Rating: NC-17 (grownups)
Fandom: Metalocalypse and for those about to rock *salutes you*
Summary: What happened to that red headed kid from Wisconsin to turn him into the most brutal drummer the world had ever seen? Sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, but not in that order.
A/N: Warnings: HEAVY DRUG USE. Some non-con hand jobs. Rock. Drummer fangirling. Loads and loads of violence. Rentboy behaviors. You know, it's metal. Written for soundingsea's birthday, and beta'd with brutality by brandil who knows all sorts of fun and dirty stuff. I'm all for concrit and feedback, yo.
Appetite For Destruction
When Pickles was eight, he swiped his brother Seth's Rush album, took a few hits off his pipe - Kiddie Glaucoma was the best disease ever - and lay on the floor staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, trying to pick apart how Neil Peart got such a crisp sound. He wouldn't learn until he was thirteen (and his brother Seth had him in a headlock in front of his friend, giving him noogies until his eyes stung and watered) that Neil played his sticks, Pro-Marc 727s, butt-end out.
When he was eleven, his dad gave him some albums from a group called The Police. He broke every pair of chopsticks in the house trying to figure out how to back-stick like Stuart Copeland. He dumped out his mom's 5 gallon bucket of sugar in the pantry to use its bottom as a snare. She had finally raised her voice to him for that one, and he told her to shut her friggin' mouth, he was getting it, alright? Like, really getting it? That was when his mother joined the Junior League - she became VP and was gone every night - and his father started wearing his earplugs from the shooting range.
At fourteen, Pickles had sold enough weed to buy himself a drum kit, a five-piece cherry red Tama Rockstar, and a Gibson Flying V. He picked up the guitar pretty quickly, too. He wasn't the best, but his fingers were clean and he could keep up with whatever was needed. Now he just needed someone good enough to play with. He decided to start a band. Seth had shown up at the first auditions (his dad had backed out the Astro van to give him room to set up his equipment) with a girl under his arm and drunk as hell. He started mouthing off about how Pickles could just sit back behind his drums and keep the rhythm going, but Seth would be the lead guitarist because they got all the 'tang and because he was the oldest. The girl laughed and shoved Seth playfully. Pickles noticed she had a hand on his ass the whole time.
The thing was, Seth sucked. So did his friends, the guys in his high school's band, some dude that was skateboarding down the street that claimed he could sing... They all friggin' sucked. He saw a flier up by the mall advertising for a lead guitarist/vocalist. The art work looked cool so he checked them out. The band, MelkeziDick PriestHood, turned out to be a Christian rock band. It took all his power to not punch the queers out when the guy on drums acted like he was too cool for Pickles and had on a friggin' John 3:16 tee shirt. Pickles shoved the dude into his kit, flipped them all off, then pissed on the doorway.
Tomahawk, Wisconsin. He had to get out of this stupid town.
At fifteen he quit school. He ran into his principal at the liquor store once, and the principal said how he was making a big mistake, people don't really make it in music, and Pickles just wasn't using his "full potential." Pickles was oblivious to the guy's staring at his sharp hipbones poking out above his lowrider jeans. He figured Mr. Wojzniak was just putting the "pal" in principal when he kept squeezing his shoulder and giving him one-armed hugs. He bought Pickles a fifth of Jack wrapped in a brown paper bag. That guy'd been pretty cool. A douchebag in school, but pretty cool when he weren't wearing no tie.
He started hanging out at Zoo Music during the day; they had decent stock, no Zildjian cymbals, but they did carry Paiste and had some good Gibsons and Fenders. Most of the guys that hung out during the day were burnouts from the local university. They'd jam, smoke weed, drink whatever they could get their hands on, you know. Cool guys. One guy named Tommy started hanging around a lot. He was a few years older than Pickles, so he was the guy that got them in clubs and got the kegs. He had dreams of being a drummer for like, Anthrax or something, which was retarded because the dude was sloppy and routinely off. But he was a decent guy and didn't mind when Pickles was short on cash and he always shared his stash of pills and coke.
Tommy was the one that cooked up the idea of getting bus tickets to L.A. and getting poon, money, and fame, in that order. They had gotten their hands on some meth, Seth's girlfriend had a makeshift lab going in an old warehouse, and were standing around vibrating in the field grass back behind the shop, too high to care about the broken glass or decaying diapers scattered all over. Tommy knew a guy from his days at the community college that was living out there and working for some studio. Pickles had to sell his guitar and drum kit to get the money. Seth claimed he knew a guy who knew a guy and promised that he'd get a good deal for his little bro. He showed up with Pickle's money wearing a new gold watch. The money was a hundred less than promised.
Pickles, sporting a new black eye courtesy of his brother after being challenged on the "missing" money, left Wisconsin when he was sixteen. Actually, he only left eastern Wisconsin. His money had gotten him as far as western Wisconsin. Tommy had shrugged and climbed back on the bus with promises of hooking up when Pickles finally got to California. He had left Pickles with a portion of their "road stash," a few pills, a foil square of coke, and a condom.
He washed dishes in a strip joint for two weeks to earn enough cash to get back on a bus. After three nights of sleeping in a cardboard box, two of the strippers invited him back to their place to spend the night. Thinking he was going to get some hot action, his disappointment was doubled when he realized that not only were they notgoing to screw him, they were lesbians to boot, as most strippers are. But since they let him watch, he thought that maybe he was the luckiest kid on the planet after all. He talked them into wearing Catholic schoolgirl outfits and doing a combined act to "Dr. Feelgood" in which they would make out with each other. Pickles knew what guys wanted to see, evidently, because the girls made money hand over fist. In return they taught him how to back comb and rat his hair (Rave 4 being the preferred hairspray of choice to really keep the hair big,) how to put on eyeliner, and gave him a black bandanna to hold his bangs back. They cut him ten percent of their tips from a week's work.
He stopped off at a music shop before hitting the bus station.
He only had enough money now for a ticket to L.A. and a hot meal. He slung the Gibson Les Paul Gold Top over his shoulder and worked on some lyrics before the bus pulled in. Some creepy business guy with a sweaty face and a shiny, cheap suit kept checking him out. He was dressed too formally to be a truant officer. Pickles put his guitar in its case and carried his duffle bag over his shoulder to the john. He straddled his stuff and unbuttoned his fly at the urinal. Hot breath on his shoulder made him stutter and spray the side of the wall for a moment.
"What'll it be, ten dollars? You touch up that eyeliner, and I'll give you twenty."
"What the -- Jesus Christ, dude!"
Pickles roughly elbowed the guy out of the way and buttoned up. 'You fuckin' coming on to me?"
The businessman smirked. "First time? Just my luck. I'll make it thirty, then."
"Dollars? Fer what?"
The guy was blushing! Pickles noticed the guy had a hard on and freaked out a little. "I ain't suckin' your cock, dude. Fucking... This guy!" He grabbed his gear and high-tailed it out of there before the guy could say anything else.
The bus passed through a whole bunch of towns that all looked the same, sometimes stopping for bathroom breaks, sometimes not. He made sure to lift a couple of Snickers bars anytime they did stop, Slim Jims if the gas station had 'em. Pickles couldn't sleep the second night on the bus. Everyone stank of old people and desperation, and the interior was hot as fuck. He'd been yelled at by some old lady behind him when he'd tried opening his window earlier. He leaned his forehead on the cool glass trying to not look at his reflection. He took the last of the pills - the ones for Tommy's mom's back pain - and drifted in and out. By the time the bus rolled into the L.A. station on the fourth day, he was half-starved and scared to death. He'd never been in a city as large and as dirty as this before. He wasn't sure where Tommy was, he only got his friend's first name and knew he worked for Chrysalis Records.
He slung his duffle over his shoulder and grabbed his guitar case and headed down Sunset, looking for a pay phone. He had thirty-eight cents to his name.
Some crazy guy was yelling into the receiver of the first phone booth he'd come to. After about ten minutes, Pickles realized the guy was just yelling at the phone. Like, because it was a phone.
"Get off the phone, asshole! Dude. Get off the freakin' phone."
The homeless guy started screaming about phones and the government, then shuffled off into an alley. Pickles kicked his bag into the booth and shut the glass.
The phone was broken.
He slammed the receiver down on the rest and punched the glass beside the phone. The glass shuddered, but didn't break. He cradled his hand and kicked his bag out of the booth, not knowing where to go. He figured he might as well wander the Strip and see the sites before he died of starvation. There was no way in hell he was going to call home.
He walked for a few hours and ended up on Santa Monica Boulevard. He passed by a club with some kick ass music playing and a lot of guys dressed like him streaming in and out. Tight, broken in jeans, concert tees ripped up, big hair. Finally, a metal bar. He watched the front door to see if they had any cover charge.
Some dude in crazy bleached jeans and biker boots walked over to him. Pickles immediately acted disinterested, like he was just waiting for a ride.
"How old are you, kid?"
"Six, uh, nineteen? Twenty-one. I'm twenty-one."
"Uh huh. Got any money?"
"Hey, I ain't got nothin' to steal."
"I can see that. Just got here, huh? You hungry? You got a place to stay?"
Pickles ran his hand up the back of his neck and kicked at his bag. He was fucking starving. It had been almost four days since he'd had a hot meal.
"Look. I can see you don't. Why don't you drop the act?" The guy motioned with his chin at Pickles' guitar case. "You play?"
"Yeah, I play."
"You any good?"
"I'm fuckin' awesome."
The guy laughed. "Sure you are. Why don't you come in and play something? We'll just see, won't we?"
Pickles followed him inside trying to not make eye contact with the bouncer. That guy had pulled some queer out of the club for wearing a Winger tee and was efficiently turning the dude's face into something that looked like meatloaf. The bouncer stopped, nodded at Pickles in his beat up Iron Maiden shirt, and went back to work on the guy's face with his meaty fist.
"You know any metal?"
Pickles gaped at him.
"Just checking. Join in with Rick and the guys on this next set. Let's see how well you play."
Pickles opened his case and pulled his guitar out.
"Jesus Christ. And you said you don't have nothing to steal?"
Pickles gave a sideways grin and hopped up on stage. The singer was some dude with teased black hair and more makeup than even Pickles' Gramma wore on Easter. That must be Rick. He had an okay voice, but the bass guitarist was pretty decent. The guy from outside, Jack, made the introductions after their set.
"What's your name, Midwest?"
"Are you fucking kidding me with that name?"
"Are you fucking kidding me with that lip gloss, Jack?"
The bass guitarist laughed softly. Mostly because his face was hidden in a cloud of long curly hair, like Cousin It.
"Alright, Pickles. You're pretty good. You could use some work, though. What do you say about joining these idiots on stage four nights a week, and I pay your room and board upstairs?"
Rick quit primping his bangs and hissed, "What about Bill?"
"Fuck Bill. I'm sure you have already, and he hasn't showed up in a week. I don't pay you guys to show up when you like. You come here, play, and bring in people who'll drink, and lots of it."
Pickles ignored their fight. He was finally going to play rock in a club. He was gonna get paid to play rock in a club. Bullets clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the jungle, man."
It had been two weeks at Jack's place, and that had been about two weeks too long. First of all, the apartment the band lived in was a shithole. If everything wasn't kept in the fridge, and that included toothpaste if you'd had any, rats got into it. The apartment consisted of a large room with three stained and lumpy mattresses on the floor, a couple of cardboard boxes for their things, and a kitchen with a single exposed light bulb in the center. The gas stove worked only if one person pushed the ignition switch down while another person held a match to the pilot light inside. The sink had an odor that wouldn't go away, and the a/c unit didn't work. There was only one bathroom, and Rick was usually in there doing his hair and stuffing his pants.
The night Pickles caught him off guard with a pair of tube socks getting stuffed in his fly was one of the better nights. Rick didn't know how to throw a punch. Pickles did. It was a good thing Rick was so good with makeup; he was sporting a new black eye and busted lip after pulling on Pickles' hair like a freakin' girl.
He had just enough extra cash after Jack took out rent and utilities to get bean burritos from a guy with a pushcart outside every day and enough beer to keep him drunk enough to not care that he lived in a shithole. Sometimes guys at the bar shared their weed, but it was never as good as the government weed he got back home. He needed something harder, but these guys weren't into coke.
Rick liked to X out, and he wasn't the sharing type. Bullets wasn't into drinking or smoking, he was into heroin. He brought back a little balloon the second week.
"Go get me my spoon. It's next to the sink."
Pickles grabbed the burned and bent spoon and squatted down next to Bullets on one of the mattresses. His eyes fixated on the tiny white bubbles. He didn't ask, just held his arm out. Bullets sighed, and Pickles shoved a couple of bucks at him. Bullets tied a belt around his bicep and told Pickles to hold the end in his teeth.
"Just a taste, man, I don't have a lot."
Bullets flicked at the inside of Pickles' elbow and slid the needle in. He watched the clear liquid mix with his blood in the plunger, in and out and then all the way in. He felt his body fill with hot water from the needle site and pulse up to his head with every heartbeat.
"Oh, fuck, dude..."
Bullets grinned, then set himself up. They lay there on the mattress, Pickles sinking into the floor, free falling. After a bit, he started feeling more solid but still altered. That was when Rick came back, wearing new clothes and sporting a big diamond in his ear.
"Pfft, look at the sparkle. Ain't you all pretty? Who'd ya steal that from?"
Rick grabbed a beer from the fridge and ignored them. Bullets laughed quietly, his chest heaving up and down with the effort. "Man, he didn't have to steal nothing. Got a new Daddy, don't you?"
"What? Your dad's here? Dude!" Pickles tried to sit up but his arms kept slipping out behind him. He laid back laughing. "What the fuck're you spending your dad's money on earrings when you could get the fuck out of here?"
"No, no, not his dad, dude, his Daddy. You know. He sucks his cock, lets him fuck him, whatever. And the guy pays him for it. How the hell else are we going to get out of here? It's not like Jack's paying us enough to move on up, man."
Pickles concentrated every ounce on Rick's face. "You let some guy cornhole you? Fer money?"
Rick shrugged. Bullets laughed his almost silent laugh again.
"You, too? What the fucking fuck, dude?"
"No, I top. I fuck them, they don't fuck me. There's a bunch of skanky guys out there lookin' for abuse, man, you don't even know."
"Okay, I can not deal with this right now. I need a beer. I need a bunch of fucking beer." Pickles staggered to the fridge. "Goddammit, Rick, that's my beer!"
Rick rolled his eyes and dug into the back of his jeans. "Here. Keep it. Go get you something clean to wear, too. You reek."
Pickles grabbed the wad of twenties. Jesus Christ. "He gives you this? All of this?"
"No, dumbass. He gives me a lot more than that. That's what's left from last night."
"Holy mother of God. What the fuck are you doing living here, then?"
Bullets sing-songed from his mattress, "He's maaaarried. He likes the thought of some dirty street whore holed up in WeHo, doesn't he, Rick?"
"Shut up, Bullets."
"Awesome come back man, really stellar."
Pickles pulled a half-tee on and some low-rise jeans. His sneaks were about beat to hell. Maybe he could find some decent Vans or some boots at a discount store while he was out. "I'm hitting the bar. You comin', Bullets?"
Pickles found a bar that would serve him without ID and he decided to drink shots in celebration of that fact. The two of them burned through the money pretty fast. Bullets was passed out face first at the bar, so Pickles was left with only the bartender and some dude in a tee shirt and jacket with slicked back hair. The guy had a friggin' pinkie ring, which cracked Pickles up to no end.
The bartender kept giving him two shot glasses every time he ordered. He had thought at first that he was just so drunk he was seeing double, but when he reached for the fake one, it had spilled and the other one stayed upright. The bartender winked at him and wiped up the mess. "Just don't tell my boss, kid."
The jacket tee shirt guy was sitting closer. Pickles pointed at the guy's ring and laughed. "Dude. You in the, what, the mafia or somethin'?"
The guy just smiled and nodded to the bartender. Another shot was set down in front of Pickles. "Man, I ain't even orderin' them, and he's not chargin' me nothin' fer 'em. This is, like, the best bar ever." Pickles was really fucking drunk. Bullet was totally passed out now and sliding off his stool. Pickles laughed and tried to help him, but ended up falling off his own stool and overbalancing into the jacket guy.
"You need some help?"
"No, I'm- Yes. Yes I do." Pickles started laughing and fell against Bullets' back. The guy must have thrown some money down for the tab. He hoisted Pickles up with an arm around his waist. "Your friend. He'll be fine. Come on. Let's get you out of those clothes."
Pickles' head lolled back on his neck and he half-laughed, half-sighed, "Yeah, okay then. You gonna be my daddy, ain't ya?"
The guy barely made it out of the door before he was pushing Pickles against the rough brick wall, his mouth biting and sucking at his neck. "Whoa, whoa... what the, no, dude."
Pickles weakly shoved at the guy, but the world was spinning, his hands wouldn't move when he wanted them to, and this fucking guy was biting on the cord in his neck behind his ear and his fucking hand was on the bulge of his pants and it felt so warm, and Christ, what the fuck?
The dude had ripped open the button fly on Pickles' jeans with one sharp tug and was trying to work his hand into the tight denim. A few russet pubic hairs got caught on the rivets and were pulled out sharply. He opened his mouth to yell and the guy shoved his forearm over it to stifle him.
"Shhh. Cops might come by." The guy spit in his hand and grabbed Pickles' dick. "So young, aren't you? Don't have anyone, huh?" He was fisting his cock pretty fast, licking up his neck before burying his face in Pickles' red mane. Pickles was barely coherent, but his hips couldn't help but move forward.
"The fuck're you... talkin'. What - I ain't no queer." He turned his head away to keep the guy from kissing him. "Uh-- God damn--"
He rolled his head forward and rested it on the guy's shoulder as he came in hot spurts. The guy pulled his hand to his mouth and tasted the come with the tip of his tongue like it was some fucking delicacy.
"I'll be here tomorrow."
The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, adjusted the front of his pants, buttoned his jacket closed and looked around quickly as he headed to his parked BMW.
Pickles leaned back against the building, the bricks digging into his partly bared ass. What the fuck just happened? He dumbly did up the button fly of his jeans and reached down to grab the bills. There must have been fifty bucks there. He stood blinking at his hand when the bartender came out with Bullets and leaned him on the front steps.
"Here. He gave me a twenty to keep you in drinks. I figure you should get half. He gave me a pretty sweet tip on top of that."
"'s go home, man." Bullets was barely audible at this point.
Pickles rubbed his face with the back of his sleeve, shoved his money in his pocket and helped carry/walk Bullets back to their place. Later, when he'd gotten his filthy clothes off and was sprawled on the floor of their place in his underwear, he clutched the bills in his hand. It was almost the same amount Rick had given him earlier.
So, like, he was even. Like nothin' happened. It helped. He finally fell asleep.
TBC... crossposted to SF and Hatredy