Bat Out of Church Street
By the time Wells, Alton, Trey, and Gabe hit Church Street, the night already felt like it had a spotlight on it, as they walked down the street for Karaoke that night.
Toronto was damp pavement, neon bar signs, denim jackets, leather, cigarette smoke, cologne, and that late-90s feeling that anything could happen after dark if you picked the right door. Crews Tango was already glowing when they arrived, music leaking out onto the sidewalk in bright, messy waves.
Wells looked the most confident, naturally. Big grin. Broad shoulders. Shirt straining like it had signed a waiver. Alton walked beside him trying to look unimpressed. Trey was already bouncing with nervous energy, and Gabe had the calm, composed expression of someone who had absolutely planned his song choice three days ago.
Inside, the room was packed.
The karaoke host stood beneath the lights in a glittering red gown, silver heels, giant lashes, and hair high enough to require air traffic clearance.
“Give it up, darlings,” she purred into the mic, “for the man currently turning Meat Loaf into a building code violation.”
Onstage, Coach Stone was belting out “Bat Out of Hell” like he was trying to personally intimidate the entire 1970s.
Black leather cap. Dark stare. One hand gripping the mic. The other pointing at the crowd like everyone had failed inspection.
Wells stopped dead.
Alton blinked. “Is that Coach?”
Trey leaned in. “Is he… good?”
Coach hit another huge note, and half the bar screamed.
Gabe nodded once. “Objectively, yes.”
When the song ended, Coach Stone did not bow. He simply lowered the microphone, gave the crowd one hard nod, and stepped offstage like karaoke was a disciplinary hearing he had just won.
The drag host fanned herself. “Well. I am frightened, impressed, and strangely hydrated.”
Coach spotted the boys and walked over.
“Sit,” he said.
They sat.
A round of drinks appeared, with Coach minutes later.
“Loosen up,” Coach said, sliding into the booth. “Karaoke rewards commitment.”
Alton stared at him. “You just sang Meat Loaf like you were declaring war.”
Coach took a slow drink. “Correct.”
Trey laughed first. Then Wells. Then the whole table cracked.
The host returned to the mic. “Next up, we have two brave little angels doing a duet. Alton and Trey, get those hips to the stage.”
Alton’s face dropped. “What?”
Trey grabbed his wrist. “Too late, bro.”
Their song was “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred.
It was a disaster.
It was also perfect.
Alton tried to play it cool for approximately eight seconds before Trey started runway-walking across the stage. Then Alton gave in completely. They strutted. They posed. Trey spun. Alton pointed at random men in the crowd like they were legally required to admire him. By the final chorus, the whole bar was clapping along, and Wells was laughing so hard he had one hand pressed to his chest.
Coach Stone watched without expression.
Then he said, “Acceptable nonsense.”
From him, that was applause.
Gabe went next.
He chose “Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode.
The whole mood changed.
He stood under the blue-purple lights, one hand wrapped around the mic, voice low and smooth. No theatrics. No jokes. Just cool synth-pop confidence, clean and controlled. The room quieted in that rare karaoke way, when everyone realizes someone actually knows what they are doing.
When Gabe finished, the applause came warm and loud.
Wells leaned toward him as he returned. “Bro. Where did that come from?”
Gabe shrugged. “Some of us prepare.”
Alton pointed at him. “That was aimed at me.”
“Yes.”
Then the host smiled wide.
“And now, darlings, we have Wells.”
Wells stood up like it was no big deal.
It was absolutely a big deal.
He walked to the stage with that loose, easy confidence, took the mic, looked out at the crowd, and grinned.
“What’s he singing?” Trey whispered.
The opening chords hit.
“Ahead by a Century” by The Tragically Hip.
For once, Wells did not joke.
He sang.
Really sang.
The room shifted around him. His voice was stronger than anyone expected, warm and rough in the right places, carrying that late-night Canadian ache like he had been saving it for years. The goofy confidence dropped just enough to show something real underneath: denim memories, road trips, summer radio, old heartbreak, old joy, old Toronto humming under his boots.
Alton stopped smiling and just watched.
Trey’s mouth hung open.
Gabe looked quietly satisfied, as if he had suspected this all along.
Even Coach Stone leaned back, arms crossed, and gave Wells his full attention.
By the last line, the bar was silent.
Then Crews Tango exploded.
Wells laughed, half embarrassed, half glowing, and gave a small bow.
The host rushed back onstage. “Excuse me, sir, where have you been hiding that? In the biceps?”
Wells grinned. “Mostly.”
When he returned to the booth, Alton shook his head.
“You can actually sing?”
Wells sat down, smug as hell. “Yeah.”
Trey pointed at him. “You let us go up there and do Right Said Fred first?”
“Had to warm up the room, bro.”
Coach Stone slid another drink toward him.
“Good control,” he said.
Wells blinked. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Do not let it make you thoughtful.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The night rolled on. More songs. More bad dancing. More laughter. Church Street kept glowing outside, but inside the bar, under the lights, the four of them along with Coach found a perfect little pocket of chaos that night.
Coach Stone, still terrifyingly calm, eventually looked around the table.
“Next round,” he said, “group number.” "YMCA?"
Alton groaned.
Trey cheered.
Gabe adjusted his collar.
Wells grinned.
The host pointed from the stage. “I knew it. The big one’s trouble.”
Wells raised his glass.
“Only on key.”
The mic is live, the drinks are poured, and the boys are waiting. Come find your place in the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @alton-gold77, @hero21us, @polo-drone-075
