More Metalocalypse Ongoing
Jan. 14th, 2008 06:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Avoiding Derailment
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1318
“Dammit!”
Murderface slammed down the receiver with a curse, the noise evoking sudden glances from his Antietam band mates but when he only continued to glare at the phone they went back to whatever the hell it was they were doing in his living room. He could hear Jerry Springer trying to ask a question over the jeers of his audience on the television but for once the promise of eminent televised white trash violence couldn’t stir him. His life was just too fucking unfair.
Murderface’s fingers twitched and he caught himself with his hand halfway to the cutlery drawer. It was the only nice part of his otherwise dingy kitchen; gleaming, sharpened steal in a variety of shapes and sizes and every single one of the perfectly balanced, honed instruments could cut through a steak or gut a fish as smoothly as they could through butter. As brutal as it would have been to open his veins and bleed out right there all over the dirty, crumb-covered, vinyl floor, he had company and Pickles and Shawn would be sure to staunch the blood flow and save him like the fuckers they were. And then the Colonel would mutter at him in his slow southern drawl for a good hour or two about how he was ruining everything and that would only give him a damn headache. So killing himself right then and there was depressingly out of the question.
Instead he opened his fridge and heaved a long-suffering sigh. The guys had taken most of the good brews already, left him with the cans of Steel Reserve he kept around for desperate times and couple of bottles of Miller. At least the Millers were cold and he took one out, slammed the top edge of it against the chipped formica of his counter to remove the cap, and drained about half of it in one go. The guzzled beer ran down his throat and settled in his stomach over top of his Taco Bell lunch to start fermenting what promised to be an apartment-clearing mixture of gases. It made Murderface feel a little better and he grabbed out a second bottle of Miller before trudging back to his living room.
He wasn’t much of a host but after years of the same old routine the guys didn’t expect anything. The only reason they ended up at his apartment was because it was the most central location and because he lived only a couple of blocks away from some of the bars and clubs they’d played back in the very beginning. Plus he lived in the range of Richmond’s only liquor store with delivery service and that in and of itself would have made his apartment the automatic meeting spot. The Colonel had called this particular band meeting but there was a ritual to such things, a certain sequence of steps that had to be followed before they could get down to business. Murderface zoned out, absently watching Springer’s security try to separate two women who were dressed like third-class hookers and busy clawing at each other’s faces with long, press-on nails, and tried to forget about his phone call.
That was impossible though. All of his plans, the single-minded hope he’d poured into this one thing, this one job, were crashing down around his ears and all the fears that gnawed at his mind, lodged in his throat and found a home in his breast where they could feast on his withered heart were surfacing again. Murderface knew he was a pussy but he did his best to keep that truth from the world, presenting the lie of the cold-hearted bastard, the dick who didn’t give a fuck about who he hurt as long as everyone else was laughing with him instead of at him, instead. The last, the very last, thing he wanted to do was to self-destruct in front of his band mates but he could feel the tantrum swelling in his guts – although that could also have been his lunch – and fighting against the cage of his teeth.
Three weeks ago he’d taken a job, the job that was supposed to be the job that would solve all of his problems. It was an independent contract, put out by some outfit he’d never heard of down in Norfolk. They needed someone to drive unspecified cargo out to California with certain weight, speed, and driving permit requirements in place. He had the permits, although not all of them were obtained through entirely legal means, and he had the truck and the time and the experience. Above all, he didn’t give a shit about the cargo if it meant he’d get the ten grand that went with the job. But just now, not quite a week before he was supposed to leave, there’d been a hitch.
Apparently, even though he STILL hadn’t been told what exactly he’d be hauling, his cargo was such that the company didn’t want to risk it being left alone. And, with a projected 1,695 miles from Norfolk to Los Angeles and a top travel speed of 55 mph, that meant it would take approximately 31 hours with at least 4 more tacked on for traffic. So if it would take 35 hours of driving and a federally mandated limit of ten hours per day, that left him four days to get there. Four days where the truck would be stopped while he slept and ate and, even though he’d argued that he was perfectly happy sleeping in his cab, the company demanded an additional body. Murderface sure as hell didn’t want to split his take or even share it in any way. He needed the full ten thousand to make his portion of the band’s dream happen. But where in the hell was he going to find an idiot willing to ride along?
“Hot Pockets’re the greatest thing ever dood! Fer serious. We shood have some a them right now.”
Right on cue, as if God, or more likely Satan, had been listening to his internal monologue of woe, Pickles’ flatly accented voice interrupted his depressing thoughts. Murderface turned his head slowly away from Jerry Springer and towards the drummer. Pickles had on one of the bandannas he wore to keep his violently red hair out of his face when he worked, all of it pulled back into a ponytail that reached down to the middle of his back. He looked like some of those ‘80s guys, ‘specially that blond one who fronted that band, what was it? Murderface gave up on recalling the name of a band he hated to focus instead on his band mate. Pickles was waxing poetic on the virtues of hot pockets, piece in one hand and beer in the other as he gesticulated to emphasize his adoration of the microwavable foodstuff.
Pickles. Now there was an idea. The drummer never seemed to need money, probably made more than enough selling weed. Pickles talked too much but he could supply the dope and he was a great drinking buddy. And, if Murderface was remembering right, a couple of times when they’d been really wasted, the redhead had mentioned some times spent out in California. That could be the hook right there – free ride and all. The idea wormed its way through Murderface’s brain as the Colonel finally finished his third beer and started the meeting. They talked about New York and recording and through it all Murderface kept his peace; content to rest speculative eyes on the drummer and let Pickles and the Colonel hash things out. Afterwards, as the band broke up for the evening, hastened away in part by a silent but deadly release of flatulence from the apartment’s renter, the bassist stopped the redhead before he could escape into cleaner air.
“Hey Picklesh. How’d chew like a few daysh in the California shun?”
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1318
“Dammit!”
Murderface slammed down the receiver with a curse, the noise evoking sudden glances from his Antietam band mates but when he only continued to glare at the phone they went back to whatever the hell it was they were doing in his living room. He could hear Jerry Springer trying to ask a question over the jeers of his audience on the television but for once the promise of eminent televised white trash violence couldn’t stir him. His life was just too fucking unfair.
Murderface’s fingers twitched and he caught himself with his hand halfway to the cutlery drawer. It was the only nice part of his otherwise dingy kitchen; gleaming, sharpened steal in a variety of shapes and sizes and every single one of the perfectly balanced, honed instruments could cut through a steak or gut a fish as smoothly as they could through butter. As brutal as it would have been to open his veins and bleed out right there all over the dirty, crumb-covered, vinyl floor, he had company and Pickles and Shawn would be sure to staunch the blood flow and save him like the fuckers they were. And then the Colonel would mutter at him in his slow southern drawl for a good hour or two about how he was ruining everything and that would only give him a damn headache. So killing himself right then and there was depressingly out of the question.
Instead he opened his fridge and heaved a long-suffering sigh. The guys had taken most of the good brews already, left him with the cans of Steel Reserve he kept around for desperate times and couple of bottles of Miller. At least the Millers were cold and he took one out, slammed the top edge of it against the chipped formica of his counter to remove the cap, and drained about half of it in one go. The guzzled beer ran down his throat and settled in his stomach over top of his Taco Bell lunch to start fermenting what promised to be an apartment-clearing mixture of gases. It made Murderface feel a little better and he grabbed out a second bottle of Miller before trudging back to his living room.
He wasn’t much of a host but after years of the same old routine the guys didn’t expect anything. The only reason they ended up at his apartment was because it was the most central location and because he lived only a couple of blocks away from some of the bars and clubs they’d played back in the very beginning. Plus he lived in the range of Richmond’s only liquor store with delivery service and that in and of itself would have made his apartment the automatic meeting spot. The Colonel had called this particular band meeting but there was a ritual to such things, a certain sequence of steps that had to be followed before they could get down to business. Murderface zoned out, absently watching Springer’s security try to separate two women who were dressed like third-class hookers and busy clawing at each other’s faces with long, press-on nails, and tried to forget about his phone call.
That was impossible though. All of his plans, the single-minded hope he’d poured into this one thing, this one job, were crashing down around his ears and all the fears that gnawed at his mind, lodged in his throat and found a home in his breast where they could feast on his withered heart were surfacing again. Murderface knew he was a pussy but he did his best to keep that truth from the world, presenting the lie of the cold-hearted bastard, the dick who didn’t give a fuck about who he hurt as long as everyone else was laughing with him instead of at him, instead. The last, the very last, thing he wanted to do was to self-destruct in front of his band mates but he could feel the tantrum swelling in his guts – although that could also have been his lunch – and fighting against the cage of his teeth.
Three weeks ago he’d taken a job, the job that was supposed to be the job that would solve all of his problems. It was an independent contract, put out by some outfit he’d never heard of down in Norfolk. They needed someone to drive unspecified cargo out to California with certain weight, speed, and driving permit requirements in place. He had the permits, although not all of them were obtained through entirely legal means, and he had the truck and the time and the experience. Above all, he didn’t give a shit about the cargo if it meant he’d get the ten grand that went with the job. But just now, not quite a week before he was supposed to leave, there’d been a hitch.
Apparently, even though he STILL hadn’t been told what exactly he’d be hauling, his cargo was such that the company didn’t want to risk it being left alone. And, with a projected 1,695 miles from Norfolk to Los Angeles and a top travel speed of 55 mph, that meant it would take approximately 31 hours with at least 4 more tacked on for traffic. So if it would take 35 hours of driving and a federally mandated limit of ten hours per day, that left him four days to get there. Four days where the truck would be stopped while he slept and ate and, even though he’d argued that he was perfectly happy sleeping in his cab, the company demanded an additional body. Murderface sure as hell didn’t want to split his take or even share it in any way. He needed the full ten thousand to make his portion of the band’s dream happen. But where in the hell was he going to find an idiot willing to ride along?
“Hot Pockets’re the greatest thing ever dood! Fer serious. We shood have some a them right now.”
Right on cue, as if God, or more likely Satan, had been listening to his internal monologue of woe, Pickles’ flatly accented voice interrupted his depressing thoughts. Murderface turned his head slowly away from Jerry Springer and towards the drummer. Pickles had on one of the bandannas he wore to keep his violently red hair out of his face when he worked, all of it pulled back into a ponytail that reached down to the middle of his back. He looked like some of those ‘80s guys, ‘specially that blond one who fronted that band, what was it? Murderface gave up on recalling the name of a band he hated to focus instead on his band mate. Pickles was waxing poetic on the virtues of hot pockets, piece in one hand and beer in the other as he gesticulated to emphasize his adoration of the microwavable foodstuff.
Pickles. Now there was an idea. The drummer never seemed to need money, probably made more than enough selling weed. Pickles talked too much but he could supply the dope and he was a great drinking buddy. And, if Murderface was remembering right, a couple of times when they’d been really wasted, the redhead had mentioned some times spent out in California. That could be the hook right there – free ride and all. The idea wormed its way through Murderface’s brain as the Colonel finally finished his third beer and started the meeting. They talked about New York and recording and through it all Murderface kept his peace; content to rest speculative eyes on the drummer and let Pickles and the Colonel hash things out. Afterwards, as the band broke up for the evening, hastened away in part by a silent but deadly release of flatulence from the apartment’s renter, the bassist stopped the redhead before he could escape into cleaner air.
“Hey Picklesh. How’d chew like a few daysh in the California shun?”
