8Disclaimer: Still don't own anything, just FYI
Chapter 2: Holidays in the Daily Sun
Having left their recording studio around 30 minutes ago, the 'Pistols had been walking from block to block down the sidewalk in the cold drippy weather for some time now, ignoring the photo snaps from a pursuing band of journalists for the Daily Sun across the street as their gazes angrily switched back and forth between the photographers and the ground.
Sid decided that it would be best if he just kept his eyes on his feet, hoping that it would alleviate his level of annoyance spawned by the relentless flashes. Yet again, the attention he usually gamed for went unwanted.
"I wish all these yobs would stop starin' at us," he grumbled.
"Just keep walking," Johnny said, his eyes hidden by his rose-tinted sunglasses. "We're almost there, aren't we?"
"I think so," Vicious looked back, for once being the one in the lead. "The docks should be around Hudder's Street, or so."
"Yeah," Steve piped-in. "They're right by the shoppin' district."
"So Malcolm's gonna have a boat ready for us then?" Paul asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Yeah," Sid replied.
There was a brief silence between the four until Steve spoke-up with a question.
"So are we really doin' this?"
The other three were silent. The reality of the situation mutually donned upon them at that moment.
"W-well," Paul stammered for words, "what are the chances that Malcolm's gonna get a fuckin' boat?"
"It's Malcolm," Johnny gave him a glare, then sneered out through his teeth, "he'll get one…"
Another brief silence fell over the foursome for a moment, each of them deep in thought (sans perhaps Sid, who was only able to plummet to neurological depths within the shallow range).
"Maybe we can use this to our advantage," Johnny mused, his sardonic tone clashing with the rather positive statement.
"How?" Steve's cynicism, for once in a situation, outshined John's.
"Take the boat, sail somewhere out of the way. Disappear."
Paul sighed.
"Is it really worth all this trouble?" he vexfully exclaimed.
The drummer suddenly rushed out in-front of the others and stopped to face them.
"I mean, would making another one of Malcolm's two-bob films really be that much worse than havin' to go through all this sailin' nonsense!?"
"Think about what you're saying, Paul!" Johnny's eyes went wide(er).
"Think about what we're doing, John!" Cook's uncharacteristically fiery retort garnished a stunned silence from the other three Pistols. "We don't know anything about boats! We don't know anything about sailing! This is fucking MAD!"
Sid practically pounced on Cook and gripped him by his shirt collar, nearly lifting him off his feet.
"Did you read the script!?" Vicious screamed. "Did you fucking read it!?"
Johnny and Jonesy quickly grasped Sid by his arms and struggled to pry him off of Paul.
"Talking dogs, Paul!" Jones grumbled out whilst fighting against Sid's resistance.
"'The Sex Pistols save Christmas'," Johnny quickly recited just as he and the guitarist freed Cook from Sid's grasp with a simultaneous tug.
After the scuffle, the four stood there for a moment, lazily readjusting their clothes as their shared tension and animosity towards one another slowly faded.
"I think John's got an idea," Steve plainly stated, getting a slow nod from Vicious.
"If we can just get the boat out of British waters we can find someplace to settle for a bit," Rotten added, looking to Paul for any sign of approval.
"Kind of like a holiday," Sid concluded.
There was another silence as the other three awaited Paul's verdict. A light suspense persisted until Cookie let out a heavy breath.
"Yeah," he began, letting his shoulders drop, "I suppose that's our best option."
Johnny crossed his arms.
"Alright then," he nodded. "It shouldn't be too hard getting out of the public eye…," an eye of his own loomed towards the photographers across the street. "For once, Malcolm ain't airin' all our goings-on."
"Yeah," Steve managed to let a smile creep into his lips. "It's not like anyone knows about this."
Suddenly, a sole photographer who had gotten quite bold parted from his group across the street and rushed up beside Paul, relentlessly flashing pictures as the drummer scowled at him.
"Piss in the bushes!" he yelled.
"Piss off!" Johnny yelled back.
Before he could respond to the remark, the photographer was forced to retreat when Rotten threw a flailing kick towards his camera, leaving Sid to place his readied bike chain back into his pocket as the cameraman dashed back to his fellow journalists.
Apparently satisfied with their work, the parasitic paparazzi went walking in the opposite direction of the punks, who despite their growing distance managed to catch a few snippets of the cameramen's gloating,
"I got an angry look from Paul and a 'piss off' from John!"
"That's great! More than enough to last a few months!"
"Hey, let's go see what that Scottish army bloke with the mohawk's doing!"
"YAY!"
Effectively annoyed, the Sex Pistols continued their trek across the oddly empty town, passing block after block, street after street.
"I was thinking," Sid started, breaking what had been a lengthy stint of silence.
"Good job, Sidney," Rotten smirked.
"Shut up," he gave John a scowl. "I meant about Soul Edge…"
"Wha'?" Jones laughed.
"'Soul Edge'!" Sidney snapped at him. "You know, that magic sword on the island that the map leads-"
"Aughhh…," The rest of the band groaned.
"Really, Sid?" Cook laughed.
"Don't tell me you still believe that old wise-tale," Rotten hissed.
Sid abruptly came to a halt, eyeing John pointedly once he, Steve, and Paul followed suit.
"How do you know it's not real?" the bassist demanded, crossing his arms.
Johnny couldn't even regard the question with enough merit to offer an answer, only able to smirk through his nose, shaking his head disdainfully. Paul and Steve each bit their lips to keep from outwardly howling.
"What a tosser!" Paul cackled, finally losing it with a literal slap of his knee. "Hahaahaha!"
"I'll betcha he still believes in fucking Santa Claus!" Jonesy spat out before being thrown into full-blown laughter.
Keeping his arms crossed, Sid fumed as he stomped forward, grumbling to himself whilst his friends continued their riotous laughter.
"Stupid cunts," he mumbled. "Of course Santa's real…"
The teasing and laughter soon died-down and the Sex Pistols were again journeying in silence. The silence was short lived, for the length of their venture was beginning to ware on a few of them.
"This is miserable!" Vicious spat out a complaint. "I'm sick of all this bloody walking!"
"Shut up, Sidney," Johnny muttered.
"C'mon, John," Steve groaned, sounding just as whiny as Sid. "Let's just get a cab, or something."
Rotten sighed in defeat, coming to a stop, causing the other three to also do so.
"Alright," he rolled his eyes. "Let's get a cab, then."
They were able to hail a cab rather quickly, seeing as how there was a respectable amount of them driving about; It also helped that the Sex Pistols frantically jumping and waving their arms on the sidewalk was a fairly difficult sight to miss, especially with the oddly small amount of people out and about.
Once a cab stopped, the four of them piled into the back, scrounging around until they fixed themselves into a workable yet squished row. After this, they each chipped in a coin or two and handed them to John, who then passed them off to the driver upfront. He let them drop into his collection bowl, rattling as they landed.
"Okay," the Arabian cabbie looked back at them, all smiles. "Where do yoo needs too goh?"
"Dunno yet," Jonesy grunted as he straightened a leg to withdraw his roadmap from his jean pocket. "We're trying to get to the docks."
"Oh, no," the cabbie shook his head. "I doo nat go dat far, is out of my area. I can take yoo too Hooders Street."
"That's fine," Steve replied, more invested in his grappling contest with his roadmap which stubbornly insisted on staying closed.
Once it finally came unfolded, all four band members huddled together in order to view the map.
Hudder's Street_
I_I Some Street
I_I
Which Street_I_That Street
I_ I _What Street
I _I
Another Street_-I-_This Street
"Well," Johnny started, "since we're on This Street-"
"Nah," Steve interrupted, "we're on That Street."
"No," Rotten persisted, "We're still on This Street; We haven't even gotten onto That Street yet!"
"What street?" Paul asked.
"No!" Rotten exclaimed. "This Street!"
"Oh, that street," the drummer nodded.
"This Street!" Johnny again corrected him.
"Wait, which street?" Sid inquired.
"No, that's way up there!" Steve yelled. "We'd have to get on Some Street before then."
"Yeah, but which street-" Sid persisted.
"Forget about Which Street!" Johnny demanded. "We don't need that street!"
"Of course we do! We're on That Street!" Steve yelled.
"Yeah, we're on this street, right here," Paul added.
"No, Steve just said it's That Street!" Rotten declared.
"Right, this street, that we're on right now!" the drummer repeats himself.
"We aren't on This Street!" Sid snapped. "We're on another street!"
"No!" Steve argued. "We're on That Street! We can get onto Another Street if we keep going straight."
"But which street?" Johnny asked.
"He didn't say a fuckin' thing about that street!" Sid barked.
"What!?" Rotten sneered.
"Look!" Paul yelled over the others. "If we stop before we get onto Another Street, we can just turn onto Some Street and…"
"Which Street, though?" Rotten cut in.
"Could we get off of fucking Which Street!" Jones exclaimed.
"We're on This Street, you wanker!" Vicious screamed.
"Look, are we takin' Some Street or Another Street to Which Street?" Steve groaned-out a question, fairly exasperated.
"Which Street would be quicker," Paul answered.
"I think Some Street would be faster," Sid replied.
"No!" Cook snapped. "I mean 'Which Street' would be quicker!"
"I just bloody told ya!" Sid yelled back.
"What's wrong with Another Street?" Johnny piped-in.
"Which Street is better!" Paul fumed.
"I don't know which street is better; I'm askin' you!" Rotten fired back. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with this street anyway!"
"What about That Street?" Sid asks.
"I said it's fine!" Rotten answered roughly.
"But you were talkin' about This Street," Paul corrected him.
"No, That Street!" Johnny replied.
"Alright!" Jones yelled over everyone else. "Let's just take This Street and get onto Another Street!"
"Wait, which street?" Sid asked.
"No!" Jones yelled. "See? This street right here!"
"Oh, that street," Paul nodded.
"He said This Street!" Rotten barked.
A few blocks ahead of the taxi, a travel agent was showing a group of apartments to an elderly French couple.
"As you can see Mr. and Mrs. Lafitte," the travel agent smiled whilst gesturing towards the buildings before them, "this would be a wonderful choice for the two of you."
"Iz Eet quieht?" asked Mr. Lafitte.
"Oh, heavens yes," laughed the travel agent. "The kids call this the 'dullest place in London'."
"Oh, zat tis zoh lovely," Mrs. Lafitte smiled.
"No little bratz running about?" her husband inquired with a laugh.
"Of course not," smiled the travel agent. "No punks here, I'm afraid".
As a taxi cab drove past the three, its rear door flew open and out popped the Sex Pistols onto the sidewalk at Mister and Misses' Lafitte's feet, a tangled heap of flailing limbs and expletives as the four were engaged in a brawl.
After hitching a ride from the begrudgingly hospitable travel agent who's schedule for the day now included much more free-time, the band exited the vehicle when they had reached Hudder's Street and waded between the traffic across the road to the opposite sidewalk to have an easier go of reading the signs and banners of all the different stores and shops that lined the street's left side,
"King's Diamonds- Jewelry for the whole family, even GRANDMA!"
"Wonder Specs- Your eyes won't cry!"
"Wagon Wheels- They aren't smaller, You're just crazy"
"MMmmmmm, Wagon Wheels….," Sid thought as he longingly eyed the latter sign, almost instinctively placing a foot out to walk in the direction of the store.
"Ay, look Sid!" his thoughts were disrupted by Steve's suddenly jovial voice.
Vicious and Rotten looked to see what their guitarist was on about as he peered down the block and pointed to a blonde-haired woman in heavy make-up and stockings at the end of the block.
"It's your girl Nancy!" Steve laughed
As John and Jonesy cackled at his expense, Sid took a step towards Jones and gave him a quick fist to the side of the arm.
"Fuck off!" he grumbled, crossing his arms.
Favoring his stricken left arm, Steve eyed the working girl with a cheeky grin, surprised when she gave him a dainty, yet possibly drunken wave.
"Nancy looks a lot prettier than usual, don'she, Sid?" he smirked, this time finding an arm wrapped around his neck.
"Say it again!" Vicious screamed as Johnny tried to pry him off of Steve. "Say it again, you cunt!"
After taking a moment to glance back at his bandmates roughhousing on the sidewalk, Paul turned his attention to the window of the travel agent's car, and gave it a knock, prompting him to roll it down.
"Thanks for the ride, mate," Cookie smiled. "Sorry about ruinin' your sale and all that."
"Whatever," the man rolled his eyes, hastily turning from Paul to put move his clutch into drive.
He proceeded to roll-up his window and drive onward, giving Paul and the rest of the band a parting glare. He redirected his attention to the road, muttering to himself,
"'Hope they all drown…"
Upon turning his head, Paul saw that the rest of the band had calmed down. He was left to idle between the two lanes of traffic, the one in front of him being far more congested than the lane their begrudging chauffer was in. Eventually, a driver stopped on his behalf, allowing him just enough time before he and the rest of the traffic continued on in a seemingly unending stream.
"What's with all this traffic?" Cook raised an eyebrow, now standing alongside his fellow Pistols.
The four stood and watched as pedestrian after pedestrian after pedestrian after pedestrian passed them on the street.
"Where do ya think they're going?" Steve had to ask, noticing that the opposite lane was nearly empty.
Johnny rubbed his chin in thought, eyeing off into the far reaches of the street.
"The other lane leads back into the city," he thought aloud, "and this one only leads out to the…"
Rotten's words trailed-off as an epiphany struck him and the rest of the band. Worried looks were exchanged between themselves, as were worried thoughts that went unverbalized.
"How would anyone know?" Paul asked. "Malcolm said he was keeping this quiet, right!?"
The punks were caught off-guard by a loud horn coming from a car just a ways down the street. They turned towards the noise from their left instinctively, just in time to see the driver poke his head and a waving arm out his window.
"Hey, Sex Pistols!" he yelled, still hammering down on his horn. "Hey!"
Another horn from another car shot their heads to the right. The automobile had passed them, its driver and her passenger had their heads turned around to give them spastic waves of their own.
Then another horn came, and another, until the street was abuzz with an ear-splitting orchestra of various honks, before the clatter and chatter of people exiting the shops followed.
They were surrounded. Another frenzy. So much noise, so much commotion. All centered around them. Their eyes shot from the cars to the barrage of people barreling down on them from all sides. Out of the shops, from across the street, some even getting out of their cars. All gunning for them with a crazed frenzy of excitement.
"It's them!"
"It's the Sex Pistols!"
"Oi, Sid!"
"Good luck, boys!"
"The Sex Pistols!"
"Smooth sailin'!"
"Johnny!"
And they still honked their horns.
"Honk-honk!"
"Beep!""H-honk!"
"Hooonk!"
"Bee-beep!"
It all melded into a visual blur and a sonic mush of adrenaline. The Pistols' eyes darted this way and that, having lost all sense of direction in this blender of sound and wildness. There was only one course of action they could take, and it was soon put into motion via a panicked cry from Johnny Rotten,
"Leg it!"
Not knowing where-else to run, the band found themselves sprinting into the nearest shop, barging through the door as quickly as they shut it behind themselves, leaving the mob of people to barrage the shop's wall and windows with frantic shouts and fists. Gasping for breathes, they slouched against the door and wall, slumping to seated positions on the floor.
"What's havin' tha four ov you in sucha hurray?"
The Pistols raised their heads to discover that the voice came from the man sitting at the small store's check-out counter on the left side of the store. He was a small Scotsman, seemingly in his mid-30s or 40s. The man reached into his dress-shirt's breast pocket to retrieve his spectacles, taking a moment to rub them clean with his sleeve.
"'Quite a commotion outside, isn't thar, laddies?" he quipped whilst doing so.
Once they were cleaned, he popped-on his glasses, bringing the four men sitting against the wall into focus.
"Blimey!" he exclaimed. "You're the-"
"Yeah, yeah!" Johnny popped onto his feet. "Sod it, already!"
"Oh, well than," the Scotsman found himself a bit taken-back by Rotten's roughness, but still rather starstruck, regaining his cheery disposition with a clearing of his throat, "this is mi store, 'Stereotypical Alan's Conveniently-Placed Costume Shop'!"
"Wonderful," John murmured, not even attempting to sound sincere as he hoofed past Stereotypical Alan's counter towards the circular racks of guising garmantry. He stopped, easing his eyes upward to regard the prices hung above each individual rack.
Back against the wall, the three remaining Pistols still sat against the door as it frantically lurched with varying forces and wildly screamed with varying voices behind them.
As Johnny dared to eye the price tags looming over the cylindrical clothing racks, Steve took it upon himself to chance a glance out the window at the ravenous flock with only 4 inches of foundation and an inch of glass between he them.
A sole face suddenly plastered itself against the glass, causing Steve to leap back with a yelp, which in-turn snapped Paul and Sid onto a vertical base.
Thoroughly rattled, the three of them wordlessly migrated over to where John was still eyeing Stereotypical Al's prices,
"Clown Costumes- £180"
"Vampire Costumes- £260"
"Royal Knight Costumes- £390"
"Glam-Rocker Costumes- £130"
"Fucking hell," Johnny glared back at Stereotypical Alan. "'This a piss-take?"
"Yeah," Sid added, "who in the hell would pay that much to dress like some faggy vampire?"
"Ay," Stereotypical Alan narrowed his brow as he looked to Vicious, "vampyahs 'll be big someday. Tha lassez will be all-ovah 'em, mark me words!"
"Oh, right," Paul laughed, "and Sid here will be a sex-symbol one day, won' he?"
"Well," Stereotypical Alan rubbed his chin, "if yer wantin' somethin' chayper, than I be havin' some ol' rags left ovah from that th'r play dat waz here a few weeks ago. 'Some quir drabble 'bout-"
"PONK! Ponk! PONK!"
The mob outside was becoming more feverish, their crashes against the front wall had escalated in frequency and violence.
"Is there a backway outta here?" Rotten asked.
"Iy," the Scotsman replied with a weary eye to the now cracked windows. "You boys best be hurryin' yerselves along soon, I'd say…"
At this point, Stereotypical Alan had to sit down. His inability to decide on an accent left him with a terrible headache, not to mention a grave worry that his nondescript tongue left his name's merit in question, as the author gave him no physical traits that were discernibly Scottish, or any physical traits outside of a pair of glasses, for that matter, leaving his proud label of "stereotypical" to rest flimsily on his ever-changing dialect alone.
Feeling that said author was wasting too much of their time carrying-on about some minor character, the Sex Pistols made their way to the backroom of the shop, finding the small room to be empty, save a large crate lackadaisically labeled "P.O. Penzance" with a sharpie-marker.
Now begarbed in their newly acquired costumes, our punky protagonists journeyed through the tucked-away backstreets towards what they assumed to be the epicenter of all the madness. Ironically enough, the frenzied noises and commotions in the not-too-far-off distance seemed to settle the closer they got to the docks, eventually to such a point that they were able to slow from a panicked sprint to a default walking pace.
They had reached the area locally-known as Dock Hill. It wasn't a hill, but rather a slightly elevated area of land overlooking the docks at the end of its sloop down to the shoreline. The smell of the salty waters sailed across the air, the salty scent just barely able to be carried up the slope from the waters.
"Arr, I'll bet wee be gettin' closAR," Steve crooned-out, unable to prevent a self-amused grin whilst prissing-up the buttoned edges of his lavender frock-coat.
"Oh, come off it, Steve," Paul rolled his eyes, his eyebrows pushing-up on the front end of his red bandana. "You haven't quit talkin' like that since we put these stupid things on."
"Arrr," Jonesy moaned, half-smiling, his sea-salted tongue undaunted, "but I've always been wantin' to be a pirate I have!"
"You're serious?" Paul had to ask, mostly out of concern, but partially of amusement.
"Iy," Jonesy proudly nodded, touting his chin up and closing his eyes.
Johnny had to grin as he fiddled with the feather stylishly protruding from his gold-trimmed tri-hat.
"I kinda like these, too," he plainly stated as his focused turned to his feathered shirt's puffy sleeves.
"Yeah," Sid laughed as his flicked at his eyepatch. "I feel like Ziggy Stardust with this thing on."
While they were oddly pleased with their piratical disguises, the Pistols still wearily eyed the people standing along the pier. They received a few surprised, even jovial looks from various persons, but those seemed to be because of their outfits as opposed to themselves. In spite of this, the overall setting was rather contained.
Although the scene was much calmer than the one that sent them fleeing from Hudder's Street, the atmosphere was still celebratory. Most people were drinking, some were taking pictures. There were even a few boys in blue sprinkled about to maintain order. It was like watching a group of people waiting to get into some sort of Woodstock-like affair.
Eventually merchandise booths cropped-up along the sides of the pier. Their bannerous billboards protruded above the crowds and clusters of people, boasting whatever food, drink, or clothing product the booth offered,
"Vicious Burgers"
"Pistol Pints"
"Argh," Steve growled. "I be wantin' to plundar me sum treasARR, me hearties."
By then, the assumed piratey color of the guitarist's speech was wearing thin on more people than Paul.
"Really, Steve," Rotten moaned, then broke into a piratish spat of his own. "It be gettin' old, harty…," he trailed-off as his eyes went to more billboards.
"Rotten Bars"
"Jonesy Hankies"
"Yarhar," Jonesy laughed, still maintaining his sea-dog jargon. "But I be buntin' up, me hear-"
"Shattup!" Sid smacked him across the arm, only getting another laugh from Jones for his efforts, leaving Paul to curiously give the next few billboard ads a look,
"Seditionaries Clothing"
"Paul Cookies"
The Sex Pistols suddenly stopped walking as some sort of external disturbance overwhelmed them, though they couldn't quite tell what it was.
"Is it just me," Steve found his speech devoid of nautical refinement as he paused to watch a few kids run past him, taking eye to the Union Jack-patterned handkerchiefs, much like his own, on their heads, "or does something just seem… weird?"
"Something seems very wrong here," Johnny's eyes moved from one sign to the next.
"Johnny, look!" Paul stepped-up to the singer's side, pointing a finger out towards a booth that had gone unnoticed by the rest of the group.
Johnny averted his damning gaze from a t-shirt vendor to Paul's pointed direction, finding himself horrified by the sign above it,
"Johnny Rotten Masks!"
His eyes lowered to see men, women, and children happily parting from the booth with their heads bemasked in clumps of rubber with something that was supposed to be his own face shaped on the front of them, and clumps of what looked like orange hairballs that were supposed to be his hair splat on the top of them. The only detail they got half-way right was the eyes: two googley dots of white that stuck-out like saucers slapped onto the lumpy "face" of lumps and creases, one of those creased supposedly meant to be a mouth. His mouth.
"Why?" was all he could bring himself to say. "Why would anyone…," he let the notion trail-off, leaving it unfinished as he leapt to another inquiry. "What kind of stupid little moron would buy this garbage?"
After letting that rhetorical inquiry hang in the air for a moment, Steve's face became contorted in thought,
"Where is Sid, anyway?"
"Hey, guys!"
Steve, John, and Paul looked behind them to see Sid practically skipping towards them, chomping on a burger with all the glee of a child walking home from the toy store with a new doll.
"Hey!" he greeted his bandmates once he leapt up to them, bits of his burger flying from his maulers as he spoke, words muffled by said burger. "Ch'ck it o't! It's ah Vicious Burger!"
"That's wonderful, Sid," Paul groaned, shielding his face from burger chunks with his arm, as did Steve and John.
As he swallowed, Sid frantically reached into a pocket on his fur vest and withdrew a rubbery, flesh-colored clump of rubber adorned with orange fuzz.
"And check-out this ugly mask this kid gave me!" Vicious held it up for their viewing benefit. "Who's this ugly fucka supposed to-"
Johnny swatted the mask out of Sid's hand, getting a "Heeey!" from the lummox.
"Now what'd ya do that for!?" he took a step towards Rotten.
"Because you're a tosser!" Johnny yelled.
"Well you're an ugly fucka!" Vicious fired back.
"No, you're an ugly fucker!" Rotten replied.
"No, you are!"
"No, you are!"
"Irish cunt!"
"Stupid, useless junkie!"
"I ain't stupid n' useless, you yob!"
"Yee both be landlubbers!" Jones chimed-in.
Paul gave Steve a hard shove.
"God-dammit!" Cook screamed. "Would you stop with that!?"
"ATTENTION! ATTENTION!"
Their squabbling was halted by a booming voice that popped over the sporadically-placed loudspeakers about the area. Rather, the voice itself was far from booming, but the sheer volume and amplification provided by the PA system made even the man's nasally, pseudo-posh shrill of a voice thunder with quite the baritone force. Even still, the Sex Pistols would've recognized that voice anywhere. The Sex Pistols would've recognized that voice at any volume. They would have recognized that voice at any amplification, at any level of bravado, because they knew the man who possessed it all too well.
"Malcolm," Johnny sneered.
The band collectively stepped-forward, now peering down at the docks from atop the sloop along with a few other onlookers, finding the sight that greeted them horrific. Countless cheering people freshly clad in Sex Pistols merchandise from the booths flashing their cameras and waving flags and banners, various police vehicles and even uniformed Royal Guards lined around the peoples' outskirts, the paparazzi and other news bodies, including a heavy presence from the Daily Sun, crammed in front of the people to stand nearly at the skirt of the large, gloriously-decorated stage. Upon the stage was a gigantic ship that seemed as though it had been ripped directly from 16th century waters: A wooden, cannon-boasting Spanish war galleon of mammoth proportions. However, even more titanous than the behemoth of nautical triumph majestically nestled at center stage, at least to the Sex Pistols, was the tiny speck of a man standing practically beneath the ship's outstretching nose. Malcolm Maclaren, still yelling boisterously into his microphone, his shrill, nasally voice continuing to boom over the roaring crowd through the loudspeakers like the cannons of the Spanish vessel directly into his clients' ears,
"MAY I PRESENT TO YOU, THE SEX PISTOLS' GLORIOUS WARSHIP, 'THE PROUD BAMBI'!"
The crowd's already deafening screaming was sent to even more ear-challenging decibels.
"AND THIS GLORIOUS WARSHIP, AND THIS GLORIOUS WARSHIP'S VOYAGE WOULD NEVER HAD BEEN POSSIBLE WITHOUT THE WONDERFULLY CHARITABLE FOLKS AT THE DAILY SUN!"
The crowd exploded once again.
"This isn't exactly 'quiet'," Johnny shook his head.