COME TOGETHER - Interlude A: Number 2
Jul. 11th, 2007 06:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Caller Number 10
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2628
Green eyes framed by heavy, greasy black hair flickered from an engine block to the clock hanging in a corner of the shop over the sink. It was only twelve-fifteen, exactly six minutes later than the last time he had checked. Nathan huffed out a long sigh and tried not to think about the forty-five minutes he still had to wait until lunch. As for the five hours after that he would have to wait until he got off, that much time was too oppressive to even contemplate. At the rate he was going, he’d have time for another three cars before his break and he had better get to it or the boss would be after him again.
It was early December in 1994 and the weather in Georgia was still warm enough that they’d left the bay doors open. Nathan, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up past the elbows, squinted at the dipstick before jamming it back into the tank. A cigarette sounded like a good idea but instead he only allowed himself a quick glance outside at the few cars waiting for him in the parking lot as he walked over to supply wall to grab a bigger pan. It took him a moment to get the car up on the lift and then he let the hydraulics go to work, the ’87 Ford Escort rising slowly until the bottoms of the tires were even with his chest. Carefully, mindful of his head and the two healing bruises he’d given to his skull in the past week, Nathan ducked beneath the car. His trusty socket wrench came out of his back pocket and, oil pan at the ready, he loosened the drain plug. Hot oil came rushing out, a few drops splattering onto his hand like always. It took the usual three minutes or so for the thick, dirty liquid to dry up and he passed the time in a quiet daze, mind numbed by the tedium of his work.
Several more minutes later saw him finishing the installation of a new oil filter and he let the machines lower the car back to the ground while he disposed of the used oil and filter. Mechanically Nathan added new oil and checked the level before he finally closed the hood and carefully backed the car out of the shop, rag wrapped around the steering wheel so he wouldn’t get dirt all over the customer’s car. By the time the few minutes it took for him to print up the paperwork and return the keys inside had passed, another car was already parked at his station and waiting. Nathan popped open the hood and spared another glance at the clock. Twelve twenty-three. It wasn’t even worth the energy to swear and he went back to work.
Five months ago Primordial Assault had played together for what had turned out to be the very last time. It was a local show in Atlanta, almost an anniversary gig of sorts as they were playing the bar where they’d had their very first session together under that name. Kuro was gone; he’d left nearly a year before to try and break into the professional wrestling circuit although as of yet Nathan hadn’t seen him on TV with the WWF. His replacement, Jeff, was a better guitarist but more of a dick and Nathan had long regretted letting him into the band. Jeff was thin and quick and wore his light brown hair almost army short so that the simple X tattoo on the back of his neck was always visible. He was also a mouthy bitch who kept trying to turn the band towards a more metalcore sound and Nathan was fighting tooth and nail to keep control.
They’d taken the stage at Henry’s on a sweltering July night, the set list having been agreed upon at rehearsal two days prior. It was a combination of older songs and some of the newer stuff Nathan had been writing since they’d come back from Florida. That newer music was more technically demanding and Dave and Bill had been pushed rather hard to be up to playing it, practice sessions cutting into their preferred post-work drinking time. It was one reason why Kuro had left, even though he hadn’t come out and said so. The guitar changes were the most complicated and he just hadn’t been able to handle them. Jeff could, on most days, and so when Bill had suggested him and once Nathan had heard him – stopping the pointless comparison to the blond guitarist that still haunted his memory with bits of ferocious, melodic shredding after the third note – he’d been in the band.
At first everything had gone well. Nathan had growled into the microphone, his vocals low and rumbling, the bass line echoing in the background as Primordial Assault worked their way through some of their earlier material. As the set wore on and the newer songs started, the inevitable mistakes starting happening. The first few, a faltered drum beat here, sloppy finger work on the guitar there, were probably only audible to the band itself. But then Bill somehow fell behind by almost an entire measure and the song slowly started to decay, falling apart even though Nathan did his best to vocally keep them together. It was a risk, but Nathan decided to proceed with the set list anyway, launching into another, much more recent track. All had been well for the first third of the song and then the music behind him mutated, speeding up but also simplifying as first the guitar, then the bass and finally the drums altered into an entirely different sound. He’d kept on singing, glaring as Jeff stepped forward at what had originally been a pause in the lyrics for a guitar solo. The young man had torn into his riffs and then he’d opened his mouth.
Shouted words, more like guttural, raw screams, had come out of Jeff’s unassisted throat, carrying over the music only because he was clearly yelling at the top of his lungs. The crowd looked at him and then at each other before Nathan could feel every eyeball slowly turn towards him. Jeff was still hollering; unintelligible gibberish that was pure metalcore, and something inside of him froze. Bill avoided his gaze when he looked over at the bassist and Dave had the nerve to look defiant as he pounded away. It was betrayal pure and simple and Nathan looked out at the audience and then down at the microphone in his hand. The noise it made as it whistled through the air and then impacted on the side of Jeff’s head rang out from the speakers and most people winced or covered their ears but Nathan wasn’t around to see. He was already off stage and rapidly heading towards the back door and his motorcycle. If those fuckers wanted to play at metalcore shit, they were more than welcome to but they’d have to do so without him.
At least he had his revenge. Nathan owned the name Primordial Assault and he’d written all the lyrics and over a third of the music for the band. It was the only good advice his fat bullying slob of a father had ever given him and he was grateful for the legal control. Jeff hadn’t cared but Bill and Dave had been momentarily stricken when they had found out what they could no longer play without giving him a portion of the profits. Still, it had hurt to lose his own douche bag band in such a manner and Nathan had been so depressed that summer that he’d lost his job at the lumber yard and had almost been kicked out of his apartment. Only a very bossy woman named Jolene had saved him. She was a thirty-seven year old cocktail waitress with a thing for younger men and deep voices. A fan of Primordial Assault, she’d finally tracked Nathan down at a bar where he was trying to drown himself in hard liquor. After a drunken role in the hay and some stroking of his ego, she’d made herself his girlfriend and promptly took control of his life.
Jolene was a tough broad who reminded Nathan of his mother with her bottle blond hair, her tendency to cook only fatty, down-home comfort food, and her ability to cow him with little more than a few sharp words. It was Jolene who made him find work, demanding that he start getting a paycheck because she wasn’t going to support his ass forever, no matter how much she liked slapping it in bed. And it was Jolene who kept him working and from dwelling too much on his lost music. She didn’t let him go to shows or spend much money on new albums, although he was able to get away with his Metal Hammer habit since she read it too. They kept busy doing domestic things and having as much sex as Nathan’s stamina could handle and the only place he really thought about his dream was at work when his hands were busy but his mind was free. Which was how he had reached December with his elbows almost permanently darkened by the grime and oil that even lava soap and harsh scrubbing couldn’t clear.
One o’clock finally arrived and Nathan dully but somewhat gratefully left his station and headed for the sink. The dirt under his nails was stubborn but he got most of the grease off his hands before he entered the break room. At one it was just him and Sam, a kid freshly out of tech classes at the local high school and already higher on the totem pole at work because he’d had some real training. Everyone else at the garage was older and got to eat earlier, leaving most of the junk jobs like oil changes to Nathan. Sam had the radio on, the old one in the corner, and he was fiddling with the hanger they used for an antenna. Nathan ignored him and got his lunch out of the fridge. Jolene had packed him some leftover meatloaf and a slightly squashed cupcake and there was a dollar in the brown bag that he used to get a Sprite and a small bag of chips. He was halfway through his meatloaf when the driving rhythm of ‘5 Minutes Alone’ off of Pantera’s most recent album washed over him.
Nathan trained his attention on Sam and the boy fidgeted for a second under the harsh stare until Nathan finally smiled and began to bob his head. It was much better than the country shit everyone else listened to and that he had to endure out in the garage and for the duration of the song Nathan almost managed to forget he was even at work. But it had to end and when it did, the voice of the dj broke out into the room and Nathan went back to his meatloaf. But the radio soon captured his attention again for Sam let out a shrill ‘Yes!’ that was hollowly echoed. Nathan jerked his head up and Sam smiled sheepishly, the room’s phone to his ear as he pointed at the radio. The dj was speaking again, this time telling Sam and everyone listening that his coworker was caller number ten and was he ready to play? Sam’s affirmative answer once again was seconded from the room’s radio and Nathan couldn’t quite drag himself back to his lunch.
“Okay caller 10, first question! What part of Birmingham, England are the famous founding fathers of heavy meal, Black Sabbath, from?”
Sam looked green in the face and he hemmed and hawed for a moment until Nathan let out an exasperated sigh and muttered “Aston” under his breath. Sam did a double take, staring questioningly at the larger man, and Nathan nodded, gestured vaguely with a hand and scattering crumbs on the table.
“A..A..Aston?”
“Correct caller 10. Here comes the next one and I gotta say I’m a little sorry for ya. This one’s a doozy. What is the name of the German thrash band known for their cover of Modest Mussorgsky’s ‘Night on Bald Mountain?’”
Nathan grunted. That question wasn’t hard at all but Sam was clearly clueless so he gave him the answer again in a low voice. “Mekong Delta, you dildo.” Sam blinked and then repeated the answer, “Mekong Delta” coming out with a bit more confidence than Aston had.
“Right again caller 10. You’re half-way there so why don’t you tell me your name?”
“Sam, Sam here in Decatur.”
“Alright Sam in Decatur, here’s your third question. What is the real name of Emperor band member Samoth who was recently incarcerated for arson in Norway?”
This one had been in the press and Nathan could remember reading about it Metal Hammer, impressed by the brutality of the Norwegian Death metallers even though he wasn’t that fond of their music. But Sam still seemed to be clueless so Nathan growled out “Tomas Haugen” and the kid repeated it immediately.
“And you are right yet again. One more question Sam. If you get this one right, you’ll have just won yourself a brand new ’95 Kawasaki Ninja and a chance in our year-end drawing. Okay, this is for the win. What is the one-word name for the lead singer of the now-disbanded group Snakes ‘n’ Barrels?”
For once Nathan was speechless. Who the hell was Snakes ‘n’ Barrels? His memory was a little faulty but he vaguely remembered a glam/hair band by that name that had played on MTV a lot. He hadn’t been a fan. Their music was for pussies and poseurs. And Sam apparently was a sissy fan for he immediately chirped “Pickles” into the phone.
“Sam in Decatur, you have won yourself a brand new motorcycle just in time for Christmas. Congratulations. If you’ll hang on for just a second, we’ll get your…”
Nathan went back to his lunch, bored again, and it was only as he was throwing his trash away that Sam regained his attention.
“Thanks man. You sure know a heck of a lot about metal.”
Nathan just looked at him flatly and Sam chuckled awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his head. “Look, I couldn’t have won without your help. So if I win anything in the drawing, I want you to have it. As a thank you.”
“…Whatever.”
A worthless sentiment but a nice one, and it was more consideration than anyone had shown him in a while. Nathan headed back out into the garage even as the opening strains of Metallica’s ‘One’ came onto the radio. He finished up his afternoon of work and promptly forgot all about Sam’s offer.
December wore on and Nathan plodded to work. His days were made a little easier, though, by an early present he’d bought for himself. A voice recorder wasn’t exactly cheap but he needed it. There was no time to write down lyrics or ideas on the job and suddenly his head was again full with dark plans and twisted words, blackness and metal that he spewed out into the slim plastic device while he was crouched beneath a car. And he got another, belated Christmas present on the twenty-eighth when Sam handed him a sheaf of paperwork with the garish logo of the local metal station at the top and asked him if he had a passport.
A month and a half later, Nathan Explosion stepped off a plane and onto the dripping wet tarmac at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Valentine’s Day in the world’s City of Love was turning out to be a rainy one.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2628
Green eyes framed by heavy, greasy black hair flickered from an engine block to the clock hanging in a corner of the shop over the sink. It was only twelve-fifteen, exactly six minutes later than the last time he had checked. Nathan huffed out a long sigh and tried not to think about the forty-five minutes he still had to wait until lunch. As for the five hours after that he would have to wait until he got off, that much time was too oppressive to even contemplate. At the rate he was going, he’d have time for another three cars before his break and he had better get to it or the boss would be after him again.
It was early December in 1994 and the weather in Georgia was still warm enough that they’d left the bay doors open. Nathan, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up past the elbows, squinted at the dipstick before jamming it back into the tank. A cigarette sounded like a good idea but instead he only allowed himself a quick glance outside at the few cars waiting for him in the parking lot as he walked over to supply wall to grab a bigger pan. It took him a moment to get the car up on the lift and then he let the hydraulics go to work, the ’87 Ford Escort rising slowly until the bottoms of the tires were even with his chest. Carefully, mindful of his head and the two healing bruises he’d given to his skull in the past week, Nathan ducked beneath the car. His trusty socket wrench came out of his back pocket and, oil pan at the ready, he loosened the drain plug. Hot oil came rushing out, a few drops splattering onto his hand like always. It took the usual three minutes or so for the thick, dirty liquid to dry up and he passed the time in a quiet daze, mind numbed by the tedium of his work.
Several more minutes later saw him finishing the installation of a new oil filter and he let the machines lower the car back to the ground while he disposed of the used oil and filter. Mechanically Nathan added new oil and checked the level before he finally closed the hood and carefully backed the car out of the shop, rag wrapped around the steering wheel so he wouldn’t get dirt all over the customer’s car. By the time the few minutes it took for him to print up the paperwork and return the keys inside had passed, another car was already parked at his station and waiting. Nathan popped open the hood and spared another glance at the clock. Twelve twenty-three. It wasn’t even worth the energy to swear and he went back to work.
Five months ago Primordial Assault had played together for what had turned out to be the very last time. It was a local show in Atlanta, almost an anniversary gig of sorts as they were playing the bar where they’d had their very first session together under that name. Kuro was gone; he’d left nearly a year before to try and break into the professional wrestling circuit although as of yet Nathan hadn’t seen him on TV with the WWF. His replacement, Jeff, was a better guitarist but more of a dick and Nathan had long regretted letting him into the band. Jeff was thin and quick and wore his light brown hair almost army short so that the simple X tattoo on the back of his neck was always visible. He was also a mouthy bitch who kept trying to turn the band towards a more metalcore sound and Nathan was fighting tooth and nail to keep control.
They’d taken the stage at Henry’s on a sweltering July night, the set list having been agreed upon at rehearsal two days prior. It was a combination of older songs and some of the newer stuff Nathan had been writing since they’d come back from Florida. That newer music was more technically demanding and Dave and Bill had been pushed rather hard to be up to playing it, practice sessions cutting into their preferred post-work drinking time. It was one reason why Kuro had left, even though he hadn’t come out and said so. The guitar changes were the most complicated and he just hadn’t been able to handle them. Jeff could, on most days, and so when Bill had suggested him and once Nathan had heard him – stopping the pointless comparison to the blond guitarist that still haunted his memory with bits of ferocious, melodic shredding after the third note – he’d been in the band.
At first everything had gone well. Nathan had growled into the microphone, his vocals low and rumbling, the bass line echoing in the background as Primordial Assault worked their way through some of their earlier material. As the set wore on and the newer songs started, the inevitable mistakes starting happening. The first few, a faltered drum beat here, sloppy finger work on the guitar there, were probably only audible to the band itself. But then Bill somehow fell behind by almost an entire measure and the song slowly started to decay, falling apart even though Nathan did his best to vocally keep them together. It was a risk, but Nathan decided to proceed with the set list anyway, launching into another, much more recent track. All had been well for the first third of the song and then the music behind him mutated, speeding up but also simplifying as first the guitar, then the bass and finally the drums altered into an entirely different sound. He’d kept on singing, glaring as Jeff stepped forward at what had originally been a pause in the lyrics for a guitar solo. The young man had torn into his riffs and then he’d opened his mouth.
Shouted words, more like guttural, raw screams, had come out of Jeff’s unassisted throat, carrying over the music only because he was clearly yelling at the top of his lungs. The crowd looked at him and then at each other before Nathan could feel every eyeball slowly turn towards him. Jeff was still hollering; unintelligible gibberish that was pure metalcore, and something inside of him froze. Bill avoided his gaze when he looked over at the bassist and Dave had the nerve to look defiant as he pounded away. It was betrayal pure and simple and Nathan looked out at the audience and then down at the microphone in his hand. The noise it made as it whistled through the air and then impacted on the side of Jeff’s head rang out from the speakers and most people winced or covered their ears but Nathan wasn’t around to see. He was already off stage and rapidly heading towards the back door and his motorcycle. If those fuckers wanted to play at metalcore shit, they were more than welcome to but they’d have to do so without him.
At least he had his revenge. Nathan owned the name Primordial Assault and he’d written all the lyrics and over a third of the music for the band. It was the only good advice his fat bullying slob of a father had ever given him and he was grateful for the legal control. Jeff hadn’t cared but Bill and Dave had been momentarily stricken when they had found out what they could no longer play without giving him a portion of the profits. Still, it had hurt to lose his own douche bag band in such a manner and Nathan had been so depressed that summer that he’d lost his job at the lumber yard and had almost been kicked out of his apartment. Only a very bossy woman named Jolene had saved him. She was a thirty-seven year old cocktail waitress with a thing for younger men and deep voices. A fan of Primordial Assault, she’d finally tracked Nathan down at a bar where he was trying to drown himself in hard liquor. After a drunken role in the hay and some stroking of his ego, she’d made herself his girlfriend and promptly took control of his life.
Jolene was a tough broad who reminded Nathan of his mother with her bottle blond hair, her tendency to cook only fatty, down-home comfort food, and her ability to cow him with little more than a few sharp words. It was Jolene who made him find work, demanding that he start getting a paycheck because she wasn’t going to support his ass forever, no matter how much she liked slapping it in bed. And it was Jolene who kept him working and from dwelling too much on his lost music. She didn’t let him go to shows or spend much money on new albums, although he was able to get away with his Metal Hammer habit since she read it too. They kept busy doing domestic things and having as much sex as Nathan’s stamina could handle and the only place he really thought about his dream was at work when his hands were busy but his mind was free. Which was how he had reached December with his elbows almost permanently darkened by the grime and oil that even lava soap and harsh scrubbing couldn’t clear.
One o’clock finally arrived and Nathan dully but somewhat gratefully left his station and headed for the sink. The dirt under his nails was stubborn but he got most of the grease off his hands before he entered the break room. At one it was just him and Sam, a kid freshly out of tech classes at the local high school and already higher on the totem pole at work because he’d had some real training. Everyone else at the garage was older and got to eat earlier, leaving most of the junk jobs like oil changes to Nathan. Sam had the radio on, the old one in the corner, and he was fiddling with the hanger they used for an antenna. Nathan ignored him and got his lunch out of the fridge. Jolene had packed him some leftover meatloaf and a slightly squashed cupcake and there was a dollar in the brown bag that he used to get a Sprite and a small bag of chips. He was halfway through his meatloaf when the driving rhythm of ‘5 Minutes Alone’ off of Pantera’s most recent album washed over him.
Nathan trained his attention on Sam and the boy fidgeted for a second under the harsh stare until Nathan finally smiled and began to bob his head. It was much better than the country shit everyone else listened to and that he had to endure out in the garage and for the duration of the song Nathan almost managed to forget he was even at work. But it had to end and when it did, the voice of the dj broke out into the room and Nathan went back to his meatloaf. But the radio soon captured his attention again for Sam let out a shrill ‘Yes!’ that was hollowly echoed. Nathan jerked his head up and Sam smiled sheepishly, the room’s phone to his ear as he pointed at the radio. The dj was speaking again, this time telling Sam and everyone listening that his coworker was caller number ten and was he ready to play? Sam’s affirmative answer once again was seconded from the room’s radio and Nathan couldn’t quite drag himself back to his lunch.
“Okay caller 10, first question! What part of Birmingham, England are the famous founding fathers of heavy meal, Black Sabbath, from?”
Sam looked green in the face and he hemmed and hawed for a moment until Nathan let out an exasperated sigh and muttered “Aston” under his breath. Sam did a double take, staring questioningly at the larger man, and Nathan nodded, gestured vaguely with a hand and scattering crumbs on the table.
“A..A..Aston?”
“Correct caller 10. Here comes the next one and I gotta say I’m a little sorry for ya. This one’s a doozy. What is the name of the German thrash band known for their cover of Modest Mussorgsky’s ‘Night on Bald Mountain?’”
Nathan grunted. That question wasn’t hard at all but Sam was clearly clueless so he gave him the answer again in a low voice. “Mekong Delta, you dildo.” Sam blinked and then repeated the answer, “Mekong Delta” coming out with a bit more confidence than Aston had.
“Right again caller 10. You’re half-way there so why don’t you tell me your name?”
“Sam, Sam here in Decatur.”
“Alright Sam in Decatur, here’s your third question. What is the real name of Emperor band member Samoth who was recently incarcerated for arson in Norway?”
This one had been in the press and Nathan could remember reading about it Metal Hammer, impressed by the brutality of the Norwegian Death metallers even though he wasn’t that fond of their music. But Sam still seemed to be clueless so Nathan growled out “Tomas Haugen” and the kid repeated it immediately.
“And you are right yet again. One more question Sam. If you get this one right, you’ll have just won yourself a brand new ’95 Kawasaki Ninja and a chance in our year-end drawing. Okay, this is for the win. What is the one-word name for the lead singer of the now-disbanded group Snakes ‘n’ Barrels?”
For once Nathan was speechless. Who the hell was Snakes ‘n’ Barrels? His memory was a little faulty but he vaguely remembered a glam/hair band by that name that had played on MTV a lot. He hadn’t been a fan. Their music was for pussies and poseurs. And Sam apparently was a sissy fan for he immediately chirped “Pickles” into the phone.
“Sam in Decatur, you have won yourself a brand new motorcycle just in time for Christmas. Congratulations. If you’ll hang on for just a second, we’ll get your…”
Nathan went back to his lunch, bored again, and it was only as he was throwing his trash away that Sam regained his attention.
“Thanks man. You sure know a heck of a lot about metal.”
Nathan just looked at him flatly and Sam chuckled awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his head. “Look, I couldn’t have won without your help. So if I win anything in the drawing, I want you to have it. As a thank you.”
“…Whatever.”
A worthless sentiment but a nice one, and it was more consideration than anyone had shown him in a while. Nathan headed back out into the garage even as the opening strains of Metallica’s ‘One’ came onto the radio. He finished up his afternoon of work and promptly forgot all about Sam’s offer.
December wore on and Nathan plodded to work. His days were made a little easier, though, by an early present he’d bought for himself. A voice recorder wasn’t exactly cheap but he needed it. There was no time to write down lyrics or ideas on the job and suddenly his head was again full with dark plans and twisted words, blackness and metal that he spewed out into the slim plastic device while he was crouched beneath a car. And he got another, belated Christmas present on the twenty-eighth when Sam handed him a sheaf of paperwork with the garish logo of the local metal station at the top and asked him if he had a passport.
A month and a half later, Nathan Explosion stepped off a plane and onto the dripping wet tarmac at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Valentine’s Day in the world’s City of Love was turning out to be a rainy one.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-11 11:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-12 07:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-12 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-12 07:58 am (UTC)Chatty is cool! I like random comments.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 12:28 am (UTC)And, finally,
Toki Toki Toki Toki Toki Toki Toki!!!
^________________________^
no subject
Date: 2007-07-13 10:33 am (UTC)XD And I think someone likes Toki.