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dethoratsTitle: On The Road Again
Rating: PG for language and drug refs
Word Count: 1461
Settling in Richmond had never been planned. Ever since he had made the decision to leave Snakes ‘n’ Barrels, Pickles had been more or less adrift. It had probably been a kind of shock at first, nerves shot to hell after he finally told the guys and the record company that he was done being part of the band. He had let his obnoxious manager and the strings that still tied him to the label dictate his actions, going on a worthless signing tour because he couldn’t think of anything better to do and because he had needed to get the fuck out of L.A. And then Antietam had more or less landed in his lap and it had seemed perfect, a chance to escape from the monotonous hell his life had become and back to the reason why he’d broken up what had been his dream, his baby, in the first place.
The redhead from Wisconsin had felt he’d settled in pretty well, all things considered. After all, he had a car, a job, money in the bank, and a dream, and if he lived in a shitty motel, well, it was like an alternative sort of dorm experience or something. Like being in the effin’ college of life or some shit. Hell, he even had a chem/botany lab of sorts and only a hot plate to cook on so the metaphor fit. With Antietam’s growing fame and the looming promise of some professional recording and a chance at industry contacts, Pickles had only felt more comfortable with where the unexpected vagaries of the tide of fortune had tossed him. So, when Murderface had asked him if he wanted to take a brief vacation out to California, there had been no real hesitation when he’d said yes.
Pickles had actually been excited by the prospect, the thought of returning to the place he still thought of as his adopted home. Getting Hilda to give him two weeks off had been a chore but after reluctantly agreeing to the arduous task of hanging drywall and painting four of the rooms in the east wing before he left, the stingy bitch had relented. Shawn had come over to give him a hand, brought along a high school buddy who actually knew what he was doing, and they’d managed to get the job done in about eighteen hours of strenuous work. Then, chilling in the hotel’s lone hot tub with a bag of his latest crop and an ice bucket full of German imports, they’d shot the breeze for another twelve hours until Hilda finally showed up and ordered him back to work.
It was too bad Shawn couldn’t come along too. Pickles had grown quite fond of the guitarist and being cramped in the cab of Murderface’s rig for however long it took wasn’t going to be a picnic with just the two of them. Murderface was okay, prickly and damn did he smell, but he was often too taciturn for the drummer’s taste. And half the time he did talk, it was only to lay out a litany of complaints and bitch about how shitty he was. Hell, it was probably the gap. If he’d had the fuckin’ Grand Canyon between his teeth and the promise of Old Faithful gushing up between every time he spoke, Pickles would probably have kept his mouth shut too. Still, four days out to California with whatever tricky sort of cargo Murderface would be hauling – he’d been elusive as to its real nature and the redhead figured that the bassist probably had no idea what it was – was going to be tense if he didn’t pack right. And once they were there, well, Pickles intended to show Murderface a damn good time.
The suitcase from the touring wars had seen better days and Pickles could only be glad that most of the band stickers he’d slapped on it had been scuffed or scraped off or covered with customs and airline stickers he’d never bothered to remove. Setting it on his bed, with the same garishly printed comforter as all the other beds in the hotel, he turned to the utilitarian dresser. Socks, underwear, two pairs of spare jeans, a spare bandanna or two, and some t-shirts he’d picked up upon coming to Richmond took care of his clothing needs. Left behind were a few of the outfits he’d kept from the SnB days, 80s stuff that looked ridiculous in the light of early 90s market capitalism. He should have gotten rid of them, especially the electric green and black spandex that he probably was too chunky – that’s what getting off of a steady diet of cocaine and heroin did to a man – for, but nostalgia had thus far stilled his hand. He did, after thinking of the words written on the notepad next to his phone, toss one last bandanna into the suitcase, this one in purple leopard print. The small bathroom found him scoring his razor and some shaving cream and his toothbrush and finally the industrial comb that lately had more red strands in it than he liked. With the easy stuff packed, Pickles then turned to the third door in his room.
Getting the right amount was essential. Packing his weed was the most important part after all. Pickles carefully moved among his set-up, checking water levels and the artificial light, adding some fertilizer to one pipe whose plants looked like they could stand to be perked up. Heh, maybe fertilizer was like weed to plants. Stood to figure, what with all the chemicals in it. Shawn knew all about how to care for his babies and he trusted the guitarist to take good care of the plants while he was away but his marijuana crop was one area in which Pickles was actually a perfectionist. He examined all of his plants, fiddled some more with the hydrolater and the drip frequency, and finally pulled out a pair of floral scissors. Snipping carefully, he removed some of the buds just starting to ripen into flowers and carried them over to his dehydrator. Typically his product was air-dried but, in an attempt to be smart before he left, Pickles had sold off all but about ten baggies of product. If something was to happen, he didn’t want anything besides the actual growing plants to be thrown at him in a court of law.
As he waited for the stuff to dry, Pickles spent the next few hours tidying up his workshop. He had built a special screen for his hydroponics out of pressboard and it took him a while to get it into place. When he was finished, it looked as if the room had been subdivided, which was what he’d told Hilda he was doing with the excuse of needing a place easier to clean and store materials for carpentry. Behind the false front lay his real moneymakers and now they at least looked as it they were out of sight. He’d even put in a door and a padlock and Shawn would get the key. When the dehydrator beeped at him, he’d been lazing in his chair and napping, wasting the rest of the day instead of finishing up any of the last-minute jobs Hilda had thrown at him. Packing the weed carefully away in a plastic container and tossing in half of his remaining baggies as well, Pickles finally went back to his room and finished packing his suitcase.
Besides the weed, his toiletries, and his clothes, he threw in a couple of tapes, mostly harder stuff that he knew Murderface wouldn’t bitch about too much, some metal magazines, and a copy of Moby Dick some guest had left behind. During high school, he’d been assigned it as a book report but had never gotten past the first page. Something told Pickles that being stuck in a truck with Murderface might be more motivating than the threat of a D in English. When Shawn knocked on the door, Pickles stuffed his wallet and some spare rubber bands for his hair in his pocket, ripped the top page off the notepad by his phone and crammed that in too, and met the guitarist with a leery grin. Shawn returned it, looking equally nervous as Pickles handed over the keys to his rooms, to the lock on the fake door in his workshop, and to his precious firebird. Shawn would be fine but neither of them could predict how well Pickles would survive over a week of extremely close quarters with the bassist. When they stopped at a liquor store to get provisions, Pickles filled the trunk and back seat of Shawn’s Civic. He had a feeling he would need it all.
Rating: PG for language and drug refs
Word Count: 1461
Settling in Richmond had never been planned. Ever since he had made the decision to leave Snakes ‘n’ Barrels, Pickles had been more or less adrift. It had probably been a kind of shock at first, nerves shot to hell after he finally told the guys and the record company that he was done being part of the band. He had let his obnoxious manager and the strings that still tied him to the label dictate his actions, going on a worthless signing tour because he couldn’t think of anything better to do and because he had needed to get the fuck out of L.A. And then Antietam had more or less landed in his lap and it had seemed perfect, a chance to escape from the monotonous hell his life had become and back to the reason why he’d broken up what had been his dream, his baby, in the first place.
The redhead from Wisconsin had felt he’d settled in pretty well, all things considered. After all, he had a car, a job, money in the bank, and a dream, and if he lived in a shitty motel, well, it was like an alternative sort of dorm experience or something. Like being in the effin’ college of life or some shit. Hell, he even had a chem/botany lab of sorts and only a hot plate to cook on so the metaphor fit. With Antietam’s growing fame and the looming promise of some professional recording and a chance at industry contacts, Pickles had only felt more comfortable with where the unexpected vagaries of the tide of fortune had tossed him. So, when Murderface had asked him if he wanted to take a brief vacation out to California, there had been no real hesitation when he’d said yes.
Pickles had actually been excited by the prospect, the thought of returning to the place he still thought of as his adopted home. Getting Hilda to give him two weeks off had been a chore but after reluctantly agreeing to the arduous task of hanging drywall and painting four of the rooms in the east wing before he left, the stingy bitch had relented. Shawn had come over to give him a hand, brought along a high school buddy who actually knew what he was doing, and they’d managed to get the job done in about eighteen hours of strenuous work. Then, chilling in the hotel’s lone hot tub with a bag of his latest crop and an ice bucket full of German imports, they’d shot the breeze for another twelve hours until Hilda finally showed up and ordered him back to work.
It was too bad Shawn couldn’t come along too. Pickles had grown quite fond of the guitarist and being cramped in the cab of Murderface’s rig for however long it took wasn’t going to be a picnic with just the two of them. Murderface was okay, prickly and damn did he smell, but he was often too taciturn for the drummer’s taste. And half the time he did talk, it was only to lay out a litany of complaints and bitch about how shitty he was. Hell, it was probably the gap. If he’d had the fuckin’ Grand Canyon between his teeth and the promise of Old Faithful gushing up between every time he spoke, Pickles would probably have kept his mouth shut too. Still, four days out to California with whatever tricky sort of cargo Murderface would be hauling – he’d been elusive as to its real nature and the redhead figured that the bassist probably had no idea what it was – was going to be tense if he didn’t pack right. And once they were there, well, Pickles intended to show Murderface a damn good time.
The suitcase from the touring wars had seen better days and Pickles could only be glad that most of the band stickers he’d slapped on it had been scuffed or scraped off or covered with customs and airline stickers he’d never bothered to remove. Setting it on his bed, with the same garishly printed comforter as all the other beds in the hotel, he turned to the utilitarian dresser. Socks, underwear, two pairs of spare jeans, a spare bandanna or two, and some t-shirts he’d picked up upon coming to Richmond took care of his clothing needs. Left behind were a few of the outfits he’d kept from the SnB days, 80s stuff that looked ridiculous in the light of early 90s market capitalism. He should have gotten rid of them, especially the electric green and black spandex that he probably was too chunky – that’s what getting off of a steady diet of cocaine and heroin did to a man – for, but nostalgia had thus far stilled his hand. He did, after thinking of the words written on the notepad next to his phone, toss one last bandanna into the suitcase, this one in purple leopard print. The small bathroom found him scoring his razor and some shaving cream and his toothbrush and finally the industrial comb that lately had more red strands in it than he liked. With the easy stuff packed, Pickles then turned to the third door in his room.
Getting the right amount was essential. Packing his weed was the most important part after all. Pickles carefully moved among his set-up, checking water levels and the artificial light, adding some fertilizer to one pipe whose plants looked like they could stand to be perked up. Heh, maybe fertilizer was like weed to plants. Stood to figure, what with all the chemicals in it. Shawn knew all about how to care for his babies and he trusted the guitarist to take good care of the plants while he was away but his marijuana crop was one area in which Pickles was actually a perfectionist. He examined all of his plants, fiddled some more with the hydrolater and the drip frequency, and finally pulled out a pair of floral scissors. Snipping carefully, he removed some of the buds just starting to ripen into flowers and carried them over to his dehydrator. Typically his product was air-dried but, in an attempt to be smart before he left, Pickles had sold off all but about ten baggies of product. If something was to happen, he didn’t want anything besides the actual growing plants to be thrown at him in a court of law.
As he waited for the stuff to dry, Pickles spent the next few hours tidying up his workshop. He had built a special screen for his hydroponics out of pressboard and it took him a while to get it into place. When he was finished, it looked as if the room had been subdivided, which was what he’d told Hilda he was doing with the excuse of needing a place easier to clean and store materials for carpentry. Behind the false front lay his real moneymakers and now they at least looked as it they were out of sight. He’d even put in a door and a padlock and Shawn would get the key. When the dehydrator beeped at him, he’d been lazing in his chair and napping, wasting the rest of the day instead of finishing up any of the last-minute jobs Hilda had thrown at him. Packing the weed carefully away in a plastic container and tossing in half of his remaining baggies as well, Pickles finally went back to his room and finished packing his suitcase.
Besides the weed, his toiletries, and his clothes, he threw in a couple of tapes, mostly harder stuff that he knew Murderface wouldn’t bitch about too much, some metal magazines, and a copy of Moby Dick some guest had left behind. During high school, he’d been assigned it as a book report but had never gotten past the first page. Something told Pickles that being stuck in a truck with Murderface might be more motivating than the threat of a D in English. When Shawn knocked on the door, Pickles stuffed his wallet and some spare rubber bands for his hair in his pocket, ripped the top page off the notepad by his phone and crammed that in too, and met the guitarist with a leery grin. Shawn returned it, looking equally nervous as Pickles handed over the keys to his rooms, to the lock on the fake door in his workshop, and to his precious firebird. Shawn would be fine but neither of them could predict how well Pickles would survive over a week of extremely close quarters with the bassist. When they stopped at a liquor store to get provisions, Pickles filled the trunk and back seat of Shawn’s Civic. He had a feeling he would need it all.
