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Entry tags:
3rd to last entry for Act 1
Title: South Beach part 7
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1683
Nathan was still shaking sand out of his boots and his pockets several hours after groggily waking up on the beach as he sat in the terminal with his band mates. They had a Sunday morning flight back to Charleston and he hadn’t been able to get another day off so Monday, disgustingly bright and early, would find him back at work if he knew what was good for his depleted bank account. The other members of Primordial Assault were conspicuously silent, muttering to each other occasionally, and directing bloodshot glares at anyone stupid enough to come too close to the cluster of seats they’d claimed for themselves. One family with a handful of brats in tow had even been run off by Bill, the man’s missing-link appearance and unsubtle shouts for them to ‘shut yer cryin’ spawn the fuck up already’ working wonders in surrounding the band with quiet. Usually Nathan would have been suffering right along with them, nursing a killer hangover and trying to decide whether it would be smarter to wait the headache out or jump right back into drinking and hope the new booze killed the older pain. But he’d only had three bottles while he waited in vain and then he’d fallen asleep on the beach and gotten effing sand EVERYWHERE it seemed. At least he hadn’t missed his flight.
When he’d woken up to the sun piercing his eyeballs, the beach had been empty and still, eerie as a mist not yet burned off hung over the sand and in patches on top of the waves. His skin had been clammy and foam-flecked seaweed was strewn around him but his clothing had been dry and he still had his wallet. Nathan had shrugged, stood up and brushed off his ass before trudging back towards his hotel. He never noticed the half-eaten corpse of the dog that had barked throughout most of the night tossed casually up against the lifeguard stand only a dozen yards or so away from where he’d spent the night. All of his attention had been taken up by the words forming in his head, a brutal song that nonetheless needed more than the music his current band could provide. There was a hint of melody toying with his brain, something novel and fierce like the kind of notes that would end up on a soundtrack for a fantasy movie when the hero went to slay the dragon, something that wouldn’t have been out of place on that animated HEAVY METAL movie that Kuro had dissed in favor of badly dubbed movies with lots of tentacles. It sounded amazing and the notes and words reverberating in his brain kept Nathan occupied as he absently packed up and herded the grouchy, suffering sons of bitches that were his band mates out of the hotel and into a shuttle bound for Miami International.
It was only there in the terminal, with his baggage checked and nothing else to do besides wait for his reluctant return back to the humdrum mediocrity that was the insanity of regular life – clockwork soldiers on a battlefield sown with landmines and nothing but chance to decide who lived and who died – that the sand in his boots really began to bother Nathan. His feet smelled a little, no socks and that one toenail that was black and purple from where a load of two-by-fours had fallen on it had a stench of decaying flesh, and gritty sand stuck to his heel and between his toes. He dumped out his boots, a small heap of stone worn down by time and water into tiny grains on the carpet, and grunted as he pried a piece of shell out of his skin. It seemed like finality, the end of Miami, and Nathan reflected back on the insane set his band had played and growled in impatient frustration.
Words – foreign, tall, blond, from one of those Viking places, fast as fuck, Maiden on speed, prick for not taking a freely offered beer, brutal, Objective Morality - took up the rest of the wait for the plane. Nathan’s handwriting, bold and thick with smudged graphite as his hand ran over the paper and his thoughts, was his focus and he circled the other band name several times, jabbed his pencil down hard enough to snap off the point. The rest of Primordial Assault slept on the short commuter flight while the front man alternated between staring out the window and composing snatches of lyrics with a pen he’d gruffly asked for from the flight attendant. A different sort of song and he had no idea what the guys would say about it but he didn’t really give a damn. They would play it or he would find band mates who could. The next morning, back at work, the constraints of his life seemed to chafe like they never had before. He’d had a taste of glory, of the heady freedom that the stage brought and Nathan wanted more. Craved it like a fucking drug, and he swore under his breath at the nameless blond guitarist as he readied a drywall order. Nathan Explosion needed out.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
Wired, high as hell and still absently horny in spite of the rounds he’d gone in the nameless dance club’s bathroom, Skwisgaar prowled the streets of South Beach and tried to still the rushing of his blood. Dawn wasn’t a good look for that corner of Miami, the light catching on all the detritus of the night before. The guitarist caught a glimpse of his drawn face, pale with dark circles beneath a pair of blue, dilated eyes, in a plate glass window and laughed. For an instant he had glimpsed the past; four years back to a sullen, unhappy teenager who spent his nights sleeping in cars and his weekends prowling Stockholm’s less pleasant quarters with a guitar strapped to his back and a fistful of condoms in his pockets. But he wasn’t that person anymore and he never would be again. He was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, current lead guitarist of Objective Morality and former guitarist of at least seven other bands, and he was going to be the fastest guitarist alive if he wasn’t already. And he was in goddamn Miami avoiding the bitter cold of a Swedish winter and he’d just gotten doped up and laid and it hadn’t cost him a penny, let alone a smidgeon of effort. Life was good, or so he told himself as he reluctantly handed over a dollar in exchange for a cup of shitty American coffee.
That confident mood was gone by the time he found his way back to his hotel. Nothing besides the convenience store had been open, South Beach drowsing beneath a too-warm December sun on a Sunday. Nothing would happen that day, giving the area a chance to refuel, and Skwisgaar felt bored and lonely as he ambled the streets. He saw only a single other soul, a wrinkled old woman pushing a shopping cart and rooting through the trash behind a closed Italian restaurant. She had smiled at him as he passed, a gaping of a largely toothless mouth, and he’d started to grin back until he caught sight of her eyes. Clear and green instead of milky with cataracts like he had expected, they seemed to see right through him. The guitarist had hurried off, haunted by a clearly remembered voice that seemed to shake his very soul.
Jorne found him that morning in the lobby, fingers moving soundlessly over the frets of his beloved Explorer. Skwisgaar looked like hell warmed over and the singer glanced sharply at the bare, scratched arms for any sign of needle marks. But the seated blond was free of track lines or bruises to the insides of his elbows and Jorne shrugged, offered his guitarist one of the pre-packaged muffins that the hotel served for breakfast. It was refused and Jorne let him be for the time being, girding up for the inevitable confrontation between their manager and the arrogant musician. When it did come, three hours later as Objective Morality ruefully studied the fifteen passenger van that was to serve as their touring vehicle for the next few weeks, it wasn’t nearly as bad as Jorne had been expecting. Even their dildo manager looked surprised when Skwisgaar settled on calling him a few choice names and threatening violence.
It was worse later as they rumbled out of Miami, all of their equipment shaking and rattling around in the back half of the van while the band members crowded in the front. Olle drove, trying to follow their douche bag manager in his nice rented Benz, and Skwisgaar took up the last bench seat, sprawled with one leg tossed up over the seat in front of him and his foot waving to an unheard beat right in Sture’s face. Those spidery, strong fingers were still going, so fast it was a wonder that they hadn’t gotten tangled in one another, and what REALLY bothered Jorne, listening and occasionally looking back from the front passenger position, was that it was like nothing their band would ever play. It was somehow darker, more brutal, and the sneer on Skwisgaar’s face was an ugly thing made worse by the fact that his eyes were closed and he almost seemed to be playing in his sleep. All they needed was one album but it seemed as though it might not happen. Skwisgaar paid the rest of them no mind, lost in the notes and the dark voice thundering in his head, and finally passed out an hour from Orlando and the next stop on their tour.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
In South Beach that winter, more pets went missing. Perhaps a street person or two as well, it was hard to say. And the displaced Cuban population muttered amongst themselves, bandied about old demons and childhood nightmares that had long been replaced by the hated Castro. But that’s of only minor importance to the story.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1683
Nathan was still shaking sand out of his boots and his pockets several hours after groggily waking up on the beach as he sat in the terminal with his band mates. They had a Sunday morning flight back to Charleston and he hadn’t been able to get another day off so Monday, disgustingly bright and early, would find him back at work if he knew what was good for his depleted bank account. The other members of Primordial Assault were conspicuously silent, muttering to each other occasionally, and directing bloodshot glares at anyone stupid enough to come too close to the cluster of seats they’d claimed for themselves. One family with a handful of brats in tow had even been run off by Bill, the man’s missing-link appearance and unsubtle shouts for them to ‘shut yer cryin’ spawn the fuck up already’ working wonders in surrounding the band with quiet. Usually Nathan would have been suffering right along with them, nursing a killer hangover and trying to decide whether it would be smarter to wait the headache out or jump right back into drinking and hope the new booze killed the older pain. But he’d only had three bottles while he waited in vain and then he’d fallen asleep on the beach and gotten effing sand EVERYWHERE it seemed. At least he hadn’t missed his flight.
When he’d woken up to the sun piercing his eyeballs, the beach had been empty and still, eerie as a mist not yet burned off hung over the sand and in patches on top of the waves. His skin had been clammy and foam-flecked seaweed was strewn around him but his clothing had been dry and he still had his wallet. Nathan had shrugged, stood up and brushed off his ass before trudging back towards his hotel. He never noticed the half-eaten corpse of the dog that had barked throughout most of the night tossed casually up against the lifeguard stand only a dozen yards or so away from where he’d spent the night. All of his attention had been taken up by the words forming in his head, a brutal song that nonetheless needed more than the music his current band could provide. There was a hint of melody toying with his brain, something novel and fierce like the kind of notes that would end up on a soundtrack for a fantasy movie when the hero went to slay the dragon, something that wouldn’t have been out of place on that animated HEAVY METAL movie that Kuro had dissed in favor of badly dubbed movies with lots of tentacles. It sounded amazing and the notes and words reverberating in his brain kept Nathan occupied as he absently packed up and herded the grouchy, suffering sons of bitches that were his band mates out of the hotel and into a shuttle bound for Miami International.
It was only there in the terminal, with his baggage checked and nothing else to do besides wait for his reluctant return back to the humdrum mediocrity that was the insanity of regular life – clockwork soldiers on a battlefield sown with landmines and nothing but chance to decide who lived and who died – that the sand in his boots really began to bother Nathan. His feet smelled a little, no socks and that one toenail that was black and purple from where a load of two-by-fours had fallen on it had a stench of decaying flesh, and gritty sand stuck to his heel and between his toes. He dumped out his boots, a small heap of stone worn down by time and water into tiny grains on the carpet, and grunted as he pried a piece of shell out of his skin. It seemed like finality, the end of Miami, and Nathan reflected back on the insane set his band had played and growled in impatient frustration.
Words – foreign, tall, blond, from one of those Viking places, fast as fuck, Maiden on speed, prick for not taking a freely offered beer, brutal, Objective Morality - took up the rest of the wait for the plane. Nathan’s handwriting, bold and thick with smudged graphite as his hand ran over the paper and his thoughts, was his focus and he circled the other band name several times, jabbed his pencil down hard enough to snap off the point. The rest of Primordial Assault slept on the short commuter flight while the front man alternated between staring out the window and composing snatches of lyrics with a pen he’d gruffly asked for from the flight attendant. A different sort of song and he had no idea what the guys would say about it but he didn’t really give a damn. They would play it or he would find band mates who could. The next morning, back at work, the constraints of his life seemed to chafe like they never had before. He’d had a taste of glory, of the heady freedom that the stage brought and Nathan wanted more. Craved it like a fucking drug, and he swore under his breath at the nameless blond guitarist as he readied a drywall order. Nathan Explosion needed out.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
Wired, high as hell and still absently horny in spite of the rounds he’d gone in the nameless dance club’s bathroom, Skwisgaar prowled the streets of South Beach and tried to still the rushing of his blood. Dawn wasn’t a good look for that corner of Miami, the light catching on all the detritus of the night before. The guitarist caught a glimpse of his drawn face, pale with dark circles beneath a pair of blue, dilated eyes, in a plate glass window and laughed. For an instant he had glimpsed the past; four years back to a sullen, unhappy teenager who spent his nights sleeping in cars and his weekends prowling Stockholm’s less pleasant quarters with a guitar strapped to his back and a fistful of condoms in his pockets. But he wasn’t that person anymore and he never would be again. He was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, current lead guitarist of Objective Morality and former guitarist of at least seven other bands, and he was going to be the fastest guitarist alive if he wasn’t already. And he was in goddamn Miami avoiding the bitter cold of a Swedish winter and he’d just gotten doped up and laid and it hadn’t cost him a penny, let alone a smidgeon of effort. Life was good, or so he told himself as he reluctantly handed over a dollar in exchange for a cup of shitty American coffee.
That confident mood was gone by the time he found his way back to his hotel. Nothing besides the convenience store had been open, South Beach drowsing beneath a too-warm December sun on a Sunday. Nothing would happen that day, giving the area a chance to refuel, and Skwisgaar felt bored and lonely as he ambled the streets. He saw only a single other soul, a wrinkled old woman pushing a shopping cart and rooting through the trash behind a closed Italian restaurant. She had smiled at him as he passed, a gaping of a largely toothless mouth, and he’d started to grin back until he caught sight of her eyes. Clear and green instead of milky with cataracts like he had expected, they seemed to see right through him. The guitarist had hurried off, haunted by a clearly remembered voice that seemed to shake his very soul.
Jorne found him that morning in the lobby, fingers moving soundlessly over the frets of his beloved Explorer. Skwisgaar looked like hell warmed over and the singer glanced sharply at the bare, scratched arms for any sign of needle marks. But the seated blond was free of track lines or bruises to the insides of his elbows and Jorne shrugged, offered his guitarist one of the pre-packaged muffins that the hotel served for breakfast. It was refused and Jorne let him be for the time being, girding up for the inevitable confrontation between their manager and the arrogant musician. When it did come, three hours later as Objective Morality ruefully studied the fifteen passenger van that was to serve as their touring vehicle for the next few weeks, it wasn’t nearly as bad as Jorne had been expecting. Even their dildo manager looked surprised when Skwisgaar settled on calling him a few choice names and threatening violence.
It was worse later as they rumbled out of Miami, all of their equipment shaking and rattling around in the back half of the van while the band members crowded in the front. Olle drove, trying to follow their douche bag manager in his nice rented Benz, and Skwisgaar took up the last bench seat, sprawled with one leg tossed up over the seat in front of him and his foot waving to an unheard beat right in Sture’s face. Those spidery, strong fingers were still going, so fast it was a wonder that they hadn’t gotten tangled in one another, and what REALLY bothered Jorne, listening and occasionally looking back from the front passenger position, was that it was like nothing their band would ever play. It was somehow darker, more brutal, and the sneer on Skwisgaar’s face was an ugly thing made worse by the fact that his eyes were closed and he almost seemed to be playing in his sleep. All they needed was one album but it seemed as though it might not happen. Skwisgaar paid the rest of them no mind, lost in the notes and the dark voice thundering in his head, and finally passed out an hour from Orlando and the next stop on their tour.
\m/ \m/ \m/ \m/ \m/
In South Beach that winter, more pets went missing. Perhaps a street person or two as well, it was hard to say. And the displaced Cuban population muttered amongst themselves, bandied about old demons and childhood nightmares that had long been replaced by the hated Castro. But that’s of only minor importance to the story.
no subject
Or love Nathan and adore your SkwisgaarAs always, waiting for more. And wondering about Toki. ^^
no subject
As for Toki, his part of Act 1 is finished but I have big plans for him in Act 2. He finally gets to have some fun, bless him.
no subject
Damn you for this...because you made me want, you always make me WANT, and though I know what will happen eventually...you write so well that I have to REMIND myself that the puzzle will fall into place in the end.
...I love you.
no subject
Keyboard mash because you are too freaking kind. But I appreciate it anyway and I'm glad you are left wanting more because there is certainly a lot more to come once I make myself get around to it. ♥ for you!