Concert Fanatic

fa·nat·ic /fəˈnadik/ noun: a person with an obsessive interest in and enthusiasm for something, especially an activity.

Neon spotlights flashed around the stage where the singer belted out lyrics behind his drum set. In the midst of a frenzied audience, a young man knelt, holding the side of his head. "You okay bro?" his friend yelled over the music.

The man waved him off. "Don't worry about me, my head just hurts a little. I think I'll head home and lie down or something." His friend nodded his sympathies before turning back to watch the stage. Wondering whether the melody or drum cadence had sounded so off, so eerie in previous concerts, the young man staggered off, nursing his worsening headache.

With a flourish, the singer hit the last note. Raising his arms in a triumphant wave, he tossed his drumsticks into the screaming crowd before mouthing a thank you and sauntering off into the small dressing room. Once inside, he locked the door and shrugged off his sequined jacket and velvet pants, casually tugging off his gelled, black hair. Straight brown locks tumbled down to the figure's shoulders as she yanked an elastic binder off of her chest, slipping her arms through a pair of overalls emblazoned with JOHNNY THUNDERBIRD. Casting a glance back at the slumped silhouette in the bathroom, she stuffed the clothes into a small backpack. Grabbing a phone from the front pocket, her fingers swiped over the screen. A smile formed on her face as she read a week old headline in the news: Budding Pop Artist Found Dead Near Atlanta Concert Site. Mm, Atlanta was a really nice city, she thought as she scrolled further, her grin widening when she read the previous headline: A Dozen Citizens Found Mysteriously Dead In Scattered Atlanta Homes. "It's such a wonder how little twists in music can mess so much with a human's mind," she murmured out loud. "No one suspects of a little headache. Take some Advil, lie down, hope it gets better, never wake up." She  slung the backpack over one shoulder when her phone buzzed in her hand. "Another concert... hmm, Seoul sounds fun. Ooh, Ong Hyun-ah, isn't this only her third concert?" She giggled a little and, tucking her phone into her pocket, she slipped outside into the flow of chattering people, just another fan leaving after an exhilarating night.

She turned a corner, blending in with a few groups of breathless fans, then turned another corner, and another, and another, navigating the winding alleyways skillfully and leaving the concert site far behind. In a deserted back lot she stopped by a metal trash can.  Carelessly, she took off her backpack and  tossed it in. She unlocked her phone and opened a bank account. Agnes de Duelo, it said, $220,000. With a few taps, she deleted all the apps and information, shut down the phone, and threw it in as well. A mini-can of oil she produced from her pocket was sloshed over the contents. A small orange light flickered and spread over the soaked items in an instant sea of flame as the girl added match after lighted match. Tucking the matchbox back into her overalls, she turned on her heel and walked back through the maze of narrow streets.

The next day, a blonde girl in an I ♡ NYC  cap carrying a duffel bag left Incheon International Airport. Once in a public library, she sat down at a guest computer. In a few minutes, she had transferred $695,000 from one Ong Hyun-ah's bank account through several other accounts and eventually to a Jacque Evelyn. Quickly logging out, she put in a pair of earbuds and, listening to The Psychology Podcast by Dr. Scott Barry Kaufman, she headed towards the train station to Seoul.

Author's Note

This is actually a piece I wrote a year or so ago. I do notice that I use "and" a lot in my writing, so if you have any tips for me about that please leave a review!