Gwyn (lude) wrote in dethslash, @ 2009-02-16 13:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic-lude, fic-pickles/murderface, fic-r |
Title: Copacetic, Chatper 1
Author: lude
Rating: R
Warnings: Thar be dick in this chapter! But no sex.
Characters: Pickles, Murderface
Summary: A sixteen year old Pickles meets an eighteen year old Murderface, in the dim days of the early eighties.
Author's notes: This is an unfinished story I've been working on for around a year now. Probably lots of you have seen it before, if you're on dethslash or y!gallery, but I've never put it on any journal sites, so I figured I'd do it on this comm.
It was wild. It was the craziest, most fucked-up, most awesome thing he'd ever seen in his life, short as it was, and Pickles was rooted to the spot as he watched it.
The guy could play the bass with his dick.
You wouldn't have known it to look at him. At least Pickles wouldn't have, and hadn't, when he'd walked into the bar.
Flashback to an hour and a half ago.
Pickles was only 16 years old, but the guy at the door didn't care. They never did, in these pissy little joints in these backwater towns; towns just like the one he'd been escaping from for the last three months. When he set out on the road, he never expected to end up in Butt-fuck, Oregon, but here he was, and he was down to his last five dollars, after the buck fifty for a beer.
He'd come in, lured by the promise of live music. It was usually cover bands in these kinda places, but Pickles didn't care, as long as there was a real band on the stage. The Farmhouse didn't exactly have a stage, but they had a corner of hardwood flooring for the band ("Beatloaf – Tu-Fr st rting at 8") and outlets for the amps and some really god-awful fucking acoustics.
When the red-head had come in, they were setting up. Four piece. Mexican guy with a baseball hat on the drums, and some moony looking dude with blond hair doing vocals. Pickles could barely see the bassist's face behind the screen of thick, unwashed curls, but he wasn't really interested. The one he really wanted to watch was the lead guitarist, a cool, super skinny guy smoking a rollie as he set up his amp. Pickles could play guitar. He wanted to be in a band so bad he could taste it, like the clinging tarry flavor of government weed.
He watched the guitarist's hands jitter back and forth over the strings while he was tuning, and the glitter of flea-market rings as he pushed a sheaf of dark hair out of his face. The guy was probably on ten kinds of drugs, which was so cool. Like meth and cocaine and crack and weed and speed and heroin … his mind reeled. That would be him some day, damn it! He was so engrossed with watching the guitarist that he missed it when a fight almost erupted next to him. He was dimly aware of raised voices, but the whole thing was over by the time he figured out to turn his head to look.
It was the bassist guy, pounding his fist on the bar. "Pisch off, cunt-rag!" Spittle flew in time to the thumping.
"Fuck you, Murderface," the woman behind the bar said, bored. She had already turned her back on him, and the man glared impotently at her, hands clenched into fists.
"I schould jusht go schlit my wrishtsh! You'd like that, wouldn't you! Bitcsh!" Man, the guy was hairy. And his thick arms were covered with scars and fresh cuts, and Jesus, he stunk.
"Whatever." The dismissal clearly infuriated the bassist, and he let out a loud, shrieking kind of scream before stomping off back to the dance floor. He picked up his bass and sullenly started plucking at the strings, discordant jangling filling the bar. The blond guy hissed something at the bassist, who spit at him, pug nose wrinkled up, then just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.
Pickles shook his head, sipping on his beer. He had to make it last; it might be his last beer for awhile if he wanted to eat today. Of course, he didn't have to eat. And that would be three more beers! Unless he could get someone to buy something for him. In the bigger cities, sometimes there were chicks with money who'd buy a guy a beer if he smiled at her enough and told her she was foxy. But these small towns were usually pretty dry, and there weren't any chicks of the right age in the bar tonight anyway.
He was shit out of luck, with nowhere to stay tonight, either. He guessed he'd be outside again tonight, but it was getting pretty cold for that kinda thing. He was feeling pretty gloomy by the time the band started up, but as always, the music pulled him outside of his head and back solidly into the present.
They weren't bad, these guys. Not great, either, and the vocalist sang in a reedy falsetto that was just plain annoying. Fucking Geddy Lee wannabe. But the drummer was solid, and so was the bass, surprisingly. Pickles didn't expect that guy (what was his name, Murderhead? What kind of name was that?) to be any good, but the rhythm was good, steady. And the guitarist was exactly what he expected, completely cool and flash and everything Pickles wanted to be.
The boy watched the guitarist's fingers fly over the fretboard during the bridge of some forgettable (but original!) song, his rings sparkling in the shitty lighting. He felt himself melding with the music in a sort of trance. It had been the only thing that could bring him out of his crappy life in crappy Wisconsin, when the weed and alcohol didn't do it. It was happening now – it didn't matter that the sound mixing was totally off, that the lyrics were insipid, or that here and there the guitarist was fucking up. It was music, live and loud and raw, and Pickles was gone into it. Two, three, four, five songs. Three more originals, one sad attempt at "Anarchy in the U.K" (what the fuck?), and then this Sabbath cover.
He felt a slight dip of disappointment when the guitarist stopped, and the drumming went to a simple backbeat. The singer stepped back, settled against the wall with his beer, and then that hairy bassist stepped up. There should have been a spotlight, but not here. He stood with his legs wide apart, his bass slung real low. And then the dude unzipped his jeans.
It broke the trance. Pickles blinked, wondering what the hell was going on. Was it a punk thing? Was the guy gonna start pissing on the audience, or was it a kind of "fuck you" gesture? He watched in fascination and mild revulsion, and noticed that the few people around him were looking over, as well. Most of them had expressions of mild interest, but not surprise, like they'd seen the show before.
Pickles looked back to the bassist, and saw that he had taken his dick out, now. It was dark, but the redhead could tell that this guy had kind of a fat dick, of a respectable length. His eyes widened when he realized it looked longer because it was hard. Holy shit! He was seeing his first erect cock on another guy in person in his whole life! He found himself shrinking back, hoping he hadn't stumbled into some fag bar by accident. Christ!
The bassist wasn't looking at anyone, though. He just grabbed his dick roughly, and tipped his bass at an odd angle, fingers still on the frets. His brow furrowed in concentration, and then his dick twitched sharply. It played a note Pickles couldn't help it, he leaned forward to peer closer.
Another note. And another. It wasn't exactly a tune, but the guy was playing the bass with his dick! Pickles jaw dropped. He never even heard of something like this, and imagining his own dick against metal guitar strings sent a shudder through him. How was the bassist doing it? Good fucking god!
He just stared. And stared. And stared.
And now it was a tune. The dick would twitch heavily and more of the music would jump out, and Pickles saw, now, that the bassist was biting his bottom lip in intense concentration. He had a gap in his teeth, the boy noticed randomly, and then he saw the sweat that had sprung up on the man's forehead. He was turning red, and his lip was pulling up from his teeth with the pain of it.
The bassist had a five hundred yard stare going on, but as he pulled in a hissing breath through his teeth, he looked out at the audience for the first time. He scanned, looking for something, and suddenly those eyes fell upon Pickles. The guy was staring at Pickles while he played his bass with his dick. And then he smirked.
Pickles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It was like his whole abdomen clenched, then released, fluttering. His mouth dropped open slightly, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face. His first thought was, Oh god, this is a gay bar! and he second was, Why is he looking at me? followed by the third.
He's still playing his bass!
His stomach clenched and fluttered again, and he touched his tongue to his upper lip nervously. The stare was too intense, and he felt like the whole bar was now looking at him. Just at the moment he thought he'd have to turn and run to the bathroom, the bassist switched his eyes to the bar. He sneered at the bartender, and finished with a run of notes, accepting the smattering of applause that followed with his pants still open.
Pickles clapped the loudest and hardest.
He spent the next forty minutes just staring at the bassist. He watched the band break down their instruments and put things away in cases. He watched the care the guy showed towards his instrument, a battered Rickenbacker 4001 with cigarette burns on the headstock, placing it reverently in an even more battered and taped up case, before getting a pitcher of ice from behind the bar to pour down the front of his pants. Pickles winced in sympathy as Murderface (it was Murderface, he'd asked the chick behind the bar) hissed, biting down hard on his lip again. He watched as the man got a beer, scowling at the bartender briefly, then sat down near the drummer and exchanged a few brief words before settling back to glare out at the bar.
It was the opportunity Pickles had been looking for.
The boy stood up, smoothed his long frizzy red hair back in vain, and approached. "Uh, hi," he offered creatively, and tried for a confident smile. It must have come out as something else entirely, because Murderface gave him a weird look.
"What do you want?" the bassist asked, eyeing Pickles up and down with an odd mix of derision and interest.
"Uh, I just wanted to tell you, uh … um. ThatwasthemostincrediblethingI'veeversee
"What? Schpeak up, kid!" Murderface told him, squinting at the redhead.
Pickles took a deep breath, determined to speak at a reasonable pace this time. "That was … um, dood, that was the most incredible thing. Ever. Uh, that I ever seen. When ya played the bass. With, ya know. Gawd. Ya know, with your dick. It was fuckin' awesome. Dood. I mean, it was awesome anyway, but when ya. Yeah. Anyway."
The bassist was giving him a speculative look when Pickles glanced up again. The boy noticed that he had the weirdest eyes he'd ever seen; so pale, bright green they seemed almost yellow. Like a fuckin' werewolf! he thought, startled.
"-if you want," Murderface was finishing, and Pickles realized he'd been staring longer than he thought. He blushed again, and noticed the smirk that twisted up the bassist's lips. Goddamn his Irish-American skin!
"Uh, huh?" he asked.
Murderface snorted. "Schit down," he ordered, and Pickles obediently dropped into a chair next to the other man. "You want a beer?"
"Fuck yeah!" Pickles said, brightening.
Murderface ordered another PBR for the boy, then pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jeans jacket, offering them. Pickles took one eagerly, then started patting himself down for a lighter. Before he could find his Bic, however, the bassist held out his own lighter, already lit. It was one of those ones with the bikini clad girl on it that you could turn upside down and she'd get naked. Pickles grinned appreciatively, leaning forward to let Murderface light his cig. It was a little queer, but he figured as long as he was getting a beer out of the deal …
He was caught by those eyes again, though. The bassist had a heavy brow and really evil looking eyes. They were giving him a look that Pickles couldn't interpret, and it took him a moment before he remembered to suck on his cigarette to get it lit.
"What'sch up with you?" Murderface asked, frowning.
"Oh, uh. It's just. Dood, you've got really weird eyes, ya know?"
Instead of being offended, the older man sniggered. "Pissch colored!" he said proudly. "Fucking A right they are."
"Yeah, I guess. Dood. You're cool with that?"
Murderface shrugged, and lit his own cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. "What'sch not to be cool wif? Who the hell are you, anyway, kid?"
"Me? Oh, uh. Hey, I'm not a kid!" Pickles protested belatedly. "I'm 21. I got an ID right here … "
"You're younger'n me."
Pickles frowned. No shit, Sherlock, he thought, then realized he didn't know exactly how old the other man was. Big, bushy mustache, slightly tobacco stained. Callused, rough looking hands. "Yeah, but dood, yer like-"
"Eighteen," Murderface supplied, then sniggered again at the shocked expression on Pickles' face.
The boy leaned in, whispering, "Gawd, what if they hear you! You'll get kicked out!" He wasn't sure he believed the guy, anyway.
Murderface wrinkled up his nose. "Nah. No one caresh. You gonna anshwer the damn quesschtion?"
Pickles had to think before he realized what the other was referring to. "Oh! Yeah, okay. I'm Pickles." He held out a hand, smiling proudly.
"What kind of name ish Picklesh?" the bassist asked, but he shook, all the same. Pickles could see the scars and scabs better up close, under all the hair.
"What kinda name is Murderface?" he countered.
The other man frowned. "It'sch my lasht fucking name and what do you want to schay about it?" he demanded, prickling. "You got shomefing you wanna shay? Maybe about my fasche, too? You think I'm ugly and I got a schtupid name? That it?"
Pickles blinked at the sudden venom from the other man. He glanced around, thinking Murderface was making an awfully big scene, but was surprised to find that no one was paying attention to them, not even the drummer at the next table. "Uh … "
"Well, I'm scho shorry I don‘t fit your high shtandardsh for … for namesh, Picklesh!" The man crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, looking away. Maybe he really was 18, after all.
"I … look, dood, Pickles is just a nickname. And there's nothing' wrong with Murderface I was just, uh … interested. Interested in where ya got it ya know? Like if it was a nickname, too," Pickles talked fast, trying his best to look conciliatory and interested. "Because yer a bad-ass or something'."
Murderface squinted, lending an even more evil look to his already glowering features, and Pickles didn't have to fake the look of intimidated worry that crossed his face. [i]They guy cuts up his own fuckin' arms! What if he's got a knife or somethin'? Gawd, what if he cuts me up? …. Still a fuckin' good bass player, though.
Much to his relief, however, Murderface‘s expression relaxed after a moment, and he broke into a broad grin, displaying the large gap in his teeth that Pickles supposed must be the source of his lisp. "Bad-asch. Yeah, that'sh me!" He clapped Pickles on the back and leaned in. "Old family name," he explained. "My family'sch kinda fucked up."
Up close Murderface still smelled pretty bad. Like old sweat mingled with fresh and beer and cigarettes, a peculiarly adult smell that made Pickles want to sneeze. But at the same time, there was something cool about it. Probably most rock stars smelled that way, he decided, and Murderface was going in that direction for sure.
"Anyway, my firsht name'sch William," Murderface continued, and Pickles smiled. "Which ish a fuckin' stupid pissch-bag name, and no one callsh me it, ekschept my fuckin' gramma."
"Yeah, me, too," Pickles agreed, finally sitting back to drink his beer, relieved that Murderface's sudden offense had passed. "I mean, not that my gramma calls me Pickles. I mean, my family's fucked, too. My mom and dad are such douche-bags, ya know? They don't understand anything, and my dickweed brother gets everything. It sucks."
Murderface considered that, then shrugged. "Yeah. My dad killed my mom with a chainshaw and then killed himshelf. With a chainshaw. When I wash a baby."
"Yeah, that sucks- … what?" Pickles really wanted to look unphased, but that was a bit much to digest. "Yer dad killed yer mom and himself with a chainsaw?"
"Yeah." The bassist nodded sagely, then sucked on his cigarette, looking up at the ceiling.
"Holy shit! Wow, uh. Dood. Sorry that happened to ya." They sat in silence for a minute or two, during which time both of them finished their beers.
"Yeah, anywaysch. I ushed to live with my granparentsh, but I got the hell out of there. Asch-holesh." Pickles surreptitiously wiped the spit from his face at Murderface's last epithet.
"Ya live on yer own now?" Pickles asked, sensing an opportunity. At least for the night … and maybe the other man would show him how did that incredible thing with his dick! Pickles turned red again, just thinking about it.
"Yeah, shure. For a couple of yearsh, before I even got out of high shkool." Murderface leaned back, looking at the bar contemplatively.
"Hey, uh, can I ask ya somethin'? Um?"
"Schure, what, kid?" The bassist adjusted the ice soaked crotch of his jeans, looking briefly uncomfortable.
"I don't got anywhere to stay. Tonight, I mean. I'm from outta town. Could I crash with ya? Just fer the night, I wouldn't bug ya or anythin'." Pickles raised his eyebrows and tried for a suitably hopeful and respectful impression. He was afraid he probably came off as pathetic, instead.
Murderface looked him over, wrinkling up his nose as he considered. He seemed a little taken aback by the question. Maybe he doesn't want to have to put a kid like me up, Pickles thought, starting to feel a little desperate. He really didn't want to have to comb the bar for someone else to couch surf with, or, even worse, sleep in a park somewhere.
"Look, I can help ya out with stuff," he offered quickly.
"What kinda schtuff?" Murderface asked suspiciously.
"Anythin' ya want!" Pickles smiled at him, trying his best to look charming and … well, helpful. "I don't care, I'll do whatever. I ain't got nowhere, dood."
The other man immediately turned a dull brick red, thick eyebrows shooting up. "I'm not a fucking fag!" he hissed. The gap in his teeth made it a messy thing.
"I … uh, what?" Pickles asked.
"I'm not a fucking fag! That'sh what your shaying, ishn't it? Well, fuck you! I don't want your fucking favorssch!" The bassist did an odd thing, then – he tipped his head forward so the thick curtains of messy curls fell around his face, obscuring it pretty effectively. "Fuck you!" he repeated angrily.
"Uh, dood." Pickles blinked, trying to recover. "I didn't … uh. I just meant I'd, ya know, help ya around the house or something. Clean some shit, or, like, make a beer run."
There was a silence from the seat next to him, and then Murderface lifted his head slightly, so his self-proclaimed piss-yellow eyes peered out from under the hair. "You … don't think I'm a fag?"
"No. Dood. Why would I even think that? And … hey, I'm not a fag, either! I wouldn't, ya know, like, a give a blowjob for a place to stay. Or anythin'. I mean, maybe I would if I was really, really high. But everyone knows whatever ya do when yer high doesn't count." Pickles grimaced a little, thinking that might be a little too much information, but he wasn't exactly practiced at smoothing ruffled feathers. "Uh, anyway. Yer cool. I didn't mean anythin' bad."
Murderface glared at him for a moment, then finally lifted his head all the way, sniffing. "Yeah, okay. Fine. You can shtay at my plasche for tonight, I guessh. I got my dope back there, anyway."
Pickle's entire face lit up at the mention of dope. Things were looking up! Now if he could just survive William Murderface's wild mood swings, he might be looking at a decent night after all.
"Dood, ya rock! Hey, can I call ya Bill?"
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