This isn’t a symphony, it’s a rave. The band members look angry as they shout and bellow. The rhythm of their instruments is hard, fast, and unrelenting. Their fans jostle and clamor to reach the stage. They want to pull the band members down into their mosh pit. They are hungry for entrails.
Cursing, one of the band members changes instruments and rushes the crowd. The sound of a brush on a cymbal follows, as his sword sweeps through the masses. The fans close in around him, and suddenly he doesn’t have room to play. They are true fans, as they grab clothing and tear flesh.
The bouncers trying to hold back the tide of fans are bullets. They hit the crowd, rending and tearing in return. A chunk of scalp vanishes suddenly to reveal the bright white bone beneath. The bone is gone a split second later, a quarter of the head with it; spraying back onto those behind. The unruly fan wheels and collapses from the one-two punch. One behind it takes a step forward before its head simply explodes.
This damp cold makes my joints ache, which is drek since my joints are all cyber now. I lift the cannon’s barrel skywards to flip it over the heads of everyone as I do a 180. The barrel drops back down to draw a bead on the zombies shambling up behind us. I’ve no more time for simile and metaphor.