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Entry tags:
Metalocalypse Meeting ficcage
Title: South Beach part 1
Rating: G
Word Count: 972
Late in 1992 (Pickles had been wrong about the Reaganite yuppies on the East Coast. They were Bush-round-one yuppies for a few more months until a certain saxophone-playing governor of Arkansas took the oath of office for the first time. No one had yet heard of Monica Lewinsky. Drug use and a lot of touring had let time and the fall of the Iron Curtain pass our red-headed Wisconsinite by. As for Murderface, he had no use for dates unless something significantly gruesome or bloody had occurred and then he could probably tell you the five W’s and give you a very in-depth How, too.) one Skwisgaar Skwigelf entered the United States for the fourth time in his life via Miami International Airport. The tall blond Swede attracted a fair number of appreciative glances, more than one woman’s (and not a few men, too, since it WAS Miami after all) lingering on the shapely form of his rear as he stalked, muttering in Swedish with a healthy helping of English swear words thrown in for good measure, away from the luggage carousel with a battered-looking guitar case clutched protectively in his arms. Those close enough to catch snatches of his rather snippy rant, none of whom for the purposes (and this author’s sheer laziness) of this story spoke Swedish, would have picked up on the frequent use of ‘dildo’ along with a few ‘idiots’ and ‘dummies.’ Any astute observer would quickly gather than the young man’s irritation had plenty to do with his precious guitar and the state of the baggage hold into which his guitar had been placed much against his will. It was the beginning of the end for United American Airlines, though they didn’t know it, for they had angered a future metal god and he would have his revenge.
Skwisgaar wasn’t terribly fond of the United States. He wasn’t terribly fond of much of anything besides his guitar and getting laid, actually. But he was even less fond of the thought of spending another harsh winter touring Scandinavia and Germany and Denmark (Screw the Dutch!) with yet another one of the many bands he’d found himself a member of since he’d ran away from his mother’s one-woman whorehouse at seventeen. And when Objective Morality had received an invitation to do a low-key series of club tours throughout the southern reaches of the United States, he’d agreed, especially after he saw the temperature projections for Miami over the past several winters. Eighty-five degrees meant women in bikinis and maybe he could score again with some of those sassy, short Hispanic women that he’d encountered before cleaning hotel rooms. And so he’d come to America, arriving in a distinctly bitchy mood since his guitar had been declared too big to be carry-on luggage. Someday he was going to be in a band big enough to have a private jet and then his precious instrument could stay with him at all times. But that was in his future and for the moment he had some fellow tall, blond, long-haired men who spoke Swedish and a smattering of clumsy English to find.
At the same time but at the opposite end of the airport, Nathan Explosion walked out of one of the domestic arrival gates and stretched, popping his neck and knuckles and attracting his own share of glances. He wasn’t quite as exotic as the Swede but he was large and in good shape from spending a good portion of the past few years doing heavy, basic labor at a construction supply yard and he had the kind of long, greasy dark hair that had gone out of fashion a few years ago but was slowly making a come-back thanks to the rise of grunge out in Seattle. Nathan was in Miami for similar reasons as Skwisgaar. Well, at least for similar musical reasons. He was fronting his third band – pioneering a sound reminiscent of Pantera, heavier than much of what was popular at the moment and lacking the kind of screaming thrash guitars that Iron Maiden had made the weapon of choice for many European metal bands – and they had started to get regional notice, scoring an invitation to play during the week-long celebration between Christmas and New Year’s. This was before techno ruled Miami and an eclectic group of music had been selected for the purpose of entertaining tourists and locals alike.
Nathan was in a much better mood than the Swedish blond, having had several expensive bottles of airplane liquor, downing the tiny bottles in single swigs, and not having something as precious as Skwisgaar’s guitar to worry about. Young, good-looking, well on his way to being drunk, and enjoying the earliest fruits of success for the first time since his abandoned football days, Nathan had come to Miami to kick some ass, party, and maybe check out some of the other bands. He needed to know his competition after all, and he had a feeling, a nasty lurking one that he didn’t want to acknowledge but that just wouldn’t go away, that his current gig with Primordial Assault wasn’t going to bring him the level of musical success that he craved. Pieces were missing and his sound still wasn’t the right combination of dark and fast and brutal. It just simply wasn’t METAL, in the truest sense of the word, yet. But as he walked through the terminal with his rather thuggish band mates in tow, the only thing Nathan Explosion was concerned with at the time was finding the nearest bar and getting loaded before he checked out all Miami had to offer in the way of nightlife.
He and his band beat Objective Morality into the last mini-van cum taxi to hit Miami International for the next two and a half hours by three minutes.
Rating: G
Word Count: 972
Late in 1992 (Pickles had been wrong about the Reaganite yuppies on the East Coast. They were Bush-round-one yuppies for a few more months until a certain saxophone-playing governor of Arkansas took the oath of office for the first time. No one had yet heard of Monica Lewinsky. Drug use and a lot of touring had let time and the fall of the Iron Curtain pass our red-headed Wisconsinite by. As for Murderface, he had no use for dates unless something significantly gruesome or bloody had occurred and then he could probably tell you the five W’s and give you a very in-depth How, too.) one Skwisgaar Skwigelf entered the United States for the fourth time in his life via Miami International Airport. The tall blond Swede attracted a fair number of appreciative glances, more than one woman’s (and not a few men, too, since it WAS Miami after all) lingering on the shapely form of his rear as he stalked, muttering in Swedish with a healthy helping of English swear words thrown in for good measure, away from the luggage carousel with a battered-looking guitar case clutched protectively in his arms. Those close enough to catch snatches of his rather snippy rant, none of whom for the purposes (and this author’s sheer laziness) of this story spoke Swedish, would have picked up on the frequent use of ‘dildo’ along with a few ‘idiots’ and ‘dummies.’ Any astute observer would quickly gather than the young man’s irritation had plenty to do with his precious guitar and the state of the baggage hold into which his guitar had been placed much against his will. It was the beginning of the end for United American Airlines, though they didn’t know it, for they had angered a future metal god and he would have his revenge.
Skwisgaar wasn’t terribly fond of the United States. He wasn’t terribly fond of much of anything besides his guitar and getting laid, actually. But he was even less fond of the thought of spending another harsh winter touring Scandinavia and Germany and Denmark (Screw the Dutch!) with yet another one of the many bands he’d found himself a member of since he’d ran away from his mother’s one-woman whorehouse at seventeen. And when Objective Morality had received an invitation to do a low-key series of club tours throughout the southern reaches of the United States, he’d agreed, especially after he saw the temperature projections for Miami over the past several winters. Eighty-five degrees meant women in bikinis and maybe he could score again with some of those sassy, short Hispanic women that he’d encountered before cleaning hotel rooms. And so he’d come to America, arriving in a distinctly bitchy mood since his guitar had been declared too big to be carry-on luggage. Someday he was going to be in a band big enough to have a private jet and then his precious instrument could stay with him at all times. But that was in his future and for the moment he had some fellow tall, blond, long-haired men who spoke Swedish and a smattering of clumsy English to find.
At the same time but at the opposite end of the airport, Nathan Explosion walked out of one of the domestic arrival gates and stretched, popping his neck and knuckles and attracting his own share of glances. He wasn’t quite as exotic as the Swede but he was large and in good shape from spending a good portion of the past few years doing heavy, basic labor at a construction supply yard and he had the kind of long, greasy dark hair that had gone out of fashion a few years ago but was slowly making a come-back thanks to the rise of grunge out in Seattle. Nathan was in Miami for similar reasons as Skwisgaar. Well, at least for similar musical reasons. He was fronting his third band – pioneering a sound reminiscent of Pantera, heavier than much of what was popular at the moment and lacking the kind of screaming thrash guitars that Iron Maiden had made the weapon of choice for many European metal bands – and they had started to get regional notice, scoring an invitation to play during the week-long celebration between Christmas and New Year’s. This was before techno ruled Miami and an eclectic group of music had been selected for the purpose of entertaining tourists and locals alike.
Nathan was in a much better mood than the Swedish blond, having had several expensive bottles of airplane liquor, downing the tiny bottles in single swigs, and not having something as precious as Skwisgaar’s guitar to worry about. Young, good-looking, well on his way to being drunk, and enjoying the earliest fruits of success for the first time since his abandoned football days, Nathan had come to Miami to kick some ass, party, and maybe check out some of the other bands. He needed to know his competition after all, and he had a feeling, a nasty lurking one that he didn’t want to acknowledge but that just wouldn’t go away, that his current gig with Primordial Assault wasn’t going to bring him the level of musical success that he craved. Pieces were missing and his sound still wasn’t the right combination of dark and fast and brutal. It just simply wasn’t METAL, in the truest sense of the word, yet. But as he walked through the terminal with his rather thuggish band mates in tow, the only thing Nathan Explosion was concerned with at the time was finding the nearest bar and getting loaded before he checked out all Miami had to offer in the way of nightlife.
He and his band beat Objective Morality into the last mini-van cum taxi to hit Miami International for the next two and a half hours by three minutes.
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ARG. We're gaming until midnight on New Year's Eve. ;_; Want Dethklokery!
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Happy New Year!
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It seems likely that I'll get it, what with that "Part 1" up at the top. ^^ This brings me such joy. I can't wait to see where Toki comes from either, and I'm hoping I can build some affection for Skwisgaar here, as so far most of my love is concentrated in Toki, Pickles, and Nathan. Pretty much in that order. I'd feel bad for going along with the crowd but... TOKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS. I haven't even read that much fic and plurals are starting to slip into my speach.
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Skwisgaar cracks me up. He's such a diva and yet I think he ends up being the least homicidal member of the band. Plus...he totally cries and then claims he's high instead when he's stressed out. Gotta love that. And the guitar playing in the hot tub.