Chapter 11. indeed.
Disclaimer: Dethklok. not mine, or there would be some silly southerners running around.
Warning: Abuse, fighting, cursing, being ridiculously drunk
Pairings: Murderface/Pickles, Toni/Pickles, hinting at Candy/Cameron
Rating: ARRRRR
The others had all stumbled off drunkenly at various points during the night leaving only Pickles, Murderface, and Thunderbottom sitting at a bar chatting and toasting anything they could think of. They had already toasted to Barbra Streisand twice and Toni has started making toasts in other languages, mostly to Italian dishes, but the others thought he was a genius. Murderface had gotten them kicked out of two bars for threatening both bartenders an patrons alike with his knife, and had made an outrageous claim that he could tell from which region a specific light beer was made just by taste, and he had gone on about it for a half hour with an authorities air before Pickles grabbed him by the wrist pulling him along to another bar. They must have done rounds, hitting most bars at least twice, before they were told to go home by different bars and twice by the same bar after leaving it and immediately re-entering.
The struggled to find their way back to the hotel walking in circles. After finding the tour bus still in the venue lot, they figured they knew how to get back to the hotel and began to walk away before Toni started vomiting behind a postbox. Pickles was there at his side pulling his hair back as he emptied his gut onto the street, while the other bassist swayed in place trying to not fall over as the four guys in front of him stopped hurling.
“Hey Murderface. Help me out here, will ya’? Help me… help me… me drag him to tha vahn. Can’t, don’t have time to find tha hotel."
“No, Red. Don’t need help, don’t need… need you, not help.” The drunken slurs sounded sad and removed from reality as he draped over both the smaller singer and the postbox. It looked like he would collapse and pass out at any point, his face pale and his eyes sunken.
The Confederate’s bassist staggered over, taking the taller, much lighter guy and supporting him as they crossed the street again, taking it slow and carefully both for his own sake as for the other bassist. The distance looked far greater than it really was, and the half-hearted complaints coming from the other weren’t really helping. Pickles had already stumbled to the van’s door and had somehow managed to not only get out the key, but get it in the slot, turn it and unlock the door.
“No, man, no, I can make it, I can do it, man…”
“Juscht schut up you douschebag. Or I’ll leave you right here in the street. And don’t you dare… dare vomit on me.” His threats were as empty as cans that were strewn about in the parking lot. Sure he was a dick, but he liked feeling like a hero, he liked having people depend on him, it was an ego trip for him. He just hoisted Toni up and flung him over his shoulder fireman style and staggered the rest of the way over to the van. He nearly tripped up the stairs to the bus but Pickles was there at his side, hands guiding both him and Toni in without too much bumping into things. The complaints had dwindled down and Toni was passed out as soon as they laid him down across the couch.
Pickles shoved away a bag of pretzels which spilled out on the floor. Murderface fell backwards into a chair now relieved of the dead weight he had carried. A grunt issuing past his lips as he sunk further into the comfort of the chair. The booze was really starting to hit him now as he just wanted to nap. Yawning as he watched through lidded eyes the red head shuffle, poking around as if he was looking for something. Falling back triumphantly holding up a small box, Pickles grinned a drunken crooked smile.
“Cinnamon buns.” He struggled to get the box open, straining as he gripped it from the edges pulling in opposite directions. The box ended up ripping apart sending prepackaged individual sticky buns everywhere, scatting about the small room. He continued struggling with trying to open the plastic wrap when Murderface spoke up.
“Come here, I’ll get that.” He pulled out his knife and waited as the singer crawled over, too drunk to stand back up. Taking hold of the snack he easily sliced through the wrapper with his unnecessarily large knife, managing to leave the food unscathed. He held the cinnamon bun out for the other still somewhat protected from his grimy hands by the remainder of the wrapper. Pickles didn’t immediately take hold of the sweet; instead he pulled himself up onto the other’s lap and bit into the proffered snack.
Murderface was floored, unable to react, as his idol sat straddling his lap eating a cinnamon bun from his fingers. He blankly stared as he held his hand out, just watching as the red head held his hand still as he ate from it. Liking the frosting off his fingertips with a drunken single mindedness, sent shivers up Murderface’s spine. Lazily staring through alcohol hazed eyes Pickles reached out and felt the other’s face. Tracing the outline of harsh features and the strong jaw line, his fingers laced into thick clinging curls. Emerald eyes met lighter lime ones and their visions blurred together, as the smaller man pulled the other into a kiss. Their gaze never broke. Pickles pulled back licking his lips.
“Mmm. Yah taste like cinnamon buns n’ booze. My two favorite things.” He slurred as his eyelids fluttered, trying to hold back the inevitable crash.
Murderface smiled, his features softening, as he reached out lightly stroking the side of the singer’s face, his touch gentle and loving, a surprising opposite to his outward persona. Not normally being a very chatty person, and especially so now that he was well on his way to an drunk sleep, he let his actions speak for him. Wrapping his other arm around the other’s waist in a light embrace, he leaned in, engaging another lazy kiss. The kiss didn’t last very long, and slowed down, trailing into a series of slow pecks as both of them drifted closer to sleep. Pickles rested his head in the crook of the large bassist’s shoulder, his arms draped over his neck and the back of the chair. Murderface’s arms encircled the other’s body, holding him close and in place. Their steady breathing lulling the other into a comforting sleep.
Pickles woke up to his hair being pulled back sharply and a hand slapped over his mouth as he was angrily dragged out of a rather comfy sleep. He was dragged rather unceremoniously to the back room and tossed roughly onto the bed. Letting out a soft yelp at the harsh treatment and the loss of some hair from it being barely let go, he looked up into the angered and blotchy face of Toni. Anger did not look good on the Italian bassist, his normally laid back demeanor destroyed by the still lingering alcohol. His dark hair disheveled, falling into his face yet still unable to obscure the furious glint of light in his eyes. He loomed over the smaller man, not really needing to take the few steps to the edge of the bed for the added intimidation. Pickles scrabbled back on the bed, trying to put some space in between, getting caught up in the blankets his eyes wide in surprised fear. He had only seen Toni angry once before, at that time it was aimed at Sammy who, at the time, had been in charge of the equipment van during a riot. He would have been out of the band, had Bullets not stepped in with the rare words of calm wisdom, insuring that both his good friends remain in the band. A hand snaked out and grasped at the front collar of the tight tee the red head had fallen asleep in.
“You fucking slut. I should have known…” his voice dripped acid as he violently pulled the singer closer, raising his other hand.
“T-t-toni. I . No, it’s not like that!” he threw his hands up in front of his face in mock protection.
“Then what the HELL am I supposed to think!? I wake up to you fucking draped all over him, Fuck you. I know what it looks like!” his voice raised to a yell, pulling his fist back as if to strike. Pickles winced, closing his eyes and turning his head, but the strike never came.
“No.” was all that was said, coming from a gruff and gravely voice. Something that clearly stated displeasure at having being woken and suffering a hang over.
“You no-talent southern hack. Fuck off. This isn’t any of your business.”
The southern no-talent hack that was addressed narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip, his large sausage like fingers dwarfing and engulfing Toni’s fist, holding it back. He didn’t need to say anything more, his anger was present in his features; jaw set back, clanged in rage, his eyes darkened to a piss stained color, eye brows knotted casting shadows over the already dark eyes.
“Fffffuuuck YOU!” Toni practically tossed Pickles aside as he swung with his newly freed hand at Murderface while trying to wrench his other hand free not wanting it injured. He hit him square in the side of his jaw twisting his face to the side. Ready to gloat, Toni barely caught the slow motion turn of the other’s head returning to face him again. A new fire of passion burning in the yellow eyes shone through as he quickly and heavily slugged the other in the gut, Murderface tightened his grip as the other hand continued its upward trajectory and falling back down as an elbow to the now doubled over bassist. He was prepared to rain down more hits, and was fully prepared to use his knees and feet, which were now dangerously close to the other’s face.
“Stop, please, doods, no.” Pickles meekly pleaded as he rested his hand on the southerner’s bicep.
Murderface looked wounded by the simple words, his face fell and he lowered his fists. Then as quickly as the look of rejection passed his face hardened back into a state of determined anger, he shoved Toni away from him and stormed out of the small room, causing the whole van to shake. He smashed things on his way out, knocking things to the ground, slamming doors, trying to overturn bolted furniture.
Pickles didn’t let his gaze linger too far on the southerner as he left; rather he tentatively made his way to the side of his bassist. Reaching out he touched his shoulder lightly, a slight groan issued but nothing more. Using what strength he had, he rolled the other over and pulled him into his lap, gently caressing his features careful to avoid the red marks that would soon become bruises. He took this time to explain himself.
“Anthony, dood, I swear nothing happened last night. I was trying to get cinnamon buns and, and … well I just ended up passing out. I guess I passed out on top of him, but our shoes were on and we were fully clothed. ‘Sides, his looks don’t hold a matchstick of a flame to yours.” He smiled sweetly and gently kissed the other’s forehead, wrinkling his nose slightly at the reek of new booze. “You should stop drinking so soon in the day.”
Toni lightly swat at the red-head’s knee, “So says you, the king of substances.” He laughed as he reached his arm up around Pickles’s head pulling him down into another kiss. “I trust you, you know that. I just don’t trust southern hicks. I’m still going to keep an eye on him.”
Murderface made his way to his truck, leaving a trail of destruction in his path. The door was open and the keys had been left in the cup holder, it was something he had always done, and he was extremely lucky that no one had wanted to make off with his vehicle. He drove off, leaving oil stains on the pavement and thick billows of exhaust in the parking lot. He had no idea where he was going or even where he was, but he needed to be away from the world right now. He wanted to kill that dark haired prick, he wanted to knock him down and out; the bassist that he had looked up to and listened to in secret had only become a foil to his life. Self harm wasn’t an option at this point, he needed to get straight to the source and destroy it.
“Schelf abshorbed mother fucker, doshen’t fucking know how good he’sh got it.” He grumbled as he sped down the many zigzagging streets in the city barely noticing the working girls staggering back from a long night, or the bikers that had fallen asleep outside of the bars. He made a double take as he saw a tiny scrawny kid searching over a discarded lump pulling up a rebel flag from the heap. Circling the block he parked his truck along side the curb, scaring the kid off as he stepped out of the tall truck. Murderface made his way over to the lump which he could now tell was a human body, curled up on something, face covered with yet another flag.
“Hey buddy, get up.” He kicked at the person, he figured that anyone who slept with the bars and stars couldn’t be that bad, and would be someone he could complain to. The body humphed as a large arm waved him off, tribal tattoo swirling and twisting its way up. Murderface sighed and rolled his eyes, just his luck that he would find his best friend passed out getting robbed on the street. He kicked at Cameron again.
“Cameron. Get your lazhy asch up and get in the truck. We need you alive for the nexht schow … if there ish a nexht schow.” He muttered the last part to himself.
Cameron pulled the edge of his jacket down giving his friend a hung over glare. “Y’all got me a drink to entice me intah yer truck there? I ain’t think I can get up with out one right now.”
Murderface sighed and mumbled, knowing that his friend was right. He needed a drink as well, looking around he saw a coffee place and set off to get them both some liquid pick me ups.
As he left, Cameron lifted up the jacket exposing a still drunk Sammy clinging to him for warmth. His suspenders and tight pants not really keeping him warm. “We all might want to get up before he gets back.” he received a warm and very drunk smile in response.
“Whatever you say, just lay on that accent.”
“Well I dary say, y’all mighten just wantin’ ta git on up a’fore missah Will comes on back.” He grinned laying on his accent even thicker than normal. He stood up lifting his fellow drummer along with him, wrapping his jacket around the other. Flagging Murderface down as he left the coffee shop he silently explained the sudden appearance of the still drunk member of Snakes n Barrels. The bassist didn’t really care along as he didn’t have to either relegate his coffee or have to get another. It seemed that the other was content enough with staying mildly drunk.
The three of them wandered the crisscrossing streets of Dallas with minor difficulties finally finding the hotel. By the time they got back. Lee was already up and smoking in the parking lot. She waved and greeted them as they pulled in, the truck rattling as it parked and the engine clicked at it cooled down.
“Heyah boys. Glad to see you all were found alright after last night, ‘cause we got one more show here. Then we head out again. Oh, Candynose, you might want to speak with your manager, I think he thinks yer dead.” She took a drag on the cigarette, the end glowing up, blowing out a thing stream of smoke.
“Happens after most shows. One time he thought he had died and was trying to convince us why we needed a new manager because zombies didn’t plan things out right.” The blond giggled as he passed her, pausing to reach out and brush back her bangs. “You sure you don’t want me doing your hair for tonight?”
“Noooo thanks.” She pushed him gently past her chuckling as he left them, she returned the cigarette back to her mouth as she turned around in time to catch Cameron slipping a soft pack of Marlboros into his front pocket. “Need a light Cam?” she offered a flickering flame form a beaten zippo. He muttered a thanks from around his own drag as he leaned against the wall joining Lee. Murderface was sullenly sitting down on the ground, his back against the wall playing with his knife. The spinning blade glinted in the sunlight and looked more like a favorite bauble than a potentially deadly weapon. The three of them remained in silence for some time before Shannon joined them with a pot of coffee.
“Morning. Coffee?” she offered, pouring fresh brew into the empty cups of Cameron and Murderface and filling two up for herself and her sister. “After the show tonight we’re all off to the next stop on the tour. Oswald said something about Florida, but he said that last time, and well, here we are. Texas.” She explained waving her free hand out across the parking lot, gesturing at the buildings around them, at the city.
“Will, you think that the bikers will follow?” Lee asked as she put out her cigarette and swapped it for coffee.
Letting the silence drag on for a while longer the bassist finally put his knife away and stood up to join the others. “Who knowsh? Maybe schome of them will. I am their leader scho I guesch I could make them…”
They spent the rest of the day talking like they were on the Jones’s porch, only with more dead air between topics and a listless type of boredom now that they didn’t know the town or what to do in it. Pickles and Toni showed up into the afternoon, the Italian glared at his southern counter receiving an acidic glare back. The red head took on an air of oblivion with his crooked smile and jaunty walk until they had entered the building out of the southern’s views, where he struck out and smacked the taller man and spoke with a harsh tone.
“Stop that! Be cool, chief. I like these guys, and you’ve had your say already.”
“And I don’t like that.” Toni pouted, stopping in the hall only feet away from here the remainder of the band was. He could never figure out why they even bothered with hotel rooms when they had a perfectly good tour van, often forgetting that the bus was never clean and only had the one bed and one couch.
“You can’t keep me from making friends, you ain’t my keeper Toni. And I get enough of you guys that you’re not friends, family maybe, you guys are the band! But I want friends, real friends, people who don’t know every fucking little thing about me, you know guys I can get high with shoot the shit with and not have to see at the end of the day.” He spun away from the taller man pushing him gently as he opened the door and walked in on the remainder of the band just sitting around. Bullets was surrounded by a light haze at the moment and the whole room reeked of weed, stupid smiles plastered on their faces. Pickles didn’t need to ask before the joint was passed into his fingers, taking a slow drag he asked “So what do you guys think about the warm up band?”
“The Confederate Rising?” Bullets spoke slowly and slurred. “They’ve got a different sound, but I like them, they’re cool in my book.” He leaned back to back with Candynose who looked over both of their shoulders, his blue eyes obscured with thick blond hair.
“I like them. They’re like friends we’ve always known but never met, you know?”
“Them? My idea, a great idea, they’re gold. But they have different audiences.” Oswald put in his two cents, and the only thoughts that made any sense at the moment and would likely be the last coherent thoughts for a while as he pulled a small sheet of what looked like stickers from out of his pocket.
“There you go Toni, yer out voted, they stay.” He flopped onto the bed passing off the joint. The pre-gaming for the show was soon to be ritualistic for them. Arguing, smoking, then playing to the crowd.
Warning: Abuse, fighting, cursing, being ridiculously drunk
Pairings: Murderface/Pickles, Toni/Pickles, hinting at Candy/Cameron
Rating: ARRRRR
The others had all stumbled off drunkenly at various points during the night leaving only Pickles, Murderface, and Thunderbottom sitting at a bar chatting and toasting anything they could think of. They had already toasted to Barbra Streisand twice and Toni has started making toasts in other languages, mostly to Italian dishes, but the others thought he was a genius. Murderface had gotten them kicked out of two bars for threatening both bartenders an patrons alike with his knife, and had made an outrageous claim that he could tell from which region a specific light beer was made just by taste, and he had gone on about it for a half hour with an authorities air before Pickles grabbed him by the wrist pulling him along to another bar. They must have done rounds, hitting most bars at least twice, before they were told to go home by different bars and twice by the same bar after leaving it and immediately re-entering.
The struggled to find their way back to the hotel walking in circles. After finding the tour bus still in the venue lot, they figured they knew how to get back to the hotel and began to walk away before Toni started vomiting behind a postbox. Pickles was there at his side pulling his hair back as he emptied his gut onto the street, while the other bassist swayed in place trying to not fall over as the four guys in front of him stopped hurling.
“Hey Murderface. Help me out here, will ya’? Help me… help me… me drag him to tha vahn. Can’t, don’t have time to find tha hotel."
“No, Red. Don’t need help, don’t need… need you, not help.” The drunken slurs sounded sad and removed from reality as he draped over both the smaller singer and the postbox. It looked like he would collapse and pass out at any point, his face pale and his eyes sunken.
The Confederate’s bassist staggered over, taking the taller, much lighter guy and supporting him as they crossed the street again, taking it slow and carefully both for his own sake as for the other bassist. The distance looked far greater than it really was, and the half-hearted complaints coming from the other weren’t really helping. Pickles had already stumbled to the van’s door and had somehow managed to not only get out the key, but get it in the slot, turn it and unlock the door.
“No, man, no, I can make it, I can do it, man…”
“Juscht schut up you douschebag. Or I’ll leave you right here in the street. And don’t you dare… dare vomit on me.” His threats were as empty as cans that were strewn about in the parking lot. Sure he was a dick, but he liked feeling like a hero, he liked having people depend on him, it was an ego trip for him. He just hoisted Toni up and flung him over his shoulder fireman style and staggered the rest of the way over to the van. He nearly tripped up the stairs to the bus but Pickles was there at his side, hands guiding both him and Toni in without too much bumping into things. The complaints had dwindled down and Toni was passed out as soon as they laid him down across the couch.
Pickles shoved away a bag of pretzels which spilled out on the floor. Murderface fell backwards into a chair now relieved of the dead weight he had carried. A grunt issuing past his lips as he sunk further into the comfort of the chair. The booze was really starting to hit him now as he just wanted to nap. Yawning as he watched through lidded eyes the red head shuffle, poking around as if he was looking for something. Falling back triumphantly holding up a small box, Pickles grinned a drunken crooked smile.
“Cinnamon buns.” He struggled to get the box open, straining as he gripped it from the edges pulling in opposite directions. The box ended up ripping apart sending prepackaged individual sticky buns everywhere, scatting about the small room. He continued struggling with trying to open the plastic wrap when Murderface spoke up.
“Come here, I’ll get that.” He pulled out his knife and waited as the singer crawled over, too drunk to stand back up. Taking hold of the snack he easily sliced through the wrapper with his unnecessarily large knife, managing to leave the food unscathed. He held the cinnamon bun out for the other still somewhat protected from his grimy hands by the remainder of the wrapper. Pickles didn’t immediately take hold of the sweet; instead he pulled himself up onto the other’s lap and bit into the proffered snack.
Murderface was floored, unable to react, as his idol sat straddling his lap eating a cinnamon bun from his fingers. He blankly stared as he held his hand out, just watching as the red head held his hand still as he ate from it. Liking the frosting off his fingertips with a drunken single mindedness, sent shivers up Murderface’s spine. Lazily staring through alcohol hazed eyes Pickles reached out and felt the other’s face. Tracing the outline of harsh features and the strong jaw line, his fingers laced into thick clinging curls. Emerald eyes met lighter lime ones and their visions blurred together, as the smaller man pulled the other into a kiss. Their gaze never broke. Pickles pulled back licking his lips.
“Mmm. Yah taste like cinnamon buns n’ booze. My two favorite things.” He slurred as his eyelids fluttered, trying to hold back the inevitable crash.
Murderface smiled, his features softening, as he reached out lightly stroking the side of the singer’s face, his touch gentle and loving, a surprising opposite to his outward persona. Not normally being a very chatty person, and especially so now that he was well on his way to an drunk sleep, he let his actions speak for him. Wrapping his other arm around the other’s waist in a light embrace, he leaned in, engaging another lazy kiss. The kiss didn’t last very long, and slowed down, trailing into a series of slow pecks as both of them drifted closer to sleep. Pickles rested his head in the crook of the large bassist’s shoulder, his arms draped over his neck and the back of the chair. Murderface’s arms encircled the other’s body, holding him close and in place. Their steady breathing lulling the other into a comforting sleep.
Pickles woke up to his hair being pulled back sharply and a hand slapped over his mouth as he was angrily dragged out of a rather comfy sleep. He was dragged rather unceremoniously to the back room and tossed roughly onto the bed. Letting out a soft yelp at the harsh treatment and the loss of some hair from it being barely let go, he looked up into the angered and blotchy face of Toni. Anger did not look good on the Italian bassist, his normally laid back demeanor destroyed by the still lingering alcohol. His dark hair disheveled, falling into his face yet still unable to obscure the furious glint of light in his eyes. He loomed over the smaller man, not really needing to take the few steps to the edge of the bed for the added intimidation. Pickles scrabbled back on the bed, trying to put some space in between, getting caught up in the blankets his eyes wide in surprised fear. He had only seen Toni angry once before, at that time it was aimed at Sammy who, at the time, had been in charge of the equipment van during a riot. He would have been out of the band, had Bullets not stepped in with the rare words of calm wisdom, insuring that both his good friends remain in the band. A hand snaked out and grasped at the front collar of the tight tee the red head had fallen asleep in.
“You fucking slut. I should have known…” his voice dripped acid as he violently pulled the singer closer, raising his other hand.
“T-t-toni. I . No, it’s not like that!” he threw his hands up in front of his face in mock protection.
“Then what the HELL am I supposed to think!? I wake up to you fucking draped all over him, Fuck you. I know what it looks like!” his voice raised to a yell, pulling his fist back as if to strike. Pickles winced, closing his eyes and turning his head, but the strike never came.
“No.” was all that was said, coming from a gruff and gravely voice. Something that clearly stated displeasure at having being woken and suffering a hang over.
“You no-talent southern hack. Fuck off. This isn’t any of your business.”
The southern no-talent hack that was addressed narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip, his large sausage like fingers dwarfing and engulfing Toni’s fist, holding it back. He didn’t need to say anything more, his anger was present in his features; jaw set back, clanged in rage, his eyes darkened to a piss stained color, eye brows knotted casting shadows over the already dark eyes.
“Fffffuuuck YOU!” Toni practically tossed Pickles aside as he swung with his newly freed hand at Murderface while trying to wrench his other hand free not wanting it injured. He hit him square in the side of his jaw twisting his face to the side. Ready to gloat, Toni barely caught the slow motion turn of the other’s head returning to face him again. A new fire of passion burning in the yellow eyes shone through as he quickly and heavily slugged the other in the gut, Murderface tightened his grip as the other hand continued its upward trajectory and falling back down as an elbow to the now doubled over bassist. He was prepared to rain down more hits, and was fully prepared to use his knees and feet, which were now dangerously close to the other’s face.
“Stop, please, doods, no.” Pickles meekly pleaded as he rested his hand on the southerner’s bicep.
Murderface looked wounded by the simple words, his face fell and he lowered his fists. Then as quickly as the look of rejection passed his face hardened back into a state of determined anger, he shoved Toni away from him and stormed out of the small room, causing the whole van to shake. He smashed things on his way out, knocking things to the ground, slamming doors, trying to overturn bolted furniture.
Pickles didn’t let his gaze linger too far on the southerner as he left; rather he tentatively made his way to the side of his bassist. Reaching out he touched his shoulder lightly, a slight groan issued but nothing more. Using what strength he had, he rolled the other over and pulled him into his lap, gently caressing his features careful to avoid the red marks that would soon become bruises. He took this time to explain himself.
“Anthony, dood, I swear nothing happened last night. I was trying to get cinnamon buns and, and … well I just ended up passing out. I guess I passed out on top of him, but our shoes were on and we were fully clothed. ‘Sides, his looks don’t hold a matchstick of a flame to yours.” He smiled sweetly and gently kissed the other’s forehead, wrinkling his nose slightly at the reek of new booze. “You should stop drinking so soon in the day.”
Toni lightly swat at the red-head’s knee, “So says you, the king of substances.” He laughed as he reached his arm up around Pickles’s head pulling him down into another kiss. “I trust you, you know that. I just don’t trust southern hicks. I’m still going to keep an eye on him.”
Murderface made his way to his truck, leaving a trail of destruction in his path. The door was open and the keys had been left in the cup holder, it was something he had always done, and he was extremely lucky that no one had wanted to make off with his vehicle. He drove off, leaving oil stains on the pavement and thick billows of exhaust in the parking lot. He had no idea where he was going or even where he was, but he needed to be away from the world right now. He wanted to kill that dark haired prick, he wanted to knock him down and out; the bassist that he had looked up to and listened to in secret had only become a foil to his life. Self harm wasn’t an option at this point, he needed to get straight to the source and destroy it.
“Schelf abshorbed mother fucker, doshen’t fucking know how good he’sh got it.” He grumbled as he sped down the many zigzagging streets in the city barely noticing the working girls staggering back from a long night, or the bikers that had fallen asleep outside of the bars. He made a double take as he saw a tiny scrawny kid searching over a discarded lump pulling up a rebel flag from the heap. Circling the block he parked his truck along side the curb, scaring the kid off as he stepped out of the tall truck. Murderface made his way over to the lump which he could now tell was a human body, curled up on something, face covered with yet another flag.
“Hey buddy, get up.” He kicked at the person, he figured that anyone who slept with the bars and stars couldn’t be that bad, and would be someone he could complain to. The body humphed as a large arm waved him off, tribal tattoo swirling and twisting its way up. Murderface sighed and rolled his eyes, just his luck that he would find his best friend passed out getting robbed on the street. He kicked at Cameron again.
“Cameron. Get your lazhy asch up and get in the truck. We need you alive for the nexht schow … if there ish a nexht schow.” He muttered the last part to himself.
Cameron pulled the edge of his jacket down giving his friend a hung over glare. “Y’all got me a drink to entice me intah yer truck there? I ain’t think I can get up with out one right now.”
Murderface sighed and mumbled, knowing that his friend was right. He needed a drink as well, looking around he saw a coffee place and set off to get them both some liquid pick me ups.
As he left, Cameron lifted up the jacket exposing a still drunk Sammy clinging to him for warmth. His suspenders and tight pants not really keeping him warm. “We all might want to get up before he gets back.” he received a warm and very drunk smile in response.
“Whatever you say, just lay on that accent.”
“Well I dary say, y’all mighten just wantin’ ta git on up a’fore missah Will comes on back.” He grinned laying on his accent even thicker than normal. He stood up lifting his fellow drummer along with him, wrapping his jacket around the other. Flagging Murderface down as he left the coffee shop he silently explained the sudden appearance of the still drunk member of Snakes n Barrels. The bassist didn’t really care along as he didn’t have to either relegate his coffee or have to get another. It seemed that the other was content enough with staying mildly drunk.
The three of them wandered the crisscrossing streets of Dallas with minor difficulties finally finding the hotel. By the time they got back. Lee was already up and smoking in the parking lot. She waved and greeted them as they pulled in, the truck rattling as it parked and the engine clicked at it cooled down.
“Heyah boys. Glad to see you all were found alright after last night, ‘cause we got one more show here. Then we head out again. Oh, Candynose, you might want to speak with your manager, I think he thinks yer dead.” She took a drag on the cigarette, the end glowing up, blowing out a thing stream of smoke.
“Happens after most shows. One time he thought he had died and was trying to convince us why we needed a new manager because zombies didn’t plan things out right.” The blond giggled as he passed her, pausing to reach out and brush back her bangs. “You sure you don’t want me doing your hair for tonight?”
“Noooo thanks.” She pushed him gently past her chuckling as he left them, she returned the cigarette back to her mouth as she turned around in time to catch Cameron slipping a soft pack of Marlboros into his front pocket. “Need a light Cam?” she offered a flickering flame form a beaten zippo. He muttered a thanks from around his own drag as he leaned against the wall joining Lee. Murderface was sullenly sitting down on the ground, his back against the wall playing with his knife. The spinning blade glinted in the sunlight and looked more like a favorite bauble than a potentially deadly weapon. The three of them remained in silence for some time before Shannon joined them with a pot of coffee.
“Morning. Coffee?” she offered, pouring fresh brew into the empty cups of Cameron and Murderface and filling two up for herself and her sister. “After the show tonight we’re all off to the next stop on the tour. Oswald said something about Florida, but he said that last time, and well, here we are. Texas.” She explained waving her free hand out across the parking lot, gesturing at the buildings around them, at the city.
“Will, you think that the bikers will follow?” Lee asked as she put out her cigarette and swapped it for coffee.
Letting the silence drag on for a while longer the bassist finally put his knife away and stood up to join the others. “Who knowsh? Maybe schome of them will. I am their leader scho I guesch I could make them…”
They spent the rest of the day talking like they were on the Jones’s porch, only with more dead air between topics and a listless type of boredom now that they didn’t know the town or what to do in it. Pickles and Toni showed up into the afternoon, the Italian glared at his southern counter receiving an acidic glare back. The red head took on an air of oblivion with his crooked smile and jaunty walk until they had entered the building out of the southern’s views, where he struck out and smacked the taller man and spoke with a harsh tone.
“Stop that! Be cool, chief. I like these guys, and you’ve had your say already.”
“And I don’t like that.” Toni pouted, stopping in the hall only feet away from here the remainder of the band was. He could never figure out why they even bothered with hotel rooms when they had a perfectly good tour van, often forgetting that the bus was never clean and only had the one bed and one couch.
“You can’t keep me from making friends, you ain’t my keeper Toni. And I get enough of you guys that you’re not friends, family maybe, you guys are the band! But I want friends, real friends, people who don’t know every fucking little thing about me, you know guys I can get high with shoot the shit with and not have to see at the end of the day.” He spun away from the taller man pushing him gently as he opened the door and walked in on the remainder of the band just sitting around. Bullets was surrounded by a light haze at the moment and the whole room reeked of weed, stupid smiles plastered on their faces. Pickles didn’t need to ask before the joint was passed into his fingers, taking a slow drag he asked “So what do you guys think about the warm up band?”
“The Confederate Rising?” Bullets spoke slowly and slurred. “They’ve got a different sound, but I like them, they’re cool in my book.” He leaned back to back with Candynose who looked over both of their shoulders, his blue eyes obscured with thick blond hair.
“I like them. They’re like friends we’ve always known but never met, you know?”
“Them? My idea, a great idea, they’re gold. But they have different audiences.” Oswald put in his two cents, and the only thoughts that made any sense at the moment and would likely be the last coherent thoughts for a while as he pulled a small sheet of what looked like stickers from out of his pocket.
“There you go Toni, yer out voted, they stay.” He flopped onto the bed passing off the joint. The pre-gaming for the show was soon to be ritualistic for them. Arguing, smoking, then playing to the crowd.