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Entry tags:
Metalocalypse Ongoing Stuff
Title: South Beach Part 6
Rating: PG13 for sex, drugs, cursing, booze, and metal music
Word Count: 1676
Heat, heavy with humidity unbroken by the breeze coming off the Atlantic, weighed down on Skwisgaar and he slowed his long strides, gradually coming to a stop next to one of the insanely expensive houses hidden behind thick walls at the very tip of South Beach. He was sweating and it made the back of his neck itch beneath the damp and uncomfortable fall of his hair. Florida sucked and the Swede cursed for once in his native tongue, punctuating the rude words by spitting on the sidewalk. Skwisgaar Skwigelf was the best, the fastest fucking guitarist ever if you asked him and anybody who’d ever seen him play, and he did NOT get riled by beefy American men with greasy hair who undoubtedly smelled and crushed beer cans on their heads. Not even when those men had strangely beguiling green eyes and a voice that sounded like it could have come from Satan himself, at once demonically rough and twistedly compelling.
The blonde scowled and tried to pull himself together, brushing a hand over his neck and flipping clinging strands out of his eyes. A part of him wanted to go back to that poor excuse for a bar, get lost in the masses of writhing, stinking flesh and fuck up anyone who came close enough to touch. He could mosh with the most brutal men out there and sending some poor bastard to the hospital would make him feel better. Too, there had been a promised drink and his pride wanted to test itself against the power of that dark front man’s voice. But stubbornness and a healthy dose of wariness won out and Skwisgaar kept on heading south. Sooner than he would have liked, he came to the end of the sidewalk, stopped by another high wall. He could hear the crash of waves somewhere vaguely ahead and to his left and he snarled and stretched an arm up over his head. If he jumped he could reach the top and then it would be easy work to climb over. But the thought of having to deal with his dildo manager and his fucking band mates when they came to bail him out of jail after he inevitably got caught for trespassing was enough to stop him even though the temptation of ruining his manager’s night was pretty strong.
Instead the guitarist turned back, headed north up the neon-painted main drag. This part of Miami was party central and even though it was nearly midnight, some of the venues hadn’t even opened yet. Most of the clubs that were open had blaring rock music or else the rapid, upbeat tempo of Latin dance and neither sound was what he wanted. But there was one joint - edged in black light and lacking the lines snaking around from the entrance - that looked only half empty. Steady drumbeats in a quick cadence were overlaid with strange blaring noises and ephemeral electronic bleeps. Gazing in from the outside, the club looked like something out of one of the prior decade’s glut of bad science fiction movies and Skwisgaar shrugged and decided to try it out. The Swede got in for free when the entrance guard asked, eyebrows cocked in a way he knew all too well, if he could dance and Skwisgaar proved emphatically that he knew how to move his hips. Inside the club it was very dark; lights, strobe and just plain multi-colored, flashed with the beat and moved across the floor in hypnotic patterns. Several of the patrons had glowing sticks, like certain kinds of roadside flares, in their hands, and they were moving them in still more patterns as they danced. It wasn’t the kind of music Skwisgaar liked very much, techno being somewhat bigger at that time in Europe than in America, but it was about as far removed from Primordial Assault as he could get and that made it good enough for him.
He stood out with his long hair, tight jeans, boots and ripped t-shirt for a Finnish band none of the Americans around him would ever recognize and at first he was given a wide berth on the dance floor. With his eyes closed, Skwisgaar let the pounding rhythm move his feet and his hips, arms and hands weaving through the air to the wafting overtones of melody. He didn’t care what he looked like, not there among losers who would never see him again, and he threw himself into the music, trying to lose the memory of that mesmerizing voice in sweat and adrenaline. After about fifteen minutes or so, the pulsing bass slowed and someone tapped on his shoulder. The Swede opened his eyes slowly; let a lazy grin slide across his face as he examined the girl before him. Hair up in two pigtails, shiny top clinging to a comfortable handful of assets, and a pleated skirt whose hem skimmed the middle of supple thighs, she was delicious and would be just the thing to salvage his evening.
Two pills and a bubbling green drink later – the drugs courtesy of the girl and the drink sent over from some other admirer – Skwisgaar was feeling mighty fine. At some point he’d been handed a set of the glowing sticks and he traced endless spirals and trails in the air, entranced by the colors and the feel of it all. Warm fingers trailed over his arm, tickled the short, sun-bleached hairs, and made him shiver. Whatever those pills were, they were good. Really good. The Swede slipped the glo-sticks into his back pocket and wrapped his arms around the cute pigtailed girl, sighing in delight when she kept stroking his skin. Another body settled behind him, solid and, as he moved back to get more of that wonderful sensation, definitely male. The guitarist laughed, a throaty chuckle gusting across the girl’s ear and rumbling back into what he supposed was her boyfriend. He pretended he wasn’t still thinking about that other music as he let himself be escorted off towards the unisex restroom.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
There was a sea of chaos before him and Nathan Explosion loved it. He fucking LOVED it. Fists flew, limbs flailed, beer sloshed and slicked the floor, and everywhere heads were banging to HIS command. This was what music, what fucking METAL was all about. The mosh pit was a mess and he could see blood on the ground, flowing from noses and fat lips. It was brutality, plain and simple, and Primordial Assault was the cause. They’d never played this well and the feeling, feeding off the crowd’s energy and giving it back, a closed circuit with a building charge, went straight to his head. Nathan snarled into the mike, whipping the club into an even greater frenzy, and nodded to Kuro. They had one more track to play and it was a beast and a bitch and mother fucking brutal.
Guitar notes sped up, no where near as fast as that blonde’s from Objective Morality but nearly twice as fast as most of their other songs, and the crowd seemed to sense that the end was near. Building like the hurricanes that decimated the city almost yearly, the song grew as the drums thundered beneath Kuro’s melody. Nathan gripped the mic stand, knuckles white against his tan, and watched the crowd as he waited for his moment. All night he’d been looking, trying not to but unable to resist. In the dark atmosphere of the smoky club, it was hard to see beyond the people clustered in the mosh pit at the front of the stage but he kept on searching. There weren’t too many blond heads although he had seen a blue and two greens and glimpsed what he thought was purple. And none of them had belonged to a tall foreign man. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed as he scanned the nearly orgiastic frenzy before him and ROARED into the microphone.
It sounded like a full-fledged riot behind them as Primordial Assault left the stage. They’d lived up to their name and it was certain that South Beach, if not all of Miami or mother fucking Florida, would not soon forget their performance. Nathan grabbed a random bottle from the collection spread out on the table outside of what passed as their dressing room, smacked Dave hard on his back so that the drummer nearly chipped a tooth on his own drink. A ragged round of self-congratulation and continued interjections of ‘Fuckin’ Brutal’ from Nathan and the band settled in for capping off their night with liquid pleasure. The front man swiped another two drinks and headed for the bar, ostensibly to pick up a chick but really to keep an eye out for the blond guitarist. He waited, hulking in the shadows and enjoying the slow break up of the fights in the mosh pit, and watched but the Swede never appeared.
Nearly three o’clock and the sound douche bag was working on unhooking his shoddy wiring when Nathan gave up and left the club. South Beach was still alive and thrumming with music. It came from open doors and blaring car stereos and the off-key warbling of drunks weaving down the sidewalks. He didn’t want any of it, not when it wasn’t like the soaring notes he’d heard yesterday. The ocean provided a dull roar beneath all the other sounds and he wandered towards the beach. The moon was full and overshadowed with a reddish tint as it hung in the sky, bloody and ominous. Nathan toasted it, chugged the rest of the bottle and flopped down to lie in the sand. The waves were louder there, drowned out everything but the howl of a dog from somewhere further down the coast. Lulled, cat-green eyes slipped shut and Nathan dozed. He dreamed of Vikings raiders and barbarian hordes and a mushroom cloud over his hometown and woke up with a crick in his neck and the first fiery rays of the sun stabbing into his eyes.
Rating: PG13 for sex, drugs, cursing, booze, and metal music
Word Count: 1676
Heat, heavy with humidity unbroken by the breeze coming off the Atlantic, weighed down on Skwisgaar and he slowed his long strides, gradually coming to a stop next to one of the insanely expensive houses hidden behind thick walls at the very tip of South Beach. He was sweating and it made the back of his neck itch beneath the damp and uncomfortable fall of his hair. Florida sucked and the Swede cursed for once in his native tongue, punctuating the rude words by spitting on the sidewalk. Skwisgaar Skwigelf was the best, the fastest fucking guitarist ever if you asked him and anybody who’d ever seen him play, and he did NOT get riled by beefy American men with greasy hair who undoubtedly smelled and crushed beer cans on their heads. Not even when those men had strangely beguiling green eyes and a voice that sounded like it could have come from Satan himself, at once demonically rough and twistedly compelling.
The blonde scowled and tried to pull himself together, brushing a hand over his neck and flipping clinging strands out of his eyes. A part of him wanted to go back to that poor excuse for a bar, get lost in the masses of writhing, stinking flesh and fuck up anyone who came close enough to touch. He could mosh with the most brutal men out there and sending some poor bastard to the hospital would make him feel better. Too, there had been a promised drink and his pride wanted to test itself against the power of that dark front man’s voice. But stubbornness and a healthy dose of wariness won out and Skwisgaar kept on heading south. Sooner than he would have liked, he came to the end of the sidewalk, stopped by another high wall. He could hear the crash of waves somewhere vaguely ahead and to his left and he snarled and stretched an arm up over his head. If he jumped he could reach the top and then it would be easy work to climb over. But the thought of having to deal with his dildo manager and his fucking band mates when they came to bail him out of jail after he inevitably got caught for trespassing was enough to stop him even though the temptation of ruining his manager’s night was pretty strong.
Instead the guitarist turned back, headed north up the neon-painted main drag. This part of Miami was party central and even though it was nearly midnight, some of the venues hadn’t even opened yet. Most of the clubs that were open had blaring rock music or else the rapid, upbeat tempo of Latin dance and neither sound was what he wanted. But there was one joint - edged in black light and lacking the lines snaking around from the entrance - that looked only half empty. Steady drumbeats in a quick cadence were overlaid with strange blaring noises and ephemeral electronic bleeps. Gazing in from the outside, the club looked like something out of one of the prior decade’s glut of bad science fiction movies and Skwisgaar shrugged and decided to try it out. The Swede got in for free when the entrance guard asked, eyebrows cocked in a way he knew all too well, if he could dance and Skwisgaar proved emphatically that he knew how to move his hips. Inside the club it was very dark; lights, strobe and just plain multi-colored, flashed with the beat and moved across the floor in hypnotic patterns. Several of the patrons had glowing sticks, like certain kinds of roadside flares, in their hands, and they were moving them in still more patterns as they danced. It wasn’t the kind of music Skwisgaar liked very much, techno being somewhat bigger at that time in Europe than in America, but it was about as far removed from Primordial Assault as he could get and that made it good enough for him.
He stood out with his long hair, tight jeans, boots and ripped t-shirt for a Finnish band none of the Americans around him would ever recognize and at first he was given a wide berth on the dance floor. With his eyes closed, Skwisgaar let the pounding rhythm move his feet and his hips, arms and hands weaving through the air to the wafting overtones of melody. He didn’t care what he looked like, not there among losers who would never see him again, and he threw himself into the music, trying to lose the memory of that mesmerizing voice in sweat and adrenaline. After about fifteen minutes or so, the pulsing bass slowed and someone tapped on his shoulder. The Swede opened his eyes slowly; let a lazy grin slide across his face as he examined the girl before him. Hair up in two pigtails, shiny top clinging to a comfortable handful of assets, and a pleated skirt whose hem skimmed the middle of supple thighs, she was delicious and would be just the thing to salvage his evening.
Two pills and a bubbling green drink later – the drugs courtesy of the girl and the drink sent over from some other admirer – Skwisgaar was feeling mighty fine. At some point he’d been handed a set of the glowing sticks and he traced endless spirals and trails in the air, entranced by the colors and the feel of it all. Warm fingers trailed over his arm, tickled the short, sun-bleached hairs, and made him shiver. Whatever those pills were, they were good. Really good. The Swede slipped the glo-sticks into his back pocket and wrapped his arms around the cute pigtailed girl, sighing in delight when she kept stroking his skin. Another body settled behind him, solid and, as he moved back to get more of that wonderful sensation, definitely male. The guitarist laughed, a throaty chuckle gusting across the girl’s ear and rumbling back into what he supposed was her boyfriend. He pretended he wasn’t still thinking about that other music as he let himself be escorted off towards the unisex restroom.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
There was a sea of chaos before him and Nathan Explosion loved it. He fucking LOVED it. Fists flew, limbs flailed, beer sloshed and slicked the floor, and everywhere heads were banging to HIS command. This was what music, what fucking METAL was all about. The mosh pit was a mess and he could see blood on the ground, flowing from noses and fat lips. It was brutality, plain and simple, and Primordial Assault was the cause. They’d never played this well and the feeling, feeding off the crowd’s energy and giving it back, a closed circuit with a building charge, went straight to his head. Nathan snarled into the mike, whipping the club into an even greater frenzy, and nodded to Kuro. They had one more track to play and it was a beast and a bitch and mother fucking brutal.
Guitar notes sped up, no where near as fast as that blonde’s from Objective Morality but nearly twice as fast as most of their other songs, and the crowd seemed to sense that the end was near. Building like the hurricanes that decimated the city almost yearly, the song grew as the drums thundered beneath Kuro’s melody. Nathan gripped the mic stand, knuckles white against his tan, and watched the crowd as he waited for his moment. All night he’d been looking, trying not to but unable to resist. In the dark atmosphere of the smoky club, it was hard to see beyond the people clustered in the mosh pit at the front of the stage but he kept on searching. There weren’t too many blond heads although he had seen a blue and two greens and glimpsed what he thought was purple. And none of them had belonged to a tall foreign man. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed as he scanned the nearly orgiastic frenzy before him and ROARED into the microphone.
It sounded like a full-fledged riot behind them as Primordial Assault left the stage. They’d lived up to their name and it was certain that South Beach, if not all of Miami or mother fucking Florida, would not soon forget their performance. Nathan grabbed a random bottle from the collection spread out on the table outside of what passed as their dressing room, smacked Dave hard on his back so that the drummer nearly chipped a tooth on his own drink. A ragged round of self-congratulation and continued interjections of ‘Fuckin’ Brutal’ from Nathan and the band settled in for capping off their night with liquid pleasure. The front man swiped another two drinks and headed for the bar, ostensibly to pick up a chick but really to keep an eye out for the blond guitarist. He waited, hulking in the shadows and enjoying the slow break up of the fights in the mosh pit, and watched but the Swede never appeared.
Nearly three o’clock and the sound douche bag was working on unhooking his shoddy wiring when Nathan gave up and left the club. South Beach was still alive and thrumming with music. It came from open doors and blaring car stereos and the off-key warbling of drunks weaving down the sidewalks. He didn’t want any of it, not when it wasn’t like the soaring notes he’d heard yesterday. The ocean provided a dull roar beneath all the other sounds and he wandered towards the beach. The moon was full and overshadowed with a reddish tint as it hung in the sky, bloody and ominous. Nathan toasted it, chugged the rest of the bottle and flopped down to lie in the sand. The waves were louder there, drowned out everything but the howl of a dog from somewhere further down the coast. Lulled, cat-green eyes slipped shut and Nathan dozed. He dreamed of Vikings raiders and barbarian hordes and a mushroom cloud over his hometown and woke up with a crick in his neck and the first fiery rays of the sun stabbing into his eyes.
no subject
School... well, damn, I'm beginning to think that school exists only to see how much stress we can humanly cope with before breaking down. @o@;;;
I hope you and Brian get to go to the zoo this weekend! I love going to the zoo. :D