Michael — my dad's buddy — couldn't meet us in person. Instead, he sent two brick-wall bodyguards in business suits who escorted us to the backstage maze beneath the stadium. Lucky for us, these guys stuck to the job and didn't start lecturing us on mitochondrial DNA sequencing.
At last — the universe heard me. Maybe that telegram did get through.
The security duo towered silently, their expressions frozen somewhere between -stoic- and -don't even. - Louise tried to make them talk, but they just said:
Not
And that was it. End of vocabulary.
Staff buzzed everywhere backstage — tangled cables, stressed-out crew yelling at each other, stewards bickering, the whole chaotic ballet of live events. Everyone kept sneaking peeks at us. We must've looked like stars, striding in with our private security and an incredibly photogenic dog.
And you know what? M.K. felt it. Strutting like he owned the place, full-on rockstar energy. He knew this was his time to shine.
The dressing room gave me hope that maybe — just maybe — reality was still hanging on. Its door was just a regular slab of metal with a plaque reading: Do Not Disturb.
Okay. Deep breath. We're normal again. Until the door shut behind us.
The room had one bed. That's it. One sad bed.
Lying on it: the singer himself and, judging by their bulk, his two bodyguards. All three were glued to their phones, alternating between scratching their feet and scrolling — thank God, not doing both to each other.
Louise kicked the mood up a notch as soon as we entered:
Who are you?
The singer glanced up, flipped his cherry-red fringe, and muttered:
It's you. Heard about you. Come in.
And that was the end of the royal welcome. The guards didn't even look up — just kept flipping their phones sideways and back, trying to win whatever dumb game had them hooked.
M.K. trotted up to the bed and got a single glance from the artist, who mumbled between gulps of bottled water:
Oh, yeah. That dog. He can perform with me. Backup dancer. No costume, though. Can't be bothered. I'll hand him the mic. Let him bark a bit.
Then he dropped onto the pillow and started snoring. Just like that. Mid-sentence. Out cold.
The security guards followed suit, flopping onto their stomachs. Apparently, this was the pre-show ritual.
What the hell kind of rock star is this? — Louise blinked, slapping his — Does he think we're his groupies or something? Doubt it. Guy's just exhausted. Can't you tell? Burnout. — I kept a straight face, walked into the hallway, and asked one of our guards if they could bring some food for K. I wasn't hungry — I'd had ice cream and a couple éclairs — and Louise, by the look of her figure, fed exclusively on sarcasm and complaints.
To their credit, the guards responded quickly. Soon we had a mountain of chicken breast for M.K., and — surprise! — three bottles of wine with glasses.
We scooted aside the human pile on the bed, poured the wine, and clinked our glasses together.
To Erich!
Right. I almost forgot: keep filming, genius. How did I mess that up?
After draining our first glasses, I poured another round and pointed the camera from my drink to Louise.
Here we are, waiting for the show to start. Drinking to your health, babe, and we'll head out soon. — I zoomed in on the snoring lump on the — And this is Dizzy Justa, deeply immersed in preparing for his performance. Gonna be wild!
Granny, got any words for your grandson?
Hello, you damn little
As you can see… some things never We love you very much.
Not
WE LOVE YOU VERY MUCH, ER! — I hammered the final line. And with that, we started prepping to head toward the I was even ready to sing myself, if it came to that — two bottles of wine in, and everything felt possible. Dizzy needed a nudge, so we gave him one, gently shaking the snore out of him.
Good timing. The room was suddenly stormed by a wave of stylists, PR people, and overqualified fluffers, all eager to polish the artist — fifteen minutes before curtain.
He kicked them all out with one deadpan sentence:
Don't want
His guards cracked an eyelid, and then returned to their thousand-yard stare into phone screens. And we all marched through the corridor to the stage, with Dizzy dragging behind like a tragic vacuum cleaner.
Then came the twitchy rat-faced manager, stammering something about contractual obligations.
Dizzy asked what the fine would be if he bailed. Heard the number. Groaned like rusted metal. Then… kept going.
Don't feel like doing — He mumbled to me. I patted his shoulder — I knew the feeling. Still, I asked:
Mind if I go out there and smash a few guitars?
You wanna — do Or… don't. Actually… don't. I dunno. Unbeatable logic.
It sobered me up a little. And just like that, we reached the wings — where M.K. launched himself onto the stage.
The crowd roared.
Tens of thousands of fans. Millions of eyes. Billions of phones. All locked onto one joyful dog doing a full lap, tail wagging in rhythm with the band. They lost it. Applause. Screams. Whistles.
I pointed my camera at Dizzy.
Say hi to my fiancé, yeah?
Hey, You good? Cool. — Dizzy gave the laziest nod in the history of greetings. That was enough for me. My heart bloomed.
Then Dizzy asked to borrow my phone so he could check Tinder. Left his backstage. I yanked it away.
Get your ass on stage, you lazy — Louise barked at him.
He sighed. Asked a staffer for a stool. Got one. Dragged it on stage. Sat down like an old man on a park bench, grabbed the mic stand for dear life, and greeted his fans:
Guess y'all are still alive. There was supposed to be some British drill duo warming up before me — Pete & Bas. They're cool. But nah. Let's just get this over with.
The stadium erupted.
Fans screamed. Dance pit boiled. Even the VIPs raised their cocktails with detached glee — until a squad of men in face paint and tactical gear crashed their box, toting actual rifles.
Looks like its — Louise turned to me, eyes glowing like a panther before pounce. M.K., meanwhile, was busy dodging bras and flower bouquets flung at him like confetti.
Some gifts landed short, smacking the camo guys instead — a brief taste of affection before full-on
hell broke loose.
The armed men took hostages. Shoved them to the floor. Left two goons to guard them, and sprinted toward the stage, rifles ready.
Dizzy Justa was already halfway backstage with his stool.
So… That's happening. — He muttered.
This a performance piece? Some avant-garde thing? — I still hadn't quite accepted
No budget for that kinda art. It's a terrorist attack.
Maybe we should stay and see what they're after? — Louise suggested with way too much
We're leaving. NOW.
I practically scooped them up into a human dogpile and pushed our escape out through the backstage maze. No time for reflection — the hallways were a wasp nest now. Alarms, shouts, trampling.
But we were lucky. We made it out early. Uncrushed. Unshot. Alive.