Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s

by Michael J. Flaherty

  I was wrong. The office was totally dark and empty and the candles and incense were out. ‘Where the fuck did everybody go?’ I didn't know and really didn’t care at that point.

  I decided that all I wanted was ten minutes alone, by myself with two cans of plain wrap ‘BEER’ and a couple of cigarettes. It had been a very crazy night so far and it wasn't about to be over yet.

  I made my way though the crowded dance floor to the make-shift bar we had built and asked Billy, who was Vince’s cousin and our bartender for two cans of cold beer, which he promptly provided me with.

  My ‘alone for ten minutes by myself’ plan was working perfectly. I made my way back through the crowd secure in the knowledge that Lyle and Dave were taking good care of the front door and the line outside, Dana was who-the-fuck knows where and the money was safely locked in my office safe.

  Studio B.... That would be my sanctuary. Just for ten Goddamn minutes by myself with the beer and smokes. We had constructed four-foot by eight foot doors to each rehearsal studio room for soundproofing. One interior door and one exterior door with airspace in between. All the doors were to be securely locked on club nights.

  I was surprised to find the doors to studio B open, and the room lights off.

  Turning on the lights, beers in hand I immediately saw two people, a naked guy and girl fucking their brains out on the couch. Feeling like I'd just walked into the set of a bad porn flick, I left the lights on and studio door wide open as they both looked up at me in surprise. Maybe it was the mood I was in given the evenings events so far or maybe it was the fact that Dana had recently turned fridged and I was jealous that somebody else was getting laid, I was pissed.

  “Lyle!” I screamed so loud that he heard me twenty feet away over the volume of the music.

  “Get that fucking couple out of studio B!”

  “What fucking couple?”

  “The only couple in there fucking! And don't give'em a chance to dress!”

  Lyle obliged, escorting the nude pair through the crowd and past the still growing line waiting outside. Within a couple of minutes there were two people standing on Santa Monica Boulevard totally naked, the female of which was Doria, Vince, my friend and partner's girlfriend.

  “Good job Lyle,” I chuckled. I had given up on the thought of any private time and decided to hang with he and Dave at the front door.

  “Can't I take'em their clothes Mike? You're being cruel, dude”

  “Yeah, but wait a few minutes, no rush.”

  Then realizing that Vince would probably be returning from his hospital ‘transport’ run any minute and would be more than a bit disturbed to see his long-time girl friend standing naked with an equally naked man on the sidewalk, I relented.

  “Oh hell, go give'em their fucking clothes now.”

  “Honey, the toilet's getting really bad now, there are turds floating down the hallway in the piss.” Dana, appearing from nowhere cooed, her sweet voice making it sound almost romantic. “By the way, what's going on? You look upset.” she added.

  “Short answer, Hon. Your slut friend Doria was banging the shit out of some dude in studio B and I had Lyle toss her ass out.”

  “Don't call Doria a slut!”

  “OK....your whore friend Doria was banging the shit out of some dude in studio B.”

  “Fuck you Mike!”

  “No, fuck you Dana! Vince is my friend!”

  Pow! I didn't know that such a cute little feminine hand could carry such power, but when it connected with my nose I found out immediately, not to mention the scratches to my face caused by the fake porcelain fingernails that I had paid for. I wondered how much blood I'd lost that night, as I was sure the Red Cross could have made use of it.

  Yet after the usual “Get the fuck out of my face! “No, get the fuck out of my face!” verbal tennis match, Dana strutted away as I yelled “Go sell some fuckin’ booze will ya? And bring me the God-damn money, bitch!”

  I had become an asshole and I was starting to relish the role.

  Walking through the lounge past the row of video games to go into the office still wanting just that one quiet beer and a cigarette by myself, as well as yet another towel for my nose, I heard a surprisingly pleasant, rather soft voice....

  “Man, I'm out of quarters, can you rig this thing for more plays? Sure Axl, let me get a coat-hanger.” Seems he had spent the entire evening engrossed in ‘Space Invaders.’

  I found a wire coat hanger in the office and proceeded to slip it in the crack of the base of the machine to click the internal lever that would add free credits.

  “Have fun, Rose. It's on me.”

  “Are you OK? Your nose is bleeding dude.” He asked.

  “Yeah I know. Has been all night.”

  Back in the office, I finally got my beer and cigarette. Peace.

  I decided to go back to work the door with Lyle and Dave. The line was still growing even though it was approaching four am. I had been there only a few minutes when a young, petite girl with two black eyes pushed her way through the line to the front door, screaming “For God’s sake let me in!” which we did. We could see the panic and fear in her face.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Dave asked me.

  “Damned if I know, Dave”

  “It's Friday the thirteenth.” Lyle yelled back.

  “Yes, I'm aware of that Lyle…”

  It was only a couple of minutes later that, as his back was turned away from the door a rather small, very conservative looking blonde guy also pushed his way through the entrance. Lyle turned and asked Dave if he had paid the entrance fee. Dave replied that he though he had given it to me.

  “He didn't pay me shit, Dave, just blasted his way in. Let's go find him and get the money.”

  Lyle stayed at the front door as Dave and I proceeded down the long brick-walled hall where we located the fellow and politely asked him for the cover charge.

  In a split second, Dave, a 6’6” 240 pound bad-ass biker suddenly found a straight razor pressed against his throat by this little man's right hand who actually had to reach up to make contact with his flesh, and at the same time jumped up and opened Dave's earlier eye injury with a left hook.

  I didn't take the time to use the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt, I just ran to the front door where I found Lyle chatting with the two uniformed security guards from the large welfare hotel next door, who would often sneak away from their posts to come for free beer and to check out the finest of the Hollywood rock ladies.

  “Lyle, Dave's in trouble! Lock the door!” I yelled.

  Lyle was slow to respond as he thought I was joking. “In trouble with who?”

  “That little fuck, man! He's got a fucking knife to Dave's throat and he's kicking the shit out of him!” By this time Lyle realized I was deadly serious.

  “Let us help!” The security guys were itching for some action, something more exciting than their routine patrolling of cockroach infested corridors rousting drunks.

  As Lyle and the guards ran down the hallway, I went through the lounge where I noticed out of the corner of my eye Axl still engrossed with saving the planet from the aliens.

  In my office, I grabbed my police flashlight and a 9mm Beretta pistol from my briefcase, tucking it securely into my waistband. Returning to the confrontation, I see the guy surrounded by Lyle, Dave and the two security guards as well as Vince, who unknown to me had just returned from his ‘ambulance’ duties.

  This guy was a caged wild animal. His eyes were not lifelike, but instead full of venom. He was sweating profusely and his muscles, what little he had were tight as steel. He was making growling sounds not unlike the demon possessed character in ‘The Exorcist’ as he was flailing his knife at us in a 180 degree sweep.

  We were to later find out that he was indeed possessed.... Possessed with three straight days of PCP use.

  Both guards had their batons in hand and were attempting to land body blows with a fury, at the same time tr
ying to avoid the razor's edge. Lyle was trying to get behind him to put him to affect a choke hold. Vince would move in with karate kicks to his torso, and I too moved behind him and started pummeling his shoulders and neck with my steel flashlight.

  If anyone had happened to have a video camera filming the scene, it would have been titled ‘Rodney King the Video, circa early ‘80s.’

  With each baton blow, with each flashlight contact, this guy didn't even blink or show any evidence of pain. He just kept coming at us. He wanted to kill us all.

  Lyle quickly took charge of our impromptu ‘assault team’ and briefly motioned for us all to back off away for a moment to access the situation. Surrounded, he didn't seem phased by the torrent of blows and he still had the knife in his hand. He glared. He didn't look at us, but looked through us. It was eerie. To make matters worse, we now had an audience of around three hundred people who had stopped their partying to watch the show.

  “Dana get the fuck back!” She had grabbed me from behind wondering what was the hell was happening. I thought quickly, my business manager instincts kicking in…. “No wait Dana! Go get Tommy, Ronnie and Athena the fuck outta here! Put’em back in the office or somewhere. We’re probably going to have to kill this asshole and there's no reason to get them involved, the press will have a fucking field day.

  We resumed our defensive assault. More baton blows, more karate kicks, more flashlight blows and more attempts by Lyle to subdue him with a choke hold. He still had the knife and was oblivious to the pain we were inflicting. This guy was a fucking little Superman. He kept coming and coming, his gleaming knife missing connection to our flesh by only inches.

  I'd had enough. I was not about to let my staff, patrons and friends get hurt. I reached into my back waistband and pulled out my gun. The problem was, with the orgy of bodies, blood and batons, there was no clear shot. I could have missed him by only a few inches and shot Lyle, Dave, the next-door security guys or Vince in the head. Besides that, had I been able to get off a clean shot that went through his angel-dusted brain, the solid brick walls that surrounded us could have caused a deadly ricochet to anyone nearby.

  I holstered my gun and again joined in with my flashlight, trying to avoid accidental blows from the volley of batons from the security guys. With Lyle once again behind him, he swung the razor directly at my face, missing by only an inch. I directed all the force I could muster into that flashlight for one last shot at his lower arm. Even above all the eerie growling, the screams and background music which ironically was ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath, it seemed a surrealistic soundtrack at the moment.

  I heard the crackling sound of his arm bone break in two. It was dangling, held together only by muscles, but at least the God-damn razor was finally on the blood stained floor. Vince quickly grabbed it.

  Lyle was at last able to put a choke hold on him, sealing off the carotid artery to his brain. He fell to his knees long enough for Dave to move in and cuff him behind his back with two large ‘cable ties’ he had found in the studio tool closet, one on each hand. Finally, we thought we had the situation under control.

  We were wrong.

  Even with his broken arm, the effect of the drug gave him the power to snap the plastic restraints. He arose once again and lunged at Vince, who responded with a full-power kick blow to his face. Falling backwards, we all swarmed him in a tackle worthy of the Super bowl and managed somehow to re-cuff him, this time with multiple cable-ties, both hands and feet.

  “Get him the fuck out!” I was horse from yelling.

  He was still fighting us even though restrained. It took me, Vince, the two beefy security guys, Lyle and Dave about fifteen minutes to get this dusted asshole one-hundred feet from the hallway to the sidewalk, where we dumped him in the sidewalk gutter.

  Soaked with sweat, we all went back to my office to access our injuries. Thankfully, there was nothing serious, save for Dave's open wound and the fact that we didn't have to kill the bastard and better yet, he hadn’t killed us or anybody else.

  The music of the party still was blasting the office walls.

  “Well, anybody want a beer?” I offered. “Nah, none of that plain-wrap ‘BEER’ shit for me,” Vince quipped. The security guys frowned. They would have gladly drunken home-brewed piss at this point.

  “Plain wrap shit my ass Vince, its Budweiser. The Clydesdales personally dropped it off just this morning. You can see their horse shit in the lobby.”

  “Mike, those aren’t horse turds.”

  “Thanks for that insight, Vince.”

  Everybody roared.

  “All turds aside, cheers fellows, here's to Friday the thirteenth on a full moon.” I toasted.

  Lyle spoke up. “Uhh, Mike, it’s now Saturday the fourteenth, five am. Still a full moon though....”

  Sipping our brews, I noticed my flashlight lying on the desk, a standard issue ‘Mag-Lite’ made of aircraft quality hardened steel. It had been a gift from a friend on the Beverly Hills Police Force back in the not-so-distant past. There were dents in the housing. I wondered what the little assholes skull looked like knowing he would hurt badly tomorrow unless he continued numbing his sorry ass with Angel Dust.

  I also felt a sharp pain in my lower back. I then remembered that I was sitting on my pistol, the one that thankfully, I didn’t have to use.

  As we all were relaxing at last, there was a loud thud outside the closed office door.

  Investigating, we found Chris Holmes passed out on the lounge floor on his back, with a gallon bottle of wine on his chest with the vino pouring into his open mouth.

  I was impressed. This guy could drink even when he was unconscious.

  It was only a few years later that I saw him again in the excellent film, ‘The Decline Of Western Civilization Part Two,’ the infamous pool, gallon of vodka and float scene with his concerned Mother looking on. He was stone cold sober in that film compared to this night at Shamrock.

  Remembering how John Bonham, Bon Scott and others had died in a similar drunken stupor by choking on their own vomit, I yelled “Grab the fucking bottle Lyle and help me roll him over!” Vince joined in with our rescue efforts.

  Sure enough, as we were in mid-roll, Chris sprayed. Steven, the ever vigilant janitor instantly showed up with some towels.

  “Just leave it Steve. We'll hose it out tomorrow morning.” I said, “Besides, it’s red wine and pizza puke. Goes well with the bloody floor, don’t ya think?” I laughed.

  “You’re the boss, Mike.” Adler replied.

  “Come on in the office and hang with us man… You’ve done a great job tonight by the way, and thanks.”

  On the way back to the office I noticed Axl was yet still defending the Earth on the video machine as I passed him in the lounge. He’d been engrossed in that game for hours, oblivious to the surrounding mayhem.

  Somehow Ronnie and Wendy Dio had returned and made it past the Chris incident and once again settled back into the comfort of my office sanctuary, along with Dana who had re-ignited the candles and incense and was serving yet more shots of Jack.

  It was soothing.

  Although it was nice to see the friendly faces, I was disappointed Tommy and Athena were long gone. I guessed they probably were back at the mansion enjoying the warm bubbles and champagne in the Hustler Jacuzzi in Bel Air. I thought briefly about Athena. ‘Maybe next time’ I said to myself.

  It had been a very long, hard night in early ‘80s Hollywood. Near death, destruction, puke, fire, a car crash, sex, fights, blood and celebrities but, at least enough cash came in for me to keep things going, All this shit within a few short hours. It was a long way from my old real estate days in Beverly Hills. Hell, it was a long way even from the more recent Mötley Crüe days.

  It was time to forget socializing and head home.

  “Dana, let’s go.”

  “Lyle, walk us to the car and keep your eyes open. You’re packing, right?

  I didn’t have to ask him as I knew he
always was, but considering how much ‘fun’ the night had been so far I didn’t want to cap it off with a street robbery of the cash receipts without at least a fight. Besides, I had my piece locked and loaded, now replaced back in my waistband holster.

  I was starved. “I need breakfast Hon.” Dana agreed. I had temporary forgotten the evenings conflicts and fights with her and just wanted to get the fuck out of Shamrock for the night.

  5am At Denny’s coffee shop on Sunset was always a fun place, especially on a weekend morning. It was a post Sunset Strip party without the alcohol. In my single pre-Dana days I had quickly learned that if you didn’t get lucky at the Rainbow when it closed at two-am, there was always a last chance there. Not withstanding those opportunities it was still kind of scary due to the bright coffee-shop fluorescent lights. Unlike the warm darkness of the Rainbow where almost anyone looked good at Denny’s you could actually see what you were getting (or taking home) especially as the sun was rising.

  Over breakfast, I didn’t want to review or discuss the night’s events. After all, It was me that chose to open the studio, It was me that chose to turn it into a (technically) illegal after-hours nightclub and the bottom line was that I was making at least some money and was hoping maybe the next night would be more sane.

  Dana broke the silence. “I want you to meet my parent’s.”

  This came out of the blue. I almost choked on my breakfast as it was the usual danger sign every guy dread’s hearing, the prelude to commitment.

  “Well, have them come down for a visit, we’ve got room.”

  “No, I want to go up there. It’ll do us good to get away.” Dana went on…” Have you ever been to Seattle?” I was honest with her. “No, never been North of Santa Barbara, why should I? Everything I want is right here in L.A.”