his body, immediately spicing up the sense of urgency. We both knew we were in for a treat. For once, I agree with what Chris Martin’s muffled voice was singing on the other side of the wall; “In my place, in my place…”

 

I was in my place indeed! I was on the verge of my second meeting with Chris Martin!

 

Continues with 17-6 here...

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