Destroy Canada is a double "A" side book, with Stewart Black on one side, and Chris Walter on the other. Destroy Canada is scheduled to be released March 19, 2005.

 

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1.

Don’t Break My Toilets

 

 

 

The Last Chance Bar & Grill had once been a reputable establishment, but now it was just a thrashed out dump in need of a wrecking ball. Located in the charming Avondale Hotel on a nasty stretch of Main Street, the former home of world-renowned bluesmen such as One-Eyed Sam Harding and Lonesome Blue Coyote was as run down and scuzzy a joint as you never wanted to be caught dead in. Hope-to-die winos hesitated before entering its puke splattered interior, and shoplifters with even the slightest shred of integrity preferred to take stolen bricks of cheese elsewhere to peddle. The police knew every inch of it as intimately as the local Tim Horton’s, and were on a first name basis with every junkie, dealer, hooker, and pimp nested within. Even gangbangers avoided the joint like the plague, while musicians of any real stature knew of it only through one-inch newspaper articles on page three. Cockroaches and rats rejoiced. 

 

 

 

    It was only fitting that the Last Chance Bar & Grill was the Home of Punk Rock in Vancouver. After all, who but punks or junkies would have anything to do with the place?

 

 

 

    Mandy, the proprietor, stood on the sidewalk outside and looked up at an ancient sign ten feet above her head. The flickering neon painted the hollows of her cheeks red and yellow, and in the artificial light, she appeared almost ghostly. She was glad to see that the bolts and cables holding the sign to the wall seemed no looser than they had the day before, because one strong gust of wind would send the whole mess sailing out onto Main Street. Mandy took a final squint at the rickety structure, then leaned back against the wall to watch the patrons arrive. It was Saturday night, and all the punks, posers, and pinheads were sure to be thirsty.

 

 

 

    A group of scruffy young punks stumbled laughing towards the bar. As drunk as they were, their chuckles ceased instantly when they saw Mandy. There was something about the crusty proprietor that killed giggles dead. She had the cold hard stare of a homicide dick, and her withering gaze was enough to make a Hells Angel uncomfortable.

 

 

 

    “Uh, hi, Mandy… Who’s playing tonight?” said a punk with a fading black eye. His face was dirty and his clothes were ragged, but his mohawk was immaculate. He wobbled slightly in the mild evening breeze.

 

 

 

    Mandy gave the punks a hard look and noted dourly that they all had mohawks. “We’ve only got local bands tonight, Bryan. You and your pals might as well go on in.” Two of the kids wore ‘faux hawks’ with no hair shaved off on the sides, so she knew they were taking advan-tage of her edict that anyone with a ‘hawk got in free (except for special events), but what was a girl to do? Besides, it was fun to perpetuate the punk stereotype. 

 

 

 

    Bryan smiled drunkenly. “Thanks, Mand––”

 

 

 

    His words were cut short as a body flew through the front doors and landed in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk. A brawny man with short dark hair stepped from the bar. “Don’t come back, ya fuckin’ clown!” he said, dusting his hands. His hazel eyes were angry now, but when he wasn’t fighting, they glittered with intelligence and good humour. Neatly trimmed sideburns met up with a small goatee, framing his handsome face like fences painted a rich auburn brown.

 

 

 

    “What’d he do, Blow?” asked Mandy as the man on the sidewalk attempted to crawl away. A liberal quantity of blood stained the sleeves of his Edmonton Oilers jersey, and his eyes were dazed and glassy marbles.

 

 

 

    “He was being a real prick, smashing beer glasses and making crude passes at all the girls,” said Blow. The bouncer watched the man struggle to get to his feet, and it was clear that he yearned to add a few more licks. 

 

 

 

    Mandy shrugged indifferently. “Ah, let him be. He just had a few too many.”

 

 

 

    “And he smashed a toilet in the Men’s room.”

 

 

 

    “WHAT!” said Mandy, losing it instantly. She took two quick steps and kicked the man square in the ribs with her combat boots. “Smash my toilet, will you…” She took another vicious kick, which would have done considerable damage had the bouncer not lifted her effortlessly off the ground from behind. “LET ME DOWN, YOU BIG JERK!” she yelled, thrashing her feet impotently.

 

 

 

    “Calm down, Mandy,” said the bouncer, trying to avoid her swinging heels. “Remember what the cops said about assaulting the custom-ers.”

 

    The mention of police had a sobering effect on the rabid proprietor. She stopped struggling and hung limply in the bouncer’s arms. “I’m okay, Blow. You can put me down,” she said calmly.

 

 

 

    “He just ain’t worth it,” said the bouncer. “Ya can’t beat up every asshole that comes along.”

 

 

 

    “I know,” Mandy said evenly. But as soon as Blow put her down, she ran over and booted the drunken patron directly in the stomach. A geyser of beer puke sprayed from his mouth, but spurred on by fear, the drunk gained his feet and staggered rapidly away. Who would have guessed that a woman could kick so hard?

 

 

 

    “Don’t you EVER break my toilets!” screamed Mandy as Blow restrained her from chasing after the poor sap.

 

 

 

    Mandy loved the hotel unreasonably, and with every fiber of her being. She could not bear to see this bar nipped before it had a chance to flourish, like the other bar she had managed. Every hole in the wall or broken window was a direct attack on her person, and God forbid she should catch you in the act. It didn’t matter that the tired hotel longed to collapse into a pile of dirty bricks or burst spontaneously into flame, she cared for the bar as if it was her own tattooed and safety-pinned child, and no amount of argument could persuade her otherwise. In fact, it was best to watch your mouth when slandering the bar, for Mandy had broken more than one pint glass over the head of a detractor. If you fucked with the bar, you fucked with her. And consequently, with Blow as well.

 

 

 

    “Uh, maybe we should go inside now,” said Bryan to his group of followers. The punkers shuffled into the bar, and their mohawks cut through the smoky air like dorsal fins. The show was over.

 

 

 

    Blow looked over at his boss. There was no question about it––she was one tough looking broad. No beauty queen, but attractive in her own ferocious way, she had the looks that kill. Frazzled bleach blonde hair stood straight up as if she had jammed a fork in a light socket, and no one (with the possible exception of her husband) had ever seen Mandy without her prized leather trousers. Angry blue eyes dom-inated a face that rarely smiled, and those cobalt orbs could cut like laser beams even when she didn’t want them to. Completing the ensemble, scarred arms protruded from a denim vest heavy with studs and punk badges. In her mid-thirties, and with attitude to spare, Mandy was not the kind of girl to bring home to mother. 

 

 

 

    “C’mon, let’s go,” said Blow. He put his arm protectively around Mandy’s shoulders and steered her towards the doorway. For all her ferocity, he worried that someday she would get into real trouble.

 

 

 

    The angry proprietor followed Blow inside. The No Chance, as it was known by its punk patrons, was a dark and gloomy cavern. Hun-dreds of gig posters covered walls painted flat black, and a small stage flanked by towering speaker columns dominated the room. Barbed wire and junk art lent the place punk ambience, while cleverly arranged Christmas lights flashed subliminal Morse code to unwary customers: Drink More Beer… Drink More Beer. The bar patrons were in sharp contrast to the residents of the hotel, ranging from squeaky-clean college students to squeegee punks. Laughing and carefree, they occupied mismatched chairs and spilled beer on wobbly tables. It was a real life movie set, and the kids were the stars.

 

 

 

    Mandy took her place behind the bar. While still furious about the toilet, the adrenaline was fading and now she felt cheap and dirty. Why did patrons always insist that she beat the shit out of them? If they were getting some kind of cheap thrill from it, she wanted more money for her trouble.

 

 

 

    “Two pints, please,” said a young girl who looked no older than fifteen. Her hair was glossy, her clothes were clean, and obviously, her parents did not know where she was.

 

 

 

    “You got I.D.?” asked Mandy, frowning. No way did she want the cops to close the bar down because of some suburban brat with no identi-fication. The pigs were always looking for an excuse to lock the doors permanently.

 

 

 

     The girl took her identification from a Wal-Mart™ skull and crossbones purse and slid it across the bar. Her fear was blatantly obvious.

 

    Mandy scrutinized the I.D. the way a treasury agent might examine a suspicious fifty-dollar bill. When she was satisfied that the forgery was of a good quality, she flipped the plastic folder back to its owner and drew the pints without comment. Her responsibility was at an end. What did she care if a fifteen-year old got drunk on cheap swill and puked on her shoes? The legal drinking age was nineteen, but it was not Mandy’s job to save the world.

 

 

 

    The girl took the beer and vamoosed. Mandy leaned on the bar with her elbows and gazed out at the room. It was true that the blackened carpet stuck to your feet like Velcro, and that rats as big as, well, rats, bred prolifically in the walls. She could ignore leaky pipes and floorboards rotted by decades of spilled booze; indeed such details were easy to overlook. Sure, the hotel stunk of pee, and crackheads prowled the corridors, but these were minor details and nothing to get upset about. It did not matter that the revolution was over, that punk was nothing but a corpse writhing with the maggots of corporate sponsorship and consumer marketing. Even the kids who thought that Good Charlotte and Blink 182 were tha bomb did not tempt Mandy to throw in her bar rag, because, because… What was the reason, again?

 

 

 

    Oh, yeah. The music. It was true that many of the bands sucked, but there were more than enough good ones to make it all worthwhile. Besides, this was her place in the world. In this bar, she called all the shots and took shit from no one. What she said went, and if people didn’t like it, they could get the fuck out. Here she could book the bands she wanted, evict the patrons she didn’t like, and do whatever she pleased, any old time. In fact, she could have a drink whenever the mood struck her, like right now, for instance. Mandy mixed herself a purple headed slut, which consisted of grape juice and Jagermeister, and took a good hit. She loved to paint and sculpt in her free time, but it was too hard to put food on the table as a commercial artist. This job, while not perfect, sure beat the hell out of a regular nine-to-five.  

 

 

 

    Customers lined up at the bar as the first band switched on their amps and began a noisy assault. Mandy served drinks, using mostly sign language and her memory to fill the orders. The band on stage might as well have been a noisy machine to shout over for all the attention she could afford them. With three to five bands a night parading through the doors, year in and year out, it was impossible for Mandy to give them all due credit. They could be beating on garbage can lids (and sometimes they were), and she wouldn’t even notice. Occasionally, she took a few minutes out to watch her favourite bands, but Mandy often missed groups she wanted to see. It was a price she was willing to pay.

 

 

 

    A grey rat, five and a half feet tall, ran past with a case of empty bottles. “Hey, Johnny!” shouted Mandy, drawing pints with both hands. “Don’t forget these!” She pointed to a table near the bar cluttered with empties. The rat swooped in without a word and collected the bottles. It was Johnny Blaze’s job to pick up the glasses and empties before they got broken, and to dis-courage sexual acts and drug deals. To mock the punk dress code, Johnny Blaze wore everything from rat costumes to drag, and was known to sport a fake mohawk when the moon was just right. Unlike Mandy, it wasn’t his job to perpetuate a stereotype.

 

 

 

    The first band left the stage to the indifference of all. Mandy looked out across the bar at her patrons. Vancouver crowds were notoriously unresponsive, and would not get excited if Sid Vicious himself were to crawl from his grave to entertain them. It wasn’t cool to clap or other-wise show that you gave a damn, but it was fine to yawn widely and complain that the beer was too expensive. Image was all-important. 

 

 

 

    Mandy shook her head and downed her drink. Perhaps she was being too rough on the young punks––perhaps she was just a wee bit jaded. After all, it was Saturday night, and the kids were alright.

 

 

 

    So long as they didn’t trash the washrooms.