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COME TOGETHER - Interlude A: Number 5
Title: Maintenance and Mary Jane
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2933
Water dripped steadily in the background, too consistent to be rain and too heavy to be a simple leaky faucet. Underneath the constant white-noise fall of water came a fainter sound, steady as well but with a different rhythm and pitch. The jangling and familiar ringing of the telephone continued in fits and starts and finally managed to rouse the scrawny lone occupant of the room. Pickles snorted, shifted a somewhat drool-dampened arm out from beneath his head to blindly grope across the surface of the desk he was slumped over after the phone. After several moments of flailing and a couple random crashes as various objects fell on the floor, the still-mostly-asleep redhead managed to fumble the handset to his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Where the hell have you been? We got an overflowed toilet in 415 and a blown fuse taking out four of the east units. I been callin’ you for twenty minutes.”
“Uh, I was, er, fixin’ that douche bag back parking light again. I told ya months ago that ya need to get a whole new set up. That thing is a gahddamn fire hazard.”
“Is it workin’ now?”
Pickles thought back to how he’d ‘fixed’ the problematic light over two weeks ago with a baseball bat and smirked against the receiver. “Yeah, it ain’t gonna throw off sparks or set anythin’ on fire.”
“That’s all that matters then. Now get your freckled Irish ass down to 415 and then take care of that freakin’ fuse. We’re busy as hell since it’s Valentine’s Day and every couple under the sun wants to catch a quickie away from either the kids or their spouse. It’s a good day to make some dough and I don’t want to see no rooms out of order.”
A loud *click* sounded against his ear as his boss slammed down the phone on her end and Pickles sighed and grudgingly opened his eyes. Normally his so-called job was easy as pie but every so often it was a huge chore. Like right that very instance for example. God. An overflowed toilet. Just what he wanted to have to deal with. That called for some extra preparation and fortification before he headed out to see what new horror some idiot guest had managed to inflict upon the motel. Vertebra popped and cracked as he slowly straightened from his sprawled slump on top of his desk and he pushed messy, tangled strands of red hair out of his face. Some quick shuffling through the detritus on his work space revealed both a hair tie and a bandanna and he gathered his unruly mane into a hasty ponytail before tucking most of it away beneath the blue and white paisley-printed cloth. A little more searching through half-finished paperwork, empty Ziploc sandwich baggies, and various tools uncovered a lighter and a hand-rolled blunt.
Calloused fingers flicked the wheel of the Zippo, the acrid smell of burning lighter fuel clearing his nose before he touched the flame to the end of his wonderful cure-all. The ever-familiar scent of smoldering marijuana quickly rushed through his senses, nostrils filling with the smoke and his eyes watering ever so slightly as he took a long drag. Valentine’s Day. Shit. Place would be busy far into the night but at least most people would be more intent on getting some tail than all the petty problems with their rooms. Good thing he had company coming later to keep him out of trouble too. It was fun to mess with people when they were getting it on but really, he needed to keep his nose clean. Two more hits, the smoke searing in his lungs, and Pickles finally felt the buzz start to kick in as he exhaled slowly. It would definitely pay to be at least somewhat high before he went to deal with that toilet. He kept sucking hits off the blunt as he lazily got to his feet and looked around for his boots. After only a week on the job he’d gone out to the nearest farm supply store and bought himself a pair of heavy duty knee-high rubbers and he always wore them for any call that involved the word ‘toilet.’
He found them tossed haphazardly beneath one of his special units, probably just where he’d kicked them off after the last time he’d needed them. They looked fairly clean and Pickles shrugged and grabbed them with his bare hand, carrying them back over to the decrepit black swivel chair where he spent most of his time. He tugged them on one-handed, the other still occupied with his blunt, idly taking note of his toe sticking up through a hole he’d managed to wear through the dingy gray sock. It had been white once but Pickles had long known he was too lazy to bother with separating his laundry and, unless there was a particularly unpleasant blood or vomit stain on a piece of clothing, he just threw everything into a single cold load. Most of his whites weren’t white any longer but he didn’t care. His blue jeans were almost as ratty as his socks, threadbare at the knees and the left front pocket had a hole in it and still he kept putting change inside and losing it as he walked around. The shirt he was wearing wasn’t even his. It was a well-worn and comfortable t-shirt he’d snagged from Shawn’s house the last time he’d gone over for practice, a faded figure of Eddie in Trooper garb on the front from Iron Maiden’s world tour back in 1985. Shawn couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven at the time and Pickles felt a little bit guilty wearing something that was probably a treasured physical memory while he unclogged toilets but it was too much effort to bother changing. He could always make it up to the guitarist if he had to.
Boots on, Pickles grudgingly stood again and snuffed out the end of his blunt in the overflowing ashtray resting on a corner of his desk. The last piece of his unofficial uniform went on, a heavy cowhide tool belt that pulled his pants down dangerously close to plumber level and contained all manner of dangerous implements that he only halfway knew how to use, and he headed for the door to his office, stopping only to grab his trusty and far-too-frequently-used plunger. 415 was all the way across the complex and the wall of cold that smacked him in the face almost sent the redhead scurrying back into the humid warmth for a coat before he rolled his shoulders and decided his jean jacket wouldn’t make much difference. Besides he’d grown up in Wisconsin and the paltry foot of snow that called for disaster-level efforts in Richmond should have meant nothing to him even in spite of his several winters in sunny California. His boots crunched the combination of salt, kitty litter, and cinders that had been spread over the parking lot as he walked and Pickles whistled the opening lines to Zeppelin’s 'Immigrant Song' and smiled at the curls of his breath visible in the air as he walked to 415.
Life was fairly easy at the moment. He had himself a decent setup in Richmond between his ‘job,’ his work, and his band. Antietam was faring quite well and they were on the cusp of breaking through if the electric feeling that ran up his spine every time they crashed onto a stage was any indication. The Dunker Church Massacre was better than any of the demo albums Snakes ‘N’ Barrels had ever made and it was just a matter of time before a producer got wise to that and signed them. The Colonel, weird guy that he was, had recently been dropping hints about some guy he knew in New York City and it was possible they’d all be heading north as soon as spring hit in earnest. Migrating like the birds, and the thought made Pickles grin as he rapped on 415 and waited for the unfortunate occupant to answer.
He had his own connections up in New York and if the Colonel’s didn’t come through, he was ready and more than willing to exploit old favors owed if it would get them into the studio. Antietam would never be as big as Snakes ‘N’ Barrels but they were miles better musically and so much harder that Pickles would have been forced to resort to outer space-style measurements if he had been asked to describe the difference. They deserved to reach a wider audience and the world that was out there waiting was primed and ready for some death metal brutality with a strange Civil War twist. Occasionally the drummer thought they might have gone even a little too hard – a somewhat more melodic guitar style and a down-tone of the Colonel’s screamed lyrics would gain them even more followers – but who was he to complain now that he was making the kind of music he wanted?
The brick red door with 415 on it in fake brass numbering cracked open and an anxious face peered out at him. Pickles offered a crooked smile and a fakely cheerful “Motel maintenance. I’m here ta see ‘bout yer toilet.” The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen and the redhead internally shook his head at his boss’s willingness to ignore the usual rules that kept most places of lodging from renting to anyone under twenty-one, let alone eighteen. He sat quietly on the garishly covered bed, knuckles white as he gripped at one of the pillows, while Pickles gingerly made his way into the bathroom. For once he was lucky. The floor was dry and the bowl, while high, wasn’t full enough to splash everywhere while he wielded his trusty plunger. The place didn’t even smell, which was a damn miracle.
It took only a few vigorous pumps of the plunger before the water slowly began to drain. Pickles flushed, watched as clean water swirled around the bowl and then trickled away. There was still a clog, probably in the pipe at the U-bend, and he spared a glance as the nervous kid before he crouched down and shut off the water. A wrench from his tool belt and a few twists of his wrist later had the pipe disconnected and he reluctantly glanced inside. The bark of laughter that escaped his red-framed lips shot the kid off the bed but a half-chuckled word from Pickles reached him before his hand found the doorknob.
“Relax. Kid, you gotta be more careful if yer gonna flush yer drugs. For gahd’s sake don’t leave it in the baggie first of all and if ya don’t have enough time to dump it out, make sure the bag’s closed all the way. Otherwise water leaks in and swells it up and it’ll clog the pipes just like happened this time.”
The teenager looked sheepish, torn between an apology and a half-assed excuse, and Pickles upended the contents of the water-filled bag into the toilet bowl. That got him a protest and he frowned at the kid while he flushed the ruined contents away. “Can’t smoke it now. Shit’s completely gone to shit. B’sides that was some crap weed.”
Pickles stepped back out of the bathroom, plunger absently swinging from one hand and scattering water on the carpet as he fished with his other hand into one of the closed pouches on the back of his tool belt. After some awkward fiddling thanks to the bad angle, Pickles presented a closed fist to the kid’s face and slowly opened his fingers. A Ziploc bag with enough dried green to make at least two fatties was revealed and the teenager looked at it and then up at the erstwhile Snakes ‘N’ Barrels front man.
“Take it kid. It’s good shit and I would know. Just don’t go flushin’ it down the toilet ‘cause I won’t be nearly so nice if I gotta come back here again.”
Tentative fingers reached up and closed around the illegal substance before snatching back, the teenager watching Pickles with wide eyes.
“Th-thanks man. That’s pretty cool of you.”
“No problem dood. You jes’ smoke that and relax and if ya like it, you and yer friends can always come here again and buy some.”
And with his sales pitch ended, Pickles made his exit, closing the door firmly behind him as he stepped back out into the frigid air. Hopefully he hadn’t scared the kid too much. Not that business was bad but more was always better. Selling his wares was his real work and the maintenance man shtick was just his job. He had rather literally stumbled upon the opportunity, tripping over the entrance to the maintenance office and falling into a collection of unused pvc piping. Back when he’d first officially decided to join Antietam he’d known almost immediately that he couldn’t room with Murderface long-term. At least not with only one bathroom between them. But getting his own place meant getting a job and there wasn’t too much Pickles had experience doing. Still, he did have one summer working for his uncle on his mother’s side, a bit of a jack-of-all-trades who had hired him on to lug roofing supplies. He’d gotten a sunburn and a rather haphazard education but it was enough for him to do minor routine repairs.
The ad for the Sunrise Motel had said they were willing to pay $12 an hour for an all-hours handy man and while Pickles didn’t like the idea of being on call, $12 an hour was a far sight better than $5 bucks an hour to sling burgers at the diner. A trek to the outskirts of Richmond in his newly acquired Firebird had led him to a rundown old place like something out of a bad 70s horror film. The lady behind the desk had scared the shit out of him with her booming voice and withered appearance but she’d been fairly impressed when he’d proceeded to fix a leaking sink in the public restroom, a problem in one of the dryers (that he’d solved by surreptitiously smacking it a few times with a rubber mallet), and he’d even managed to jigger the ancient copier in the back office somehow. It was enough to get him hired although he’d had second thoughts when he saw the maintenance office and the backlog of repairs. Pickles had spent most of the day on his knees or contorted into strange angles as he replaced light bulbs and chipped tile, dealt with slow-running toilets and stubborn air conditioners. All the while he’d noticed how quiet the property was, how private, and an idea bloomed in his mind.
Some skillful negotiation had netted him a deal with Hilda, the lady from behind the desk who also happened to be the owner and primary employee. Instead of paying him $12 an hour, he got to live in one of the rooms for free and he had full use of the motel’s limited facilities to take care of his laundry. There was a microwave, an ugly avocado refrigerator that was also definitely right out of the 1970s, and a hot plate in the employee break room and he used them freely as well. His room was on the end of the west wing and faced back towards the highway. It adjoined only the maintenance office and Pickles found himself nicely isolated. He could practice his drumming and the occasional guitar licks whenever he wanted without disturbing anyone and he didn’t have to worry about rent or utilities. As for the mess of pipes, he’d found a perfect use for them as well.
Growing up smoking government weed for his kiddy glaucoma, Pickles was something of a marijuana connoisseur. He knew all about the illegal stuff and he prided himself on his ability to find the mellowest, longest-lasting high. It took a bit of work but soon enough he had converted a good portion of the maintenance room into a hydroponics lab complete with plants he got off of an old dealer friend – another favor called in but one that had definitely been worth it. Four months at the Sunrise and he’d finally had a big enough crop to sell, slowly and cautiously getting the word out. His location was ideal. The Sunrise was cheap, even had hourly rates, and his customers only had to rent a room and then put in a complaint so that the maintenance man had to go to work. He had a perfectly valid excuse to be in their rooms and they were able to conduct their transactions in privacy. As it stood, he had a dedicated group of regulars and a growing circle of occasional buyers to line his bank account. And the fact that he had his own private stash constantly at hand didn’t hurt either. All in all, his life was proceeding in a good direction.
Trudging through the snow, this time Pickles hummed the opening guitar riff for ‘Hooker’ off of The Dunker Church Massacre. The blown fuse would probably be more complicated than the toilet but he was in no hurry and he was mellowing into his high quite nicely. Besides, by the time he finally finished, Shawn would probably be there and they could pass Valentine’s Day sprawled out on his bed watching the free cable and wreathed in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. And if they got the munchies, well, chocolate was bound to be on sale.
A/N: Wow, I really like this one. Almost as much as the Murderface one, which is still my favorite interlude. I was going to try and get Skwisgaar's done tonight too, but it takes too much research and Pickles made me ramble on and on. So I'm going to try and have that for later. Sheesh, I might actually be able to start Act 2 on Friday or Sunday!
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2933
Water dripped steadily in the background, too consistent to be rain and too heavy to be a simple leaky faucet. Underneath the constant white-noise fall of water came a fainter sound, steady as well but with a different rhythm and pitch. The jangling and familiar ringing of the telephone continued in fits and starts and finally managed to rouse the scrawny lone occupant of the room. Pickles snorted, shifted a somewhat drool-dampened arm out from beneath his head to blindly grope across the surface of the desk he was slumped over after the phone. After several moments of flailing and a couple random crashes as various objects fell on the floor, the still-mostly-asleep redhead managed to fumble the handset to his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Where the hell have you been? We got an overflowed toilet in 415 and a blown fuse taking out four of the east units. I been callin’ you for twenty minutes.”
“Uh, I was, er, fixin’ that douche bag back parking light again. I told ya months ago that ya need to get a whole new set up. That thing is a gahddamn fire hazard.”
“Is it workin’ now?”
Pickles thought back to how he’d ‘fixed’ the problematic light over two weeks ago with a baseball bat and smirked against the receiver. “Yeah, it ain’t gonna throw off sparks or set anythin’ on fire.”
“That’s all that matters then. Now get your freckled Irish ass down to 415 and then take care of that freakin’ fuse. We’re busy as hell since it’s Valentine’s Day and every couple under the sun wants to catch a quickie away from either the kids or their spouse. It’s a good day to make some dough and I don’t want to see no rooms out of order.”
A loud *click* sounded against his ear as his boss slammed down the phone on her end and Pickles sighed and grudgingly opened his eyes. Normally his so-called job was easy as pie but every so often it was a huge chore. Like right that very instance for example. God. An overflowed toilet. Just what he wanted to have to deal with. That called for some extra preparation and fortification before he headed out to see what new horror some idiot guest had managed to inflict upon the motel. Vertebra popped and cracked as he slowly straightened from his sprawled slump on top of his desk and he pushed messy, tangled strands of red hair out of his face. Some quick shuffling through the detritus on his work space revealed both a hair tie and a bandanna and he gathered his unruly mane into a hasty ponytail before tucking most of it away beneath the blue and white paisley-printed cloth. A little more searching through half-finished paperwork, empty Ziploc sandwich baggies, and various tools uncovered a lighter and a hand-rolled blunt.
Calloused fingers flicked the wheel of the Zippo, the acrid smell of burning lighter fuel clearing his nose before he touched the flame to the end of his wonderful cure-all. The ever-familiar scent of smoldering marijuana quickly rushed through his senses, nostrils filling with the smoke and his eyes watering ever so slightly as he took a long drag. Valentine’s Day. Shit. Place would be busy far into the night but at least most people would be more intent on getting some tail than all the petty problems with their rooms. Good thing he had company coming later to keep him out of trouble too. It was fun to mess with people when they were getting it on but really, he needed to keep his nose clean. Two more hits, the smoke searing in his lungs, and Pickles finally felt the buzz start to kick in as he exhaled slowly. It would definitely pay to be at least somewhat high before he went to deal with that toilet. He kept sucking hits off the blunt as he lazily got to his feet and looked around for his boots. After only a week on the job he’d gone out to the nearest farm supply store and bought himself a pair of heavy duty knee-high rubbers and he always wore them for any call that involved the word ‘toilet.’
He found them tossed haphazardly beneath one of his special units, probably just where he’d kicked them off after the last time he’d needed them. They looked fairly clean and Pickles shrugged and grabbed them with his bare hand, carrying them back over to the decrepit black swivel chair where he spent most of his time. He tugged them on one-handed, the other still occupied with his blunt, idly taking note of his toe sticking up through a hole he’d managed to wear through the dingy gray sock. It had been white once but Pickles had long known he was too lazy to bother with separating his laundry and, unless there was a particularly unpleasant blood or vomit stain on a piece of clothing, he just threw everything into a single cold load. Most of his whites weren’t white any longer but he didn’t care. His blue jeans were almost as ratty as his socks, threadbare at the knees and the left front pocket had a hole in it and still he kept putting change inside and losing it as he walked around. The shirt he was wearing wasn’t even his. It was a well-worn and comfortable t-shirt he’d snagged from Shawn’s house the last time he’d gone over for practice, a faded figure of Eddie in Trooper garb on the front from Iron Maiden’s world tour back in 1985. Shawn couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven at the time and Pickles felt a little bit guilty wearing something that was probably a treasured physical memory while he unclogged toilets but it was too much effort to bother changing. He could always make it up to the guitarist if he had to.
Boots on, Pickles grudgingly stood again and snuffed out the end of his blunt in the overflowing ashtray resting on a corner of his desk. The last piece of his unofficial uniform went on, a heavy cowhide tool belt that pulled his pants down dangerously close to plumber level and contained all manner of dangerous implements that he only halfway knew how to use, and he headed for the door to his office, stopping only to grab his trusty and far-too-frequently-used plunger. 415 was all the way across the complex and the wall of cold that smacked him in the face almost sent the redhead scurrying back into the humid warmth for a coat before he rolled his shoulders and decided his jean jacket wouldn’t make much difference. Besides he’d grown up in Wisconsin and the paltry foot of snow that called for disaster-level efforts in Richmond should have meant nothing to him even in spite of his several winters in sunny California. His boots crunched the combination of salt, kitty litter, and cinders that had been spread over the parking lot as he walked and Pickles whistled the opening lines to Zeppelin’s 'Immigrant Song' and smiled at the curls of his breath visible in the air as he walked to 415.
Life was fairly easy at the moment. He had himself a decent setup in Richmond between his ‘job,’ his work, and his band. Antietam was faring quite well and they were on the cusp of breaking through if the electric feeling that ran up his spine every time they crashed onto a stage was any indication. The Dunker Church Massacre was better than any of the demo albums Snakes ‘N’ Barrels had ever made and it was just a matter of time before a producer got wise to that and signed them. The Colonel, weird guy that he was, had recently been dropping hints about some guy he knew in New York City and it was possible they’d all be heading north as soon as spring hit in earnest. Migrating like the birds, and the thought made Pickles grin as he rapped on 415 and waited for the unfortunate occupant to answer.
He had his own connections up in New York and if the Colonel’s didn’t come through, he was ready and more than willing to exploit old favors owed if it would get them into the studio. Antietam would never be as big as Snakes ‘N’ Barrels but they were miles better musically and so much harder that Pickles would have been forced to resort to outer space-style measurements if he had been asked to describe the difference. They deserved to reach a wider audience and the world that was out there waiting was primed and ready for some death metal brutality with a strange Civil War twist. Occasionally the drummer thought they might have gone even a little too hard – a somewhat more melodic guitar style and a down-tone of the Colonel’s screamed lyrics would gain them even more followers – but who was he to complain now that he was making the kind of music he wanted?
The brick red door with 415 on it in fake brass numbering cracked open and an anxious face peered out at him. Pickles offered a crooked smile and a fakely cheerful “Motel maintenance. I’m here ta see ‘bout yer toilet.” The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen and the redhead internally shook his head at his boss’s willingness to ignore the usual rules that kept most places of lodging from renting to anyone under twenty-one, let alone eighteen. He sat quietly on the garishly covered bed, knuckles white as he gripped at one of the pillows, while Pickles gingerly made his way into the bathroom. For once he was lucky. The floor was dry and the bowl, while high, wasn’t full enough to splash everywhere while he wielded his trusty plunger. The place didn’t even smell, which was a damn miracle.
It took only a few vigorous pumps of the plunger before the water slowly began to drain. Pickles flushed, watched as clean water swirled around the bowl and then trickled away. There was still a clog, probably in the pipe at the U-bend, and he spared a glance as the nervous kid before he crouched down and shut off the water. A wrench from his tool belt and a few twists of his wrist later had the pipe disconnected and he reluctantly glanced inside. The bark of laughter that escaped his red-framed lips shot the kid off the bed but a half-chuckled word from Pickles reached him before his hand found the doorknob.
“Relax. Kid, you gotta be more careful if yer gonna flush yer drugs. For gahd’s sake don’t leave it in the baggie first of all and if ya don’t have enough time to dump it out, make sure the bag’s closed all the way. Otherwise water leaks in and swells it up and it’ll clog the pipes just like happened this time.”
The teenager looked sheepish, torn between an apology and a half-assed excuse, and Pickles upended the contents of the water-filled bag into the toilet bowl. That got him a protest and he frowned at the kid while he flushed the ruined contents away. “Can’t smoke it now. Shit’s completely gone to shit. B’sides that was some crap weed.”
Pickles stepped back out of the bathroom, plunger absently swinging from one hand and scattering water on the carpet as he fished with his other hand into one of the closed pouches on the back of his tool belt. After some awkward fiddling thanks to the bad angle, Pickles presented a closed fist to the kid’s face and slowly opened his fingers. A Ziploc bag with enough dried green to make at least two fatties was revealed and the teenager looked at it and then up at the erstwhile Snakes ‘N’ Barrels front man.
“Take it kid. It’s good shit and I would know. Just don’t go flushin’ it down the toilet ‘cause I won’t be nearly so nice if I gotta come back here again.”
Tentative fingers reached up and closed around the illegal substance before snatching back, the teenager watching Pickles with wide eyes.
“Th-thanks man. That’s pretty cool of you.”
“No problem dood. You jes’ smoke that and relax and if ya like it, you and yer friends can always come here again and buy some.”
And with his sales pitch ended, Pickles made his exit, closing the door firmly behind him as he stepped back out into the frigid air. Hopefully he hadn’t scared the kid too much. Not that business was bad but more was always better. Selling his wares was his real work and the maintenance man shtick was just his job. He had rather literally stumbled upon the opportunity, tripping over the entrance to the maintenance office and falling into a collection of unused pvc piping. Back when he’d first officially decided to join Antietam he’d known almost immediately that he couldn’t room with Murderface long-term. At least not with only one bathroom between them. But getting his own place meant getting a job and there wasn’t too much Pickles had experience doing. Still, he did have one summer working for his uncle on his mother’s side, a bit of a jack-of-all-trades who had hired him on to lug roofing supplies. He’d gotten a sunburn and a rather haphazard education but it was enough for him to do minor routine repairs.
The ad for the Sunrise Motel had said they were willing to pay $12 an hour for an all-hours handy man and while Pickles didn’t like the idea of being on call, $12 an hour was a far sight better than $5 bucks an hour to sling burgers at the diner. A trek to the outskirts of Richmond in his newly acquired Firebird had led him to a rundown old place like something out of a bad 70s horror film. The lady behind the desk had scared the shit out of him with her booming voice and withered appearance but she’d been fairly impressed when he’d proceeded to fix a leaking sink in the public restroom, a problem in one of the dryers (that he’d solved by surreptitiously smacking it a few times with a rubber mallet), and he’d even managed to jigger the ancient copier in the back office somehow. It was enough to get him hired although he’d had second thoughts when he saw the maintenance office and the backlog of repairs. Pickles had spent most of the day on his knees or contorted into strange angles as he replaced light bulbs and chipped tile, dealt with slow-running toilets and stubborn air conditioners. All the while he’d noticed how quiet the property was, how private, and an idea bloomed in his mind.
Some skillful negotiation had netted him a deal with Hilda, the lady from behind the desk who also happened to be the owner and primary employee. Instead of paying him $12 an hour, he got to live in one of the rooms for free and he had full use of the motel’s limited facilities to take care of his laundry. There was a microwave, an ugly avocado refrigerator that was also definitely right out of the 1970s, and a hot plate in the employee break room and he used them freely as well. His room was on the end of the west wing and faced back towards the highway. It adjoined only the maintenance office and Pickles found himself nicely isolated. He could practice his drumming and the occasional guitar licks whenever he wanted without disturbing anyone and he didn’t have to worry about rent or utilities. As for the mess of pipes, he’d found a perfect use for them as well.
Growing up smoking government weed for his kiddy glaucoma, Pickles was something of a marijuana connoisseur. He knew all about the illegal stuff and he prided himself on his ability to find the mellowest, longest-lasting high. It took a bit of work but soon enough he had converted a good portion of the maintenance room into a hydroponics lab complete with plants he got off of an old dealer friend – another favor called in but one that had definitely been worth it. Four months at the Sunrise and he’d finally had a big enough crop to sell, slowly and cautiously getting the word out. His location was ideal. The Sunrise was cheap, even had hourly rates, and his customers only had to rent a room and then put in a complaint so that the maintenance man had to go to work. He had a perfectly valid excuse to be in their rooms and they were able to conduct their transactions in privacy. As it stood, he had a dedicated group of regulars and a growing circle of occasional buyers to line his bank account. And the fact that he had his own private stash constantly at hand didn’t hurt either. All in all, his life was proceeding in a good direction.
Trudging through the snow, this time Pickles hummed the opening guitar riff for ‘Hooker’ off of The Dunker Church Massacre. The blown fuse would probably be more complicated than the toilet but he was in no hurry and he was mellowing into his high quite nicely. Besides, by the time he finally finished, Shawn would probably be there and they could pass Valentine’s Day sprawled out on his bed watching the free cable and wreathed in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. And if they got the munchies, well, chocolate was bound to be on sale.
A/N: Wow, I really like this one. Almost as much as the Murderface one, which is still my favorite interlude. I was going to try and get Skwisgaar's done tonight too, but it takes too much research and Pickles made me ramble on and on. So I'm going to try and have that for later. Sheesh, I might actually be able to start Act 2 on Friday or Sunday!