Gwyn (lude) wrote in dethslash, @ 2009-02-24 12:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic-lude, fic-pickles/murderface, fic-r |
Title: Copacetic, Chatper
Author: lude
Rating: R
Warnings: None for this one
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.
Previous Chapter
Murderface's apartment smelled like … well, Murderface, plus several years worth of accumulated beer, cigarette and dope smoke, stale pizza and fast food. It was filthy, but mostly in the way that all apartments owned by 18-year-old males were - dirty clothes everywhere, unwashed dishes in the sink, and a fine patina of grease and dust on almost everything.
Pickles felt at home already.
Then there was the porn. And there was a LOT of porn. Murderface had it stacked up the way nerds stacked paperback sci-fi; one pile reached an impressive four feet in height. Weirdly, these stacks were not messy, and Pickles would find out later that they were meticulously ordered according to content and kink. The boy was so impressed he wasn't even sure what to say after Murderface had let him in to the dingy studio apartment and showed him around, which mostly involved pointing out the bathroom from just inside the door.
"Wow," he said finally. "Pretty fuckin' cool."
Murderface smirked, and set his base down carefully next to the creaky mattress which apparently served for a bed. "It'sch all right," he allowed, and gestured for Pickles to shut the door behind him. "You're gonna have to shleep on the floor, though."
"Yeah, that's okay," Pickles agreed easily. He set down his duffle bag on a small square of available floor. He’d slept rougher lots of times, by now.
The bassist fetched a couple of beers from the fridge, and tossed one to Pickles, who caught it neatly, then slumped on the small loveseat. Murderface sat down on his mattress, absently pulling off the bottle cap with his teeth, while Pickles had to resort to the church key in his pocket.
Then there was a silence, while they both drank. It filled up the room, an awkward kind of quiet that made it very obvious that Murderface wasn't used to entertaining guests.
They both spoke at once.
"Hey, have ya got any-"
"Wanna get high?"
The redhead blinked, then answered quickly. "Yes!"
Murderface chuckled, and suddenly everything seemed relaxed again. He got up to go dig in his closet, nearly causing an avalanche of porn. He pulled out a small, greasy baggie half full of weed, and dug the rolling papers from his pocket. It didn't take long for him to have a lumpy bomber joint rolled, which he passed to the red-head, along with his lighter.
Pickles toked up happily, feeling a wave of contentment wash over him as he blew out a stream of sticky smoke. He liked weed. It was like comfort food – familiar and nostalgic. He didn't think he'd ever not want to smoke pot. From the way his head swam, he knew this was some good shit, too.
"This is nice, dood," he said, grinning up at the ceiling and passing the joint back.
"Yeah, well. I grow it myshelf," Murderface replied, a bit smug.
"Where do you have room to grow it in here?" Pickles asked, surprised.
The other man jerked his thumb at the tiny closet door on the other side of the room as he sucked on the joint as well, passing it back lazily. It was like that for a few minutes; just two dudes sharing some weed and beer without a care in the world.
"Why've ya got all this porn?" Pickles asked after awhile, grinning over at Murderface.
"Who doeshn't like porn?" the bassist asked.
"Well … chicks. Chicks don't dig it. But … dood. Ya got a lot."
Murderface shrugged. "I need it to practishe."
"Huh?" Pickles scooted so that he could hang his head over the edge of the couch, long red pony-tail spreading out over the dirty floor.
"My bassch," Murderface clarified.
"Oh! Yeah! Dood. Wow. That shit was cool. Ya know that, right? It was really cool. I never even hearda anyone who could do that," Pickles said, looking at an upside down Murderface. He looked weird from this angle, and Pickles had a hard time reading the other man's facial expression. Sleepy, maybe.
"I gotta practishe a lot," Murderface said. "It took me for-fucking-ever to learn how to do that schit."
"How did ya even figure that out? I mean, ta play the bass with yer dick?"
The other man shrugged again. "Dunno, jusht sheemed cool. Like, shlap bassch. That schit is hard to do. So I learned how to do that, caushe I had nothin' better to do."
"How come?" Pickles asked, curious.
"That'sh what I did in shchool," Murderface explained. "I shmoked dope and played bassch."
"And ya graduated? How th' hell did that happen?" Pickles asked.
"I told the prinshipal I'd cut out hish fucking eyesh. Sho he let me."
That got Pickles attention. He sat up again, whoaing at the sudden wave of light-headedness. Then he turn to stare at Murderface. The bassist was just sitting there, smirking a little, but mostly looking blasé about the whole thing. "Ya threatened th' principal? And ya didn't get kicked out?" That was beyond impressive, that was … Insane.
"Nah." Leaning over, Murderface pulled a six-inch butterfly knife from his boot and flicked it open deftly. It looked delicate in his thick fingers, but he held it like he knew what to do with it. "My dad ushed to be a cop. I kinda got a free passch a lot."
"Even though he … uh .. "
"Killed my mom with a chainshaw. Yeah." Murderface had started idly running the tip over the back of his other hand, leaving thin red lines where it scraped the skin. "I guessch they felt guilty, or shomefing."
"That's fucked up." The more he heard, the more Pickles was in awe. This guy … he'd lived a total rock and roll life! Like Iggy Pop or Sid Vicious. You couldn't buy that shit. The red-head couldn't help but feel a little inadequate. Yeah, his parents sucked, and yeah, there were tornados in Wisconsin and shit, but nothing like this. "You musta got real good."
"At threatening the prinshipal?" Murderface asked, passing the joint on again. It was almost burned down to a stub, now, and the smoke was harsh, hot, and choking. Pickles took a drag anyway.
"No, playin' bass."
"Oh, yeah. Shure," Murderface agreed. "I play better with my dick than my hand though, for the shlap bassch schtuff. I play normal otherwishe, pick-lessh." He raised one stubby hand to show off the calluses on his fingers.
A sudden thought struck Pickles, and he started giggling. "Have ya … have ya got calluses on yer dick, too?"
Murderface glared for a brief moment, but the pot seemed to have mellowed him, because he snorted after a moment. "Wanna shee?"
"No! I mean, I don't wanna see another dood's dick," Pickles protested, his eyes drawn right to the crotch of Murderface's jeans. "That'd be … weird."
"You ashked," the bassist pointed out, a touch sullen.
"I know, I jest … do ya?" Murderface remained stubbornly silent, until Pickles admitted, "Yeah, okay, lemme see. But jest 'cause I wanna know." In truth, it wouldn't have bothered him that much with his friends, but this guy was different, and not just because Pickles had only met him today.
Murderface's lips curled up in triumph, and he unzipped his jeans. The boy tried not to watch this happening too intently, but he could hardly help it. There was some adjusting, and then the man pulled out his cock through the flap in his underwear. It was smaller than Pickles remembered, unerect.
"I can't – " Pickles crawled off the couch to peer at the thing between Murderface's legs, embarrassment forgotten in the moment of burning curiosity. He did! He did have calluses! Or what looked like them, on the underside of the head. He put his hand on the other man's knee to steady himself as he leaned in more to peer even closer. That was so weird, there were these paler bumps, like a collar around Murderface's dick and –
The thing twitched.
Pickles started violently. He hadn't been expecting it to move, and his surprise sent him sprawling back onto his ass. The bassist snorted at him as he quickly tucked his cock back into his pants. His head was tipped forward again, so that he was hiding behind his hair, but Pickles could see a hint of red on the flash of cheekbone that was revealed briefly.
"Yer dick jumped," the boy said stupidly.
Murderface didn't say anything for a moment. Pickles wondered if he was embarrassed that he'd taken it out in front of a relative stranger. He couldn't see how he would be, if he played in front of people at the bar all the time. Maybe he just didn't like people to see it flaccid. It was a lot less impressive then. Pickles would probably be embarrassed about that, too. He didn't have a real big dick, either.
"I got control over it," the bassist said, finally.
"Huh?"
"I can make it move," Murderface explained. "That'sh how I can play with it. Otherwishe I'd jusht be ushing my hand to hit my bassch with it." He looked up again, his expression once more superior and slightly smug. "Mosht people can't do that."
"I sure as hell can't," Pickles admitted, impressed all over again. "Wow, shit."
"That'sh why I have the porn," the bassist went on to explain. "I have to practishe when I've got a hard-on, or it doeshn't work."
Pickles nodded slowly. That made sense. "Ya gat any more weed?" he asked. "Oh, wait, though, how come ya can do it at th' bar, if ya ain't got a stroke mag?"
Murderface looked briefly uncomfortable. "Well, I jusht think of a chick. If there'sh a chick there, or from TV or shomefing."
Pickles noted absently that Murderface seemed to get incrementally more awkward when there were a lot of esses in his speech. He wondered what it would be like, to not be able to talk straight like that. "Oh, okay, I get it. Or ya think about the stuff here?"
"Yeah, shomefing like that," Murderface muttered, busying himself with rolling another joint.
"Ya play pretty good by yerself, too. I mean, with yer fingers. Yer good with those. I mean … " Pickles stopped, realizing how stupid he was sounding. "I just play th' drums. I wanna learn guitar, though. I'm tryin' ta. Ya can't carry a drum kit around with ya."
"Schit, that would shuck," the other man agreed, then asked, eyebrows raised, "Where the hell are you from, anyway?"
"Wiscahnsin," Pickles answered, a little dispiritedly. "Way th' fuck away."
"What are you doing all the fuck way over here, then?" Murderface asked.
"I had ta get out o' there," Pickles said vehemently. "It was fuckin' Nowheresville. I lived in this shithole called Tomahawk. Everyone there sucked. I want ta play rawk music, be a musician, ya know, start a band an' shit. Ya can't do that in Wiscahnsin."
"But you can here?" Murdeface asked, amused. He licked the paper on the joint to seal it up neatly.
"Nah. Well, I dunno. I mean, yer doing it, right?"
"You mean Beatloaf?" Murderface shrugged. "Ain't my band. I'll play with whoever."
"But yer the' star!" Pickles protested, completely forgetting how fascinated he'd been by the guitarist earlier. Murderface clearly had the most talent, in his mind.
The bassist snorted. "Are you kidding me? Nah, it'sh Pete'sh band. He jusht needed a basshisht, and we both know thish guy Dave that I wash in a band with a year ago, and sho he brought me in. I don't really know thoshe guysh. They jusht think the cock shlap thing ish funny."
"I bet they couldn't do it," Pickles said darkly, taking offense on behalf of his new friend.
"No sschit," Murderface snorted. "Look, that's jusht how it goesh. You work with whoever needsh you, unlessh you wanna start your own band. And I don't like shong-writing." The bassist looked away at that last, like he was embarrassed about something.
"Really? Oh, I love that part! I mean, I wrote a whole buncha shit at home. But ya can't be a band-leader if yer a drummer. Well, there's that bald guy. But that's nat rawk music," Pickles said, in disgust.
"You can write mushic?" Murderface asked, clearly surprised.
"Oh, sure," Pickles said easily. It was one of his better ways to relieve boredom. "Hey, if I start a band, ya wanna be in it?"
The bassist snorted, but the corners of his lips quirked up a little. "Shure, why the hell not?"
"Oh, dood, that'd be great," Pickles enthused. "Best fuckin' band ever. We'd make millions."
"It doeshn't work like that," Murderface said cynically, but Pickles paid him no heed.
"It'd prahbly take, like, a year. Awhile, anyway. An' I gatta learn th' guitar better. But we get a couple a more guys, it'll be awesome."
"Uh-huh." Murderface just shook his head, though he had an odd expression on his face. "You let me know when that worksh out for you."
Pickles just grinned at him. "Yu'll see. We'll be in fuckin' Rollin' Stone." He sighed, leaning back, as he let his favorite fantasy rise to the surface: him, on a huge arena stage, lights, and the roar of hundreds of thousands of screaming fans. Nice..
Murderface listened to Pickles talk about his big dreams with an odd expression on his face. Part envy, part bitterness. "Yeah, of coursh, you can think about doing all that schtuff," he said gruffly.
"Huh?" Pickles raised his eyebrows, confused.
"You're young. Good-looking. I bet people are fucking lining up to have you in their band. Bullschit. It’sh all bullschit." Murderface sunk down into his chair, scowling. The heavy brows that added so many years to his face drew together sharply. "Rock don't work that way."
"Well, how does it work?" Pickles asked, a bit defiantly. He was tired of people telling him to give up on this stuff!
"The way it worksh, ish you put in your time. It doeshn't matter how good you are, or how hard you work, you jusht put in your time like everyone elshe, and if you're lucky, real lucky, someone will notishe. But only if you're real fucking lucky, and you look exactly right. You got a schitload of rabbitsh feet?" the bassist asked bitterly.
"Jesus," Pickles remarked, blinking. The guy was so damn cynical, and yet he was only a few years older than the red-head? No fucking way.
"Fuck you," Murderface said gloomily. "Maybe you will make it. I don't fucking know. But if you do, it'sh not gonna be becaushe you're great."
Pickles frowned and toyed with the ends of his hair. "Well, some people make it," he muttered defensively.
"Yeah. Shome people got big L.A. connectionsh and schit. Or they're not ugly and a fucking basshisht and shtuck in a schithole in the booniesh." Murderface crossed his arms over his chest and sunk down even lower in his chair.
Oh. So that was the deal. Pickles was no teen psychotherapist, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on here. "Hey, dood, I'm sahrry-"
"Oh, schut up," Murderface snapped. He seemed determined to be in a bad mood. "You don't know what it'sh fucking like. I went there, you know. L.A. I hate that town. Fucking hate it. Buncha blond asshholesh. But they wouldn't shee me, oh no! Becaushe I'm the ugly one that lisshpsh."
"Woah," Pickles said mildly.
"Yeah. Fuck 'em." The bassist's expression was murderous. But he also looked a lot like a ten year old kid who hadn't been allowed to play with his older brother's friends, despite the impressive mustache.
It was weird, but Pickles found the expression strangely endearing. He was pug ugly, but Murderface was a pretty good bassist as far as the red-head was concerned, and he discovered he wanted to soothe the other man's feelings and bring back that smug smirk.
"Yeah, but everyone knows th' shit comin' outta L.A. is balls, dood."
Murderface looked up, surprised. " … what?"
"Corporate bullshit. Washington D.C.'s th' fuckin' place. Minor Threat's outta there, an' Bad Brains, too. Hardcore stuff. It's mostly East Coast." Pickles didn't know if Murderface was into the punk scene at all, but it might appeal. "An' Chicago!"
" … yeah?" Murderface raised his eyebrows, expression lightening just a touch to curiosity as opposed to unrelenting gloom and doom.
"Yeah, ya gat Black Raygun and th' Mentally Ill, all sortsa good shit." Pickles smiled encouragingly. "Seriously heavy, none a this arena crap."
"Yeah … yeah, I guessh sho." Murderface sat up a little, pushing some of his hair out of his face.
"Ya guess so? Jesus! I know so!" the red-head declared. "I bet ya'd be fuckin' awesome doin' that kinda music."
"Maybe," the bassist allowed, a little grudgingly.
"I mean, ya could prahbly play jest about anythin' … "
"Yeah. I maybe could," Murderface said slowly. "I like th' heavier schit. Edgier schtuff. Black Flag, Overkill … Motörhead. Motörhead is fuckin' amazing. Lemmy Kilmisshter … " Murderface got an almost blissful expression on his face. "He'sh my goddamn hero. And Shlayer! Have you heard theshe guysh? Sschow No Mercy, heavy album. Really heavy. Thrasch, that'sh where it'sh at."
Pickles grinned, pleased at how successful he'd been at luring Murderface out of his bad mood. "Oh, dood, yeah. In San Francisco, have ya heard this stuff? Ya like thrash, that's where th' really good music is … "
It was only a matter of moments before the two boys were throwing bands back and forth, and Pickles pulled out a couple of copied tapes he brought along in his duffle. And then Murderface was eagerly digging out a bootleg of some band called "Legacy" that a cousin had heard in Eugene, and the little apartment was filled with heavy, tinny guitar riffs and the nasal voice of a guy who sounded a lot like Bon Scott. They played music back and forth at each other for hours, each trying to top the other, except when they had to stop and talk excitedly about some guitar line or a really bad-ass sounding vocal track.
When Pickles finally passed out, the sun was creeping in past the dirty Venetian blinds. He stared stupidly up at the dust motes and residual smoke eddies that were lit with the soft yellow rays, dancing and made almost beautiful, and smiled.