Bedpan Fight

Bedpan Fight’s origin, as told by Doctor.

Surely it was fate that brought these 4 together on that momentous eve. Tim, David, and Brandon were in shock after a tragic molasses flood had claimed the lives of the other 18/19ths of their previous band, The Philadelphia Phun Times Orchestral Oligarchy of Awesome. It had happened on January 11th, 2014 at 9 am as they had been performing at a church bake sale in one of the less interesting towns surrounding Philly. Considering that the purpose was to raise funds to repair the molasses silo that broke, the event was largely regarded as “deeply tragic, yet slightly hilarious” by the locals and there was much misuse of the word “ironic”.
They stickily returned to Brooklyn with heavy hearts, only slightly comforted by the fact that they wouldn’t have to commute out of state to play with those 54 assholes anymore. Several hours and several more furious public transit passengers later, they arrived back at the Roebling Tea Room in Williamsburg and made use of the sink to clean off some of the cloying detritus accumulated during the harrowing events of that morning. The dried molasses’ determination to stay in everyone’s hair was nothing compared to their determination to keep making music. David’s suggestion to keep band membership at less than 57 people was generally well-received. Tim’s suggestion to change the band name was accepted immediately, though no one could come up with a suitable replacement on the spot. Brandon’s suggestion that they stop playing at bake sales was met with awkward silence. After a few half-hearted promises to discuss it later, they began to practice.
Unbeknownst to our merry band, a gang of geriatric nazi skins were passing by, looking for some trouble. Braces up and armed to the teeth, they stalked the streets, looking to ruin someone’s evening. They passed by the building and heard the music coming from within. Their leader was a towering brute with makeshift shoulder pads made of metal bedpans and “RaHoWa” and “WPWW” tattooed over the spots where his left and right eyebrows should have been, respectively. He signaled for them to come to a halt. In his hand he held a colostomy bag with an 8 ball inside of it. He swung it slowly and thoughtfully, pondering this new prospect for fun. He looked back on his crew. Canes sharped to deadly points, three segmented staffs cleverly formed into walkers, bedpans filled with doorknobs and tied up in sacks, and one particularly interesting case of a wrist brace modified to double as an arm-mounted flame thrower. A few words were exchanged and they waited in the alley by the practice space door.
A block away, your humble narrator was calmly, but firmly trying to explain to a couple of drunk NYU students that she was not that kind of doctor and that they would have to sort out their emotional and medical issues (self-diagnosed, naturally) elsewhere. Her fairy punk father, Jonesy, texted her and said that he had a feeling that she should be near the Roebling Tea Room. Knowing that his hunches tended to be correct, your humble narrator made her excuses and slipped away.
A few moments later, several things happened in a very short span of time. Your humble narrator noticed a group of men standing in the alley next to the Tea Room as she neared. The door in the alley opened and Tim, Brandon, and David came out for a smoke. The skin leader yelled “NOW!” and the gang set upon our hapless heroes. Suspecting that this was why she was here, your humble narrator bolted across the street and joined in the fray. Despite being outnumbered 2 to one and outmatched in weaponry (the four of us being armed only with two unlit cigarettes, a coffee, and a surprisingly large vocabulary, respectively) our heroes held their own surprisingly well, due in no small part to their quicker reflexes, steadier hands, and superior vision. The fact that three-segmented staffs are extraordinarily hard to use was also helpful, as two of the skins took themselves and the one with the arm-mounted flamethrower out almost immediately. When the dust settled, the skins shuffled off, bloodied, beaten, and bowed (the latter primarily due to kyphosis). The scent of blood, Bengay, sweat, and marijuana hung in the air as our victorious heroes introduced themselves. Your humble narrator explained her involvement and it was generally agreed that Jonesy had smiled on them and that it was surely a sign. The four of them each placed a hand on one of the metal bedpans that had been knocked off of the skin leader in the fight and vowed that no amount of molasses would ever prevent them from making music again. Thus was born Bedpan Fight.