“Why do I always end up having to teach the keyboardist lessons?” Garcia said, as he advanced on Brent’s slumped body.
Bill Graham, being a street kid, had already made himself scarce. Bobby watched and cried as Garcia undid his belt and taught his terrible lesson.
I’m going to need this to stop. Right now. Right the fuck now, please, asshole.
What? This is the usual thing: pictures and japery and magical realism with dick jokes.
Yeah, this is not that. This is you describing a beloved entertainer as asserting his dominance through sexual terrorism.
Have I found the line?
I believe so, yes.