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traveling the world as greta van fleet's touring photographer seemed like...
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After working with Greta Van Fleet, it was safe to say that you were a little jaded when it came to your internship. A little over a month had passed since you met the band, and following their departure, The Heat had gone right back to booking small-name musicians and local artists. A lot of them were great, and you enjoyed meeting them, but you were wondering if you'd simply never paid any attention to how entitled some of them could be.
Some of the artists that came through were exceptionally crass. There had been a local band of fresh college graduates a few weeks prior, a little group that called itself Apollyon and offered a heavy, angry sort of sound that honestly reminded you of nails in a blender. That wasn't to say you didn't see the appeal in heavier rock, because you did, it was just that they weren't good.
They certainly had thought they were, though. Having formed in college, they'd garnered a fair bit of success in playing college parties and the like, and they had a cult following of young students that apparently had never heard anything better. Somehow they'd managed to book a small stage at a festival over the previous summer, and now that they were releasing their first album they were looking to get some press. That was how they had come to The Heat.
At the time, you'd never met any group of musicians so self-absorbed and downright rude. But, Apollyon couldn't have held a candle to the artist you were working with that day. His name was Richie, a thirty-year-old man who probably pissed in bottles because he was too lazy to go to the bathroom, and you were roughly two seconds away from punching him in the face.
As if he could sense that you were thinking of him, and consequently deciding to test your patience further, Richie snapped his fingers and whistled before calling, "Hey, you!"
The set fell just a little quieter, though you paid him no mind. Your jaw was set indignantly and your eye was twitching as your temper flared, but Dorothy's warning glare kept you from snapping at him. Nevertheless, if he needed something he could regard you by name–the name you'd informed him of at least ten times since he'd arrived only an hour prior. You weren't a dog.
"I'm talking to you!" he urged, voice rising in pitch and volume, "Yeah, you with the camera!"
The camera in your hands crackled slightly as your grip tightened in anger, and after a pointed stare from Dorothy, you finally heaved a sigh and turned your head to acknowledge the watery-eyed man with a stony glare. "What?" you asked, not even bothering to repeat your name again. Clearly, he did not care to remember it or acknowledge that he had heard it.
Richie rolled his eyes like a petulant pre-teen boy, scratching his nose before giving you a wide-eyed look that conveyed just how stupid he thought you were. "Where's my beer?" he demanded, enunciating his words despite the way they all slurred together still.
Your eyes flickered down to the beer gut that hung over his leather pants, one eye-brown crooking as you deadpanned, "It's nine in the morning–"
Sensing that the conversation could only go south with the pent-up frustration spilling out of you, Dorothy was quick to interject, "We don't have any beer, Mr. Knight, I'm sorry. Would you like a water instead?"
