Guilt fangs

The rock band had to be photographed. They held their guitars and grimaced in mock passion, the music supposedly too high-pitched and satanic to be humanly audible. This is ridiculous, I said. You’re not actually playing, and you’re standing next to some stunted shrubs and faking musical ecstasy for the photograph. ANYBODY can see that you are not plugged in! But yes, you... mr.drummer, you’re quite the man. Holding up the sticks, your face registering eye-popping, jaw-dropping shock that your drum kit suddenly vanished into thin air, and looking thrilled that now you have only your god-given instrument to play with, is totally rib-tickling. Ha ha. I could laugh till all my teeth fall out.
"Oh alright," band leader said, bizarrely under the impression that I was being sarcastic. "We’ll move elsewhere."
So scene 2: near next bunch of shrubs. The photographer asks them to seem friendly, and pretend to be normal. It has to be explained that accosting the keyboardist is not normal, and that a college rock band doesn't need to look like they have rocks in their heads.
As voice levels go up, the watchman (let’s call him W) walks up to us (I cringe to say "us") and points to a signboard on the grass. In tamil, he says, "Can’t you read the board? It’s written that you can’t take photo! Hut! Hut! Shoo, go away…"
We all look the board: "No smoking. Please don’t sit on grass." The idiot band members laugh that W is pretending to be literate.
I tell W that we’re from the press, but he doesn’t care. "You can ask permission from manager," he says and starts walking towards a door. I ask the photographer and the screw-loose bunch to hold on till I go do some begging in the manager’s office.
The manager doesn’t let me say a word, but shows me every surveillance camera that’s installed in the building. "Boss has told us not to let photos be taken. If you still do it, this man will lose his job," the manager says, pointing to W. Maybe he’s exaggerating, I think. But what if he isn’t?
I go back to the scene of crime. I report my findings and suggest that we take snaps in a place where we won’t end up getting somebody fired. The band vocalist grinningly says, "Too late. W has already lost his job, then."
Huh?
"We took the photos when you took W inside," the drummer says, proud about his new-found defiant streak. High-fives are all over the place. W doesn’t understand what’s happening. As we all leave, he tells me, "Thanks ma, you understand no?"
I look at the drummer and vocalist now lifting their collars and doing the school-boy "yesss!!". I wonder where I can find a loaded gun.