Metalocalypse Meeting stuff once again
Apr. 16th, 2007 06:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Headers and Pistons
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 1250
“Get up dick fasche.”
Pickles groaned and shifted away from the hard thing that kept on poking at his kidneys. His head hurt and he was exhausted. His flight back from L.A. had left the city on the Pacific shortly after nine p.m. and he’d forgotten all about the time change when he’d booked it. Arriving back on the east coast, by the time the taxi driver had shouted him awake in Korean or Chinese or whatever in front of Murderface’s apartment building, dawn had been breaking over the tops of the surrounding trees. Fumbling the key he’d been given out of the pocket of his ratty old jean jacket, dropping his suitcase on the floor and falling face first down onto the couch had been all that he’d had left in him.
Murderface scowled down at the redhead drooling on his couch. Pickles had slept straight through most of the day and it was now nearly four on a Sunday afternoon. They were supposed to go pick out a kit but the shop closed at five. If his new drummer didn’t get his ass up, there wasn’t going to be anything for him to play at the gig they had scheduled for the next night. That just wouldn’t fly. Not after how much bragging he and the rest of Antietam had been doing about their set with the new guy the other week. Tomorrow would be the proof of the pudding, as his fat-ass cow of a grandmother always said. Stupid saying but the ugly whore did know how to make a decent batch of the Jello mix shit. But first Sleeping Douche Bag had to get up so they could go get him his damn drums.
“I schaid it’sh time you got your shtupid butt in gear.”
He added in another, harder kick to Pickles’ midsection and this time he was rewarded with a middle finger and baggy green eyes slitting open to stare at him.
“Th’ hell you doin’ that for? I’m effin’ jetlagged dood.”
“It’sh four o’clock and if you want to have shomethin’ to play tomorrow, you will GET THE FUCK UP NOW!”
The rather loud and frothy shout scattered spittle over the side of Pickles’ face that wasn’t buried in the torn, stained fabric of the secondhand couch. It was punctuated with a third blow to his tender side and this time, wiping a hand disgustedly across his cheek, he did manage to sit up. He would have anyway, without all of the punishment, had Murderface just mentioned their errand but that would have been too simple.
“’m up, ‘m up. Sheesh. Shooda jest said that first. Let’s go!”
Traffic was relatively thin at that time in Richmond and Murderface drove his rig easily towards the shop that had long supplied Antietam with its equipment. The band went through amps rather quickly, given his own tendency to destroy them, and they had a long-standing account that the Colonel always made sure was in good standing. Next to him in the messy cab, Pickles was largely silent. He was pressed up against the window again, eating one of the Donut Sticks that had been the lunch of choice for Murderface on Friday and humming absently along to the shitty glam song on the radio. WDYL always played weak crap on Sunday but it was the only thing even half worth listening to in the damn city so the angry bassist sucked it up and merely sent them threatening phone calls from time to time about their format. Murderface wasn’t sure where the redhead had gone over the past three days but he’d come back looking a little happier. And he didn’t really care about that either, so long as Pickles still played as good as he had that first night.
As for the former MTV star, Pickles was dazed but happy. L.A. hadn’t been easy, not that he’d expected it to be, and saying good-bye to two or three guys, mostly Snakes ‘n’ Barrels’ former roadies, had been hard. He’d boxed up what little of his shit he still wanted that he couldn’t take with him on the plane, arranged it so that his lawyer – still in his employ through the end of the year thanks to one of the few smart moves the band had made in the past few months – would sell or give away most of the rest of his stuff, and then he’d signed paperwork until his hand felt like it was going to fall off. Other than his guitar, some clothes, a couple of notebooks full of lyrics, and the gold record from their first single to hit number one, there hadn’t been much he’d wanted. He’d left his former home, a rented condo on the beach, after one last try to call his ex-bandmates. No one had answered and he’d finished off a bottle of champagne down on the sand in a final toast to them before he’d gone to the airport and left that life behind. He was a drummer now and that was all that mattered. Well, that and…
“Dood!”
The sudden cry in the largely silent cab made Murderface swerve and almost sideswipe a mini-van full of brats that had been doing that stupid arm-yank gesture to try and get him to blow his horn for the last mile. Too bad he’d missed.
“What? What the fuck you trying to do, kill ush?”
“Eh? Oh, sorry man. Jest…d’ya think we could stop here on the way back? I need ta get m’self a vehicle and there was a SWEET Firebird back there I wanna check out.”
“You got cassh for that short of thing?”
Pickles blinked and then nodded. He needed to be careful with what money he had left. His lawyer had most of it currently held for him, just waiting to be wired to whatever bank he chose in Richmond, after persuading him that flying back with a suitcase full of money wouldn’t be a good idea. Most of that he intended to sock away, keep should Antietam ever need it for studio time or whatever. But he did need a ride and he was paying for his new kit himself too. That way Murderface couldn’t hold it over his head and he could get exactly what he wanted.
“Got jest enough dood. Can’t be relyin’ on ya all the time, ‘specially once I get m’self a douche bag jahb.”
That was true, and, loathe though he was to have to do the drummer another favor, Murderface sighed in agreement.
“Goddammit. All right, sho long’sh we get you thoshe drumsh firsht.”
At five-thirty, with the heavy steel doors drawn down over the store front, Pickles handed over his cash and Murderface told the owner where to drop off the new kit for the show the next night. Much waving of fingers and winking had ensued as the redhead barely managed to keep from having his old identity revealed to the bassist, and he’d gotten a discount on the deal once he’d privately autographed some merchandise. The kit was sweet, he loved the whole set up already, and he had jammed on it for a good fifteen minutes after the store had closed much to the private delight of everyone still inside. Murderface was relieved. The guy was still fucking good. And he didn’t do more than grumble a little bit and piss on the rear passenger tire when they stopped to check out the Firebird.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 1250
“Get up dick fasche.”
Pickles groaned and shifted away from the hard thing that kept on poking at his kidneys. His head hurt and he was exhausted. His flight back from L.A. had left the city on the Pacific shortly after nine p.m. and he’d forgotten all about the time change when he’d booked it. Arriving back on the east coast, by the time the taxi driver had shouted him awake in Korean or Chinese or whatever in front of Murderface’s apartment building, dawn had been breaking over the tops of the surrounding trees. Fumbling the key he’d been given out of the pocket of his ratty old jean jacket, dropping his suitcase on the floor and falling face first down onto the couch had been all that he’d had left in him.
Murderface scowled down at the redhead drooling on his couch. Pickles had slept straight through most of the day and it was now nearly four on a Sunday afternoon. They were supposed to go pick out a kit but the shop closed at five. If his new drummer didn’t get his ass up, there wasn’t going to be anything for him to play at the gig they had scheduled for the next night. That just wouldn’t fly. Not after how much bragging he and the rest of Antietam had been doing about their set with the new guy the other week. Tomorrow would be the proof of the pudding, as his fat-ass cow of a grandmother always said. Stupid saying but the ugly whore did know how to make a decent batch of the Jello mix shit. But first Sleeping Douche Bag had to get up so they could go get him his damn drums.
“I schaid it’sh time you got your shtupid butt in gear.”
He added in another, harder kick to Pickles’ midsection and this time he was rewarded with a middle finger and baggy green eyes slitting open to stare at him.
“Th’ hell you doin’ that for? I’m effin’ jetlagged dood.”
“It’sh four o’clock and if you want to have shomethin’ to play tomorrow, you will GET THE FUCK UP NOW!”
The rather loud and frothy shout scattered spittle over the side of Pickles’ face that wasn’t buried in the torn, stained fabric of the secondhand couch. It was punctuated with a third blow to his tender side and this time, wiping a hand disgustedly across his cheek, he did manage to sit up. He would have anyway, without all of the punishment, had Murderface just mentioned their errand but that would have been too simple.
“’m up, ‘m up. Sheesh. Shooda jest said that first. Let’s go!”
Traffic was relatively thin at that time in Richmond and Murderface drove his rig easily towards the shop that had long supplied Antietam with its equipment. The band went through amps rather quickly, given his own tendency to destroy them, and they had a long-standing account that the Colonel always made sure was in good standing. Next to him in the messy cab, Pickles was largely silent. He was pressed up against the window again, eating one of the Donut Sticks that had been the lunch of choice for Murderface on Friday and humming absently along to the shitty glam song on the radio. WDYL always played weak crap on Sunday but it was the only thing even half worth listening to in the damn city so the angry bassist sucked it up and merely sent them threatening phone calls from time to time about their format. Murderface wasn’t sure where the redhead had gone over the past three days but he’d come back looking a little happier. And he didn’t really care about that either, so long as Pickles still played as good as he had that first night.
As for the former MTV star, Pickles was dazed but happy. L.A. hadn’t been easy, not that he’d expected it to be, and saying good-bye to two or three guys, mostly Snakes ‘n’ Barrels’ former roadies, had been hard. He’d boxed up what little of his shit he still wanted that he couldn’t take with him on the plane, arranged it so that his lawyer – still in his employ through the end of the year thanks to one of the few smart moves the band had made in the past few months – would sell or give away most of the rest of his stuff, and then he’d signed paperwork until his hand felt like it was going to fall off. Other than his guitar, some clothes, a couple of notebooks full of lyrics, and the gold record from their first single to hit number one, there hadn’t been much he’d wanted. He’d left his former home, a rented condo on the beach, after one last try to call his ex-bandmates. No one had answered and he’d finished off a bottle of champagne down on the sand in a final toast to them before he’d gone to the airport and left that life behind. He was a drummer now and that was all that mattered. Well, that and…
“Dood!”
The sudden cry in the largely silent cab made Murderface swerve and almost sideswipe a mini-van full of brats that had been doing that stupid arm-yank gesture to try and get him to blow his horn for the last mile. Too bad he’d missed.
“What? What the fuck you trying to do, kill ush?”
“Eh? Oh, sorry man. Jest…d’ya think we could stop here on the way back? I need ta get m’self a vehicle and there was a SWEET Firebird back there I wanna check out.”
“You got cassh for that short of thing?”
Pickles blinked and then nodded. He needed to be careful with what money he had left. His lawyer had most of it currently held for him, just waiting to be wired to whatever bank he chose in Richmond, after persuading him that flying back with a suitcase full of money wouldn’t be a good idea. Most of that he intended to sock away, keep should Antietam ever need it for studio time or whatever. But he did need a ride and he was paying for his new kit himself too. That way Murderface couldn’t hold it over his head and he could get exactly what he wanted.
“Got jest enough dood. Can’t be relyin’ on ya all the time, ‘specially once I get m’self a douche bag jahb.”
That was true, and, loathe though he was to have to do the drummer another favor, Murderface sighed in agreement.
“Goddammit. All right, sho long’sh we get you thoshe drumsh firsht.”
At five-thirty, with the heavy steel doors drawn down over the store front, Pickles handed over his cash and Murderface told the owner where to drop off the new kit for the show the next night. Much waving of fingers and winking had ensued as the redhead barely managed to keep from having his old identity revealed to the bassist, and he’d gotten a discount on the deal once he’d privately autographed some merchandise. The kit was sweet, he loved the whole set up already, and he had jammed on it for a good fifteen minutes after the store had closed much to the private delight of everyone still inside. Murderface was relieved. The guy was still fucking good. And he didn’t do more than grumble a little bit and piss on the rear passenger tire when they stopped to check out the Firebird.
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Date: 2007-04-18 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-20 10:16 am (UTC)