This Is So Lame...
Mar. 7th, 2007 06:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: South Beach Part 5
Rating: PG13ish, but only for extreme cursing
Word Count: 1242
“Test…Test…” Nathan’s guttural voice echoed around the mostly empty bar, soon followed by a high-pitched squeal from the wall of speakers behind him. The few early afternoon patrons shouted, protests and insults, and the large man hunched his shoulders and glared at the clearly incompetent sound man in charge of wiring the place. He and most of the rest of Primordial Assault had already been setting up for nearly two hours. If the guy hadn’t been such a fuck-up, they could have all already been back out in Miami’s warm winter sunshine, getting rid of pre-show jitters with the help of booze and the sudden influx of available young things that had steadily been increasing in number through out the week. But no, instead Nathan had a headache and a microphone system that STILL wasn’t working.
Enormous hands flexed around the thin steel column of the mic stand as the lead singer took out his frustrations on the hapless piece of equipment instead of on the neck of the douche bag who was causing him all this stress. It wouldn’t do, he reminded himself, to get kicked out for assault and they couldn’t wire the place themselves. Well, he could, but there wasn’t enough time for the amount of work that would entail in such an unfamiliar place and besides, that dildo was getting paid to help them. Not that he was worth shit, but Nathan was trying his best to be professional.
Not bothering to even attempt holding it in, black-covered shoulders rolled forward as Nathan heaved out a sigh and tried to be patient. The sound fucker had disappeared beneath his board and hell only knew how long it would be before he put in another appearance. Maybe he was hiding booze under there. Nathan sure as fuck would have if he had switched places with the dildo. Then again, if he had been the sound guy, everyone would have already been good to go. A drink. That was what he really needed. Something to take the edge off.
“Gonna go getta drink. You guys…you can…uh…go do whatever too. Just don’t leave the fuckin’ bar ‘cause we ain’t…we ain’t finished with the check yet.”
Various grunts and noises of agreement met his words and most of the thickly built neanderthals that were part of his band followed in his wake as he headed for the bar. At that ungodly hour of the afternoon – at a time Nathan normally was just bothering to blink open his eyes if he wasn’t expected at the yard – there was a woman behind the bar. She didn’t look like she would take much crap, but Nathan had been in the joint his first evening in Miami and had seen how rough the place could get. No way, unless she was some kind of master of karate or some other Asian kung fu shit, could she tend the place once the sun that had so blessed the city disappeared beneath the Atlantic. Still, she could put a nice head on a brew and Nathan nodded his thanks as he tossed back his beer, draining it in a single, long swallow. Watching the bartender fill it a second time, he was struck by the unexpected appearance of blond roots in her otherwise raven hair.
World was funny like that. Eighty, eighty-five percent of the blonds he’d come across so far in the sun-drenched city had gotten their hair thanks to chemicals and the bleaching effects of the rays they soaked up readily. And yet right in front of him was a chick who had also decided to change, hiding pale gold underneath a heavy dye of midnight. Probably wanted to fit in with the crowd but that didn’t make that much sense. Sure every last one of Primordial Assault was dark and the bar later would be filled with thrashing bodies in black t-shirts, most of the light catching on all the silver piercings and chains and studs that comprised metal attire. But last night he’d seen a pretty awesome band and not one of its members had been anything but goth-pale, ethereal almost with the way their natural yellow shades caught the stage lights. One in particular, god, he had been so far from NOT-Metal that Nathan would’ve had to punch anybody in his presence who suggested otherwise.
Drinking down the second beer with a bit less haste than the first, Nathan shifted around to lean back against the bar so he could keep one eye on the sound jackass and the other on his band. While he didn’t often have too much trouble keeping them in line – a series of thrashing had ensured that they respected his leadership when nothing else had worked – sometimes they forgot just who was the boss. That guy, the blond with the battered black and white Xplorer, he looked like someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word “boss.” And that wouldn’t be just because his English was probably as crappy as the guy they had fronting. Objective Morality. Nathan hadn’t expected that much, especially not when five blond, long-haired faggy looking guys stalked out onto the stage. But then he realized the guitarist was bleeding, and not just a little.
Red had soaked around a cut in his jeans, dripped down his arm and onto the stage, and he hadn’t seemed to notice at all as soon as his slender, spidery fingers closed around the neck of his instrument and he began to play. He was…he was fanFUCKINGtastic. Fast. Holy shit was he fast. And good. Nathan, used to hearing the purposefully scuzzy, somewhat plodding notes of his own guitarists, had felt his jaw fall open when the man had launched into his first solo. Technical perfection, every note as clean as it was quick, reminding the large singer of nothing so much as Marty Friedman but with a distinct Maiden vibe. There was, for all that he had once given his bassist a black eye for praising Dio, nothing unmetal about the fierce, triumphant melody that rang out from the amps. Ride of the fucking Valkyries had been a vague thought and Nathan didn’t know just how close to being right he’d come.
He’d left his flyer behind and wandered back to his hotel in something of a daze. Primordial Assault sounded NOTHING like Objective Morality and Nathan wouldn’t have wanted it to. But there was something in that tall, blond foreigner’s sound, something that Nathan could subconsciously feel he needed. He hoped like hell that the guitarist showed up that night. He wanted a chance to show what he could do, see if it connected at all with the other man. And that meant he had to be his best. Which meant the douche bag sound guy had to get his motherfucking act together.
Glass slammed forcefully into the bar and the bartender watched, one hand on the internal phone line to the manager’s office just in case, as Nathan Explosion stalked across the floor. Threats, something growled but unintelligible, and then the singer shouldered his way past the incompetent engineer to stand over the board himself. A few moments passed as he played with the levels and then, with a bellow that shook some of the half-empty bottles on the shelf along the back of the bar, he rounded up his band mates and got the damn job done himself in less than twenty minutes.
Rating: PG13ish, but only for extreme cursing
Word Count: 1242
“Test…Test…” Nathan’s guttural voice echoed around the mostly empty bar, soon followed by a high-pitched squeal from the wall of speakers behind him. The few early afternoon patrons shouted, protests and insults, and the large man hunched his shoulders and glared at the clearly incompetent sound man in charge of wiring the place. He and most of the rest of Primordial Assault had already been setting up for nearly two hours. If the guy hadn’t been such a fuck-up, they could have all already been back out in Miami’s warm winter sunshine, getting rid of pre-show jitters with the help of booze and the sudden influx of available young things that had steadily been increasing in number through out the week. But no, instead Nathan had a headache and a microphone system that STILL wasn’t working.
Enormous hands flexed around the thin steel column of the mic stand as the lead singer took out his frustrations on the hapless piece of equipment instead of on the neck of the douche bag who was causing him all this stress. It wouldn’t do, he reminded himself, to get kicked out for assault and they couldn’t wire the place themselves. Well, he could, but there wasn’t enough time for the amount of work that would entail in such an unfamiliar place and besides, that dildo was getting paid to help them. Not that he was worth shit, but Nathan was trying his best to be professional.
Not bothering to even attempt holding it in, black-covered shoulders rolled forward as Nathan heaved out a sigh and tried to be patient. The sound fucker had disappeared beneath his board and hell only knew how long it would be before he put in another appearance. Maybe he was hiding booze under there. Nathan sure as fuck would have if he had switched places with the dildo. Then again, if he had been the sound guy, everyone would have already been good to go. A drink. That was what he really needed. Something to take the edge off.
“Gonna go getta drink. You guys…you can…uh…go do whatever too. Just don’t leave the fuckin’ bar ‘cause we ain’t…we ain’t finished with the check yet.”
Various grunts and noises of agreement met his words and most of the thickly built neanderthals that were part of his band followed in his wake as he headed for the bar. At that ungodly hour of the afternoon – at a time Nathan normally was just bothering to blink open his eyes if he wasn’t expected at the yard – there was a woman behind the bar. She didn’t look like she would take much crap, but Nathan had been in the joint his first evening in Miami and had seen how rough the place could get. No way, unless she was some kind of master of karate or some other Asian kung fu shit, could she tend the place once the sun that had so blessed the city disappeared beneath the Atlantic. Still, she could put a nice head on a brew and Nathan nodded his thanks as he tossed back his beer, draining it in a single, long swallow. Watching the bartender fill it a second time, he was struck by the unexpected appearance of blond roots in her otherwise raven hair.
World was funny like that. Eighty, eighty-five percent of the blonds he’d come across so far in the sun-drenched city had gotten their hair thanks to chemicals and the bleaching effects of the rays they soaked up readily. And yet right in front of him was a chick who had also decided to change, hiding pale gold underneath a heavy dye of midnight. Probably wanted to fit in with the crowd but that didn’t make that much sense. Sure every last one of Primordial Assault was dark and the bar later would be filled with thrashing bodies in black t-shirts, most of the light catching on all the silver piercings and chains and studs that comprised metal attire. But last night he’d seen a pretty awesome band and not one of its members had been anything but goth-pale, ethereal almost with the way their natural yellow shades caught the stage lights. One in particular, god, he had been so far from NOT-Metal that Nathan would’ve had to punch anybody in his presence who suggested otherwise.
Drinking down the second beer with a bit less haste than the first, Nathan shifted around to lean back against the bar so he could keep one eye on the sound jackass and the other on his band. While he didn’t often have too much trouble keeping them in line – a series of thrashing had ensured that they respected his leadership when nothing else had worked – sometimes they forgot just who was the boss. That guy, the blond with the battered black and white Xplorer, he looked like someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word “boss.” And that wouldn’t be just because his English was probably as crappy as the guy they had fronting. Objective Morality. Nathan hadn’t expected that much, especially not when five blond, long-haired faggy looking guys stalked out onto the stage. But then he realized the guitarist was bleeding, and not just a little.
Red had soaked around a cut in his jeans, dripped down his arm and onto the stage, and he hadn’t seemed to notice at all as soon as his slender, spidery fingers closed around the neck of his instrument and he began to play. He was…he was fanFUCKINGtastic. Fast. Holy shit was he fast. And good. Nathan, used to hearing the purposefully scuzzy, somewhat plodding notes of his own guitarists, had felt his jaw fall open when the man had launched into his first solo. Technical perfection, every note as clean as it was quick, reminding the large singer of nothing so much as Marty Friedman but with a distinct Maiden vibe. There was, for all that he had once given his bassist a black eye for praising Dio, nothing unmetal about the fierce, triumphant melody that rang out from the amps. Ride of the fucking Valkyries had been a vague thought and Nathan didn’t know just how close to being right he’d come.
He’d left his flyer behind and wandered back to his hotel in something of a daze. Primordial Assault sounded NOTHING like Objective Morality and Nathan wouldn’t have wanted it to. But there was something in that tall, blond foreigner’s sound, something that Nathan could subconsciously feel he needed. He hoped like hell that the guitarist showed up that night. He wanted a chance to show what he could do, see if it connected at all with the other man. And that meant he had to be his best. Which meant the douche bag sound guy had to get his motherfucking act together.
Glass slammed forcefully into the bar and the bartender watched, one hand on the internal phone line to the manager’s office just in case, as Nathan Explosion stalked across the floor. Threats, something growled but unintelligible, and then the singer shouldered his way past the incompetent engineer to stand over the board himself. A few moments passed as he played with the levels and then, with a bellow that shook some of the half-empty bottles on the shelf along the back of the bar, he rounded up his band mates and got the damn job done himself in less than twenty minutes.
