Davis was not completely unaware of the noise coming from the backstage area, and beyond that the noise coming from the crowd.  It brought a smile to his lips, it sounded wild.  The half bottle of tequila he had already finished didn't hurt.  Standing up and kicking the office chair down the hall, Davis sauntered back to the door he had come through, opening it up just in time to see the camera crew being escorted out of the door.<br/><br/>"Hey now, don't run, you haven't got my interview yet," Davis called after them.  The security guards paused looking uncertain at Davis, but Maggie had already headed after Boston.<br/><br/>The reporter, in her turn, did not hesitate S he pulled free of the escort and headed right for Davis, pointing the microphone in her hand at him.  They might have lost video but they could get something.  "Hi, I'm Sandra Woods from"<br/><br/>"Let's not sweat it, your name will be on the byline," Davis told her.  "You're here to find out all about the Board of Delinquents.  I'm here to deliver."  He gave her a charming, slightly drunk smile.<br/><br/>"Let me tell you about our goals for the tour."  The reporter looked a bit crestfallen but could not quite get a word in with Davis.  "My goal is for this tour to have a significant, significant impact on the global drug trade."  He smiled, winking at one of the groupies who were staring at him.  "We're going to be bigger than John Lennon.  We're going to be bigger than fucking Yoko Ono!"<br/><br/>He seemed to notice the microphone just then as the reporter pushed it closer to catch him over the roar of the crowd.  "Look at these things, ever notice what a phallic object this is?" he asked the reasonably attractive female reporter.  "Why's it shaped like that?  Why couldn't it be shaped like an ear?  Or a vulva?"  He paused as if expecting an answer, then continued.  "It's because of the patriarchy.  I mean you know this, Sandra.  You're what, a women's studies major?  A women's studies minor?  It's hard to say.  You know all about this.  The men run the show.  You know who owns my voice?  Walter Vice, that's who."<br/><br/>Davis seemed to just be getting warmed up, the security milling about, uncertain, the reporter lapping it up.  "It's patriarchy.  Walter Vice is paying for these words I'm saying right now.  And he's probably shitting himself.  Or snorting blow off a hooker's ass in Thailand.  One of those.  'cause see they don't care if I call the microphone a phallic object or you take a women's studies minor.  They've got it all sewn up.  Walter Vice will pay me while I say this shit and then he'll go back to wiping his ass with hundred dollar bills.  Meanwhile, what do you get paid for talking to dicks like me?  Not much, right?"<br/><br/>"You can go ahead and fix my grammar when you write this up."  Davis sat himself on the edge of the buffet table, nonchalant while staff and crew seemed to be streaming from the stage area out the back of the building.  "You've probably got an English major or minor there too.  Now what was I saying?"<br/><br/>