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More Metalocalypse Fic...
Title: Dixie
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 1025
The East Coast sucked. Most things sucked but at the moment Pickles found the particular burdens of his current location to be more full of suck-itude than anything else. His manager was SO getting fired for schlepping him out to sign autographs in effin’ Richmond of all places. This tour was probably going to end up losing him money and he didn’t even get to really play or do anything. Just sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to jack-offs alternate between gushing the same rock-greeting card sentiments or busting his chops for the break-up of the band. He would never understand that urge some people had – needing validation from a person they professed to hate. At least out in LA no one would spare him a second glance if he was loaded or laid down his John Hancock with a bottle of bourbon in his other hand.
Only thing that made the Atlantic side of the country better than the middle were the lack of puritan fucks in every town. Here the bars in the decaying cities stayed open late and he could get more than farm-field weed or basement meth. His handlers, a stressed out prick who yelled a lot and listened to the goddamned Allman Brothers in the car and a ball-busting woman who could snap his neck like a toothpick and paid more attention to the boobs and asses he signed than he did, were content to let him do as he pleased after dark as long as they knew where he’d be. Some weirdo in an outfit that looked like something that old guy who shilled for Kentucky Fried Chicken would wear if he had less money had slipped him a flyer and hadn’t bothered to ask for an autograph. The half-glance he had spared it had shown the only thing he cared about at the moment - $1 drafts until closing – and that was enough to convince him to go.
There were old-fashioned soldiers, bloody men obscured by smoke and waving long rifles, at the bottom of the ad. Probably some Civil War shit that the entire city seemed obsessed with, but it turned out to be a band when he studied it closer. Pickles wasn’t what one could call fond of country or rockabilly (folk music turned him into a raging maniac) but dollar beer was dollar beer and it was in stumbling distance of his crappy hotel. So he gave it over to the female gorilla after his time was up and his hand had actually started to cramp; a surprise since he hadn’t thought the hair metal scene had been that big in the land of government and ivy leagues and fuckin’ Reagan’s fuckin’ yuppies. She grunted in acknowledgement and he fled the record store in search of the one thing keeping him from complete self-destruction.
He had blown fifteen dollars on piss-warm Millers when Antietam crashed on stage. Like their namesake – whose meaning Pickles would shortly be hearing about in great, and particularly gruesome, detail – the band was a bloody mess of confusion. Some crazy man in steel-toed boots and a sewn-together mashup of a Confederate and Union cap was beating another man with his bass guitar, shouting all the while in what Pickles had initially thought was another language. German maybe, or Russian, or some Eastern European gutteral pidgin given the throaty, spit-filled quality of the speech. It wasn’t a fair fight by any means and, almost as quickly as the ruckus had begun, it was over. The loser was kicked off the stage to lie in a groaning heap while mister bass guitar muttered and kicked at the drum kit emblazoned with the sillhouette of one man bayonetting another.
Nice to know that Snakes n Barrels wasn’t the only self-destructed band in the universe. It made him feel a little better and Pickles was loosened up enough that he actually bought the bassist a crappy beer when the man wandered over to the bar.
“Tashtesh like pissh.”
“Yup.”
For a long minute Pickles stood next to the man, American as it turned out but possessed of a rather prominent speech impediment as a result of poor dentition, and drank his cheap beer. He felt an odd sense of kinship with the guy, something born out of his own loss, and he certainly had nothing better to do besides going back to his bland hotel room and unwanted company.
“Who’s the dood ya worked over?”
“My piecsh of schit drummer. Idiot couldn’t keep the beat mosht of the time but he wash what I got. Then he comesh to the gig and tellsh me he don’t want to play and won’t give me back hish portion of the take. Fuck him. Schtole hish wallet but there washn’t enough to cover the resht of the band. We’re fucked.”
Drums had always been Pickles’ hobby, enough that he actually joined the lame marching band for a year in high school just to learn what he could. LA had seemed to warrant a guitar and a voice, something to get him noticed, and so he’d done that. But he had always been happier in the back, laying down the bottom line and carrying everyone else. Since the breakup and the departure of Sammy and his kit, he hadn’t had the opportunity to do more than pound out rhythms with his pens while he passed time and tried not to think too hard about his future. Having downed his twenty-third beer, and trying not to remember how much hair had been clogging the shower drain that morning, Pickles once again decided to give the world his middle finger and took a chance.
“What kind o’ beats ya need? I pick up shit pretty fast and I kin play.”
The other man eyed him over the green glass bottle as he drained the last of his beer.
“Yeah, okay. I don’t give a pissh ash long ash we play shomething.”
And when Pickles stuck out his hand and offered up a crooked grin and his name, the other man took it.
“That’sh a pissh short of name. Mine’sh Murderfacsh. William Murderfasch.”
Rating: PG for language
Word Count: 1025
The East Coast sucked. Most things sucked but at the moment Pickles found the particular burdens of his current location to be more full of suck-itude than anything else. His manager was SO getting fired for schlepping him out to sign autographs in effin’ Richmond of all places. This tour was probably going to end up losing him money and he didn’t even get to really play or do anything. Just sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to jack-offs alternate between gushing the same rock-greeting card sentiments or busting his chops for the break-up of the band. He would never understand that urge some people had – needing validation from a person they professed to hate. At least out in LA no one would spare him a second glance if he was loaded or laid down his John Hancock with a bottle of bourbon in his other hand.
Only thing that made the Atlantic side of the country better than the middle were the lack of puritan fucks in every town. Here the bars in the decaying cities stayed open late and he could get more than farm-field weed or basement meth. His handlers, a stressed out prick who yelled a lot and listened to the goddamned Allman Brothers in the car and a ball-busting woman who could snap his neck like a toothpick and paid more attention to the boobs and asses he signed than he did, were content to let him do as he pleased after dark as long as they knew where he’d be. Some weirdo in an outfit that looked like something that old guy who shilled for Kentucky Fried Chicken would wear if he had less money had slipped him a flyer and hadn’t bothered to ask for an autograph. The half-glance he had spared it had shown the only thing he cared about at the moment - $1 drafts until closing – and that was enough to convince him to go.
There were old-fashioned soldiers, bloody men obscured by smoke and waving long rifles, at the bottom of the ad. Probably some Civil War shit that the entire city seemed obsessed with, but it turned out to be a band when he studied it closer. Pickles wasn’t what one could call fond of country or rockabilly (folk music turned him into a raging maniac) but dollar beer was dollar beer and it was in stumbling distance of his crappy hotel. So he gave it over to the female gorilla after his time was up and his hand had actually started to cramp; a surprise since he hadn’t thought the hair metal scene had been that big in the land of government and ivy leagues and fuckin’ Reagan’s fuckin’ yuppies. She grunted in acknowledgement and he fled the record store in search of the one thing keeping him from complete self-destruction.
He had blown fifteen dollars on piss-warm Millers when Antietam crashed on stage. Like their namesake – whose meaning Pickles would shortly be hearing about in great, and particularly gruesome, detail – the band was a bloody mess of confusion. Some crazy man in steel-toed boots and a sewn-together mashup of a Confederate and Union cap was beating another man with his bass guitar, shouting all the while in what Pickles had initially thought was another language. German maybe, or Russian, or some Eastern European gutteral pidgin given the throaty, spit-filled quality of the speech. It wasn’t a fair fight by any means and, almost as quickly as the ruckus had begun, it was over. The loser was kicked off the stage to lie in a groaning heap while mister bass guitar muttered and kicked at the drum kit emblazoned with the sillhouette of one man bayonetting another.
Nice to know that Snakes n Barrels wasn’t the only self-destructed band in the universe. It made him feel a little better and Pickles was loosened up enough that he actually bought the bassist a crappy beer when the man wandered over to the bar.
“Tashtesh like pissh.”
“Yup.”
For a long minute Pickles stood next to the man, American as it turned out but possessed of a rather prominent speech impediment as a result of poor dentition, and drank his cheap beer. He felt an odd sense of kinship with the guy, something born out of his own loss, and he certainly had nothing better to do besides going back to his bland hotel room and unwanted company.
“Who’s the dood ya worked over?”
“My piecsh of schit drummer. Idiot couldn’t keep the beat mosht of the time but he wash what I got. Then he comesh to the gig and tellsh me he don’t want to play and won’t give me back hish portion of the take. Fuck him. Schtole hish wallet but there washn’t enough to cover the resht of the band. We’re fucked.”
Drums had always been Pickles’ hobby, enough that he actually joined the lame marching band for a year in high school just to learn what he could. LA had seemed to warrant a guitar and a voice, something to get him noticed, and so he’d done that. But he had always been happier in the back, laying down the bottom line and carrying everyone else. Since the breakup and the departure of Sammy and his kit, he hadn’t had the opportunity to do more than pound out rhythms with his pens while he passed time and tried not to think too hard about his future. Having downed his twenty-third beer, and trying not to remember how much hair had been clogging the shower drain that morning, Pickles once again decided to give the world his middle finger and took a chance.
“What kind o’ beats ya need? I pick up shit pretty fast and I kin play.”
The other man eyed him over the green glass bottle as he drained the last of his beer.
“Yeah, okay. I don’t give a pissh ash long ash we play shomething.”
And when Pickles stuck out his hand and offered up a crooked grin and his name, the other man took it.
“That’sh a pissh short of name. Mine’sh Murderfacsh. William Murderfasch.”