Davis staggered into the bus as it started rolling, staring at the scene around him.  Plush decor, band members and groupies, crew, all already engaged in some illicit business or another.  It was a part of the scene, yet to him the real life was back there on that burning stage.  He wished he could be back there, right in there with those kids, pulling the place apart.<br/><br/>"Burn the shithole down!" he screamed, to no one in particular, receiving several odd looks.  He stalked over to the fridge.  He'd somehow lost his tequila in all the confusion.  Finding a new bottle, he unscrewed and started to drink.<br/><br/>"Where the fuck are the drugs," he muttered, again to no one in particular.  He could smell weed, but he didn't want weed right now.  No one was snorting anything, smoking anything that he could see.  He began to eye the girls.  They were another drug for him.  "Where the fuck are the girls?" he said, louder now.  Standing in the lounging area, Davis stripped off his shirt, soaked through with sweat.  It reminded him of the stage, of what they'd done tonight.  "Who's going to fuck the singer?"