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tikificTitle: Husker Du
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Imagining early Dethklok
Warnings: Cursing, some vague suggestion of C/P
And now for something completely different.....
Dunno why this story popped up in my brain, but this is what I wrote off and on during my two days of orientation meetings (remember everybody: germs are bad). I hadn't been able to come up with an idea for a Metalocalypse genfic for a long time, so it was weird to encounter this story. Anyways, this is fondly dedicated to my 88 Honda Civic, the best little car in the whole wide world.
Charles was tired.
Not physically tired, mind. Thanks to many years of competitive fencing, he had built up rather a unholy amount upper body strength, not to mention a trained athlete's level of endurance. He could have played drums all night. If the playlist hadn't been making him slightly crazy. Gunnar knew three chords. And one drum pattern. His original compositions universally reflected this sad fact.
He added a little flourish at the end of the chorus, to an immediate stony glare from the lead guitarist. This decided him. He kept the flourish at the end of every verse and chorus. Artie, their impossibly mellow bassist, who knew all of three notes, agreeably rumbled along, but you could tell it threw Gunnar off. He made even more fingering mistakes than usual.
Charles held a cymbal to stop it vibrating. There weren't a whole lot of people left in the dingy club at the end of the set, as there hadn't been a whole lot of people present for the performance to begin with. Charles had done a rough count in his head, as it wasn't especially occupied with his duties in the percussion section. Despite the meager audience, he suspected Gunnar had some kind of deal with the manager to undercount the door and cut the rest of the guys out on the take.
As usual, none of the other guys seemed to give a shit about this.
"I told you not to improvise," Gunnar snapped at Charles. Oddly enough, despite the lack of audience, Gunnar already had a girl under each arm. Did they just appear out of thin air? Or grow from Gunnar's armpits? "Whaddya think this is, fucking jazz?"
"Obviously not," Charles grumbled. "You guys could use a drum machine for what I do."
"A drum machine would be better looking," sniffed Gunnar. Gunnar knew three chords and one drum pattern. But he was tall and blond. So he was their leader. So everybody laughed at his stupid put down: band and proto-groupies.
Charles put a hand self-consciously through the hair he had stupidly hacked off last month. He had wanted to look tough, but he just sort of looked like himself, with his hair hacked off. "You should let me take a pass on guitar."
"You can't play guitar."
"I know more than three fucking chords," Charles told him. "And I usually manage the fingering."
One of the armpit girls giggled at that.
Gunnar got quiet. Which was usually bad.
"What do I keep you in the band for?"
Charles glared.
"What do I keep you in the band for?" Gunnar repeated.
"Play the drums. And load the van," Charles sighed.
"So. Load the fucking van." Musicians and girls, laughing, made their way off, with only a vaguely sympathetic shrug from Artie. Charles glowered at the bassist. Artie had been sort of a friend before Charles had joined the band. He suspected Artie had served as Gunnar's former target.
He cast his eyes around to the cluttered bandstand. He picked up Gunnar's guitar, which he noticed the asshole hadn't even bothered unplugging. It was nice: vintage. Probably bought with Daddy's money, as there was no way he made enough playing, even skimming the door.
He looked around the darkened club. It was utterly silent.
He tried on the guitar for size, fingering a couple of chords. "You're in a dysfunctional relationship. You deserve better," he told the guitar.
He tried some runs and chords, and then, winding up, thrashed out a bit of Andy Gill's guitar line from What We All Want. His fingers weren't properly calloused, as Gunnar never let him play, so it hurt his fingers, but in a good way. Some day, he thought, he would have a whole team of guys to load the fucking van. And a different team of guys to unload the van!
And his own fleet of vans.
And then his fingers froze.
Hugo Burnham had suddenly joined Andy Gill.
He jerked around, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.
"Don't stop now, dooooood!" someone called from behind the drum kit.
Charles took a closer look, and added a stroke on top of his heart attack. It was Pickles from Snakes and Barrles. There was absolutely no mistaking him. The red hair and that weird accent. He looked a bit worse for wear. He was balding now, and the hair that was left was matted into unkempt little braids.
And, from the smell of him, he was pretty clearly roaring drunk.
"Play da rest!" Pickles urged, tapping impatiently.
Well, Charles could hardly refuse. Especially when Pickles began singing.
Could I be happy wit' someone else?
I need someone t' fill my time!
Charles tried his damnedest to pay attention. It did not escape him that Pickles, a fucking guitarist, was a better drummer than he. No, not just better: he was in a whole different league. And he could sing as well! Charles gripped the guitar neck more tightly even as he felt his daydreams of rock stardom cruelly melt away.
"Dat was brutal, dood," Pickles announced, saluting him with a drag from a long necked bottle. Charles squinted. It was an import beer. That brand was not available at this crummy dive's bar. Did Pickles carry a six pack? Maybe he had a guy who followed him around with beer?
"I know a dood, a guitarist, you should meet him. He's totally brootal!"
"Uh, yeah, that would be good," Charles allowed. Anyone, anyone else would qualify, he thought sadly.
"Wut are yoo doin' now, dood?" Pickles asked. "We'll go see him now! Yoo got wheels?"
"You.... You don't have a car, Pickles?" Charles asked, a bit taken aback.
"Oh, I got plenty o' cars, dood," Pickles assured him. "I jest don' got a license!"
"I have a car but...." Charles began. His thoughts drifted to his current transportation, and he ruefully decided he didn't want Pickles from Snakes and Barrels to see it. Under any circumstances. Ever. "Uh. Sorry. I gotta pack up this stuff," he said, indicating the equipment.
"Is dis yer drum kit, dood?" asked Pickles, skeptically twirling a drumstick in the relevant direction.
"Uh, no. It belongs to some guy in my band." Gunnar's daddy, Charles thought ill-temperedly.
"Eh. Jest leave it den."
"Look, were you around before? You must've heard the guys...."
"Yeh, I heard dem dood! Dey don't say DA MAGIC WURD, did dey?" Pickles asked, suddenly coming around the drum kit and draping a friendly arm around a completely flustered Charles' shoulders. He smelled of incense sticks, sweat, and mystery.
"Uh. I guess not."
"So. Da only solution is, yer goin' clubbin' wit' me!" Pickles concluded, waving his beer for emphasis.
Charles surveyed the instruments. And then he looked at the grinning redhead.
Charles was trying to work as efficiently as possible to eke out a human-sized space in the vicinity of the passenger seat of his 88 Honda Civic.
Pickles was not making the job any easier. Charles wondered if the musician was actually some kind of sprite, sent to live among the humans for a day, as he seemed infinitely curious about nearly everyone.
'Yoo got a lawt o' books, dood!” Pickles observed.
“Uh, yeah. I'm putting myself through law school. Or trying.”
“Yer parents ain't....”
“We're sort of.... Not....”
“Yeh. My parents and me are sort of nawt either. So. Yoo carry all yer books around in case dere's emergency homework?” speculated Pickles, leafing through a contract law manual.
“Uh. Yeah. Something like that,” said Charles.
"OOOOOO! Wut's DIS, dood?" Pickles asked, suddenly tossing away the law book.
"Be careful with that!" Charles warned, grabbing the sword from Pickles' eager hand. "I'm, uh, I was in college on a fencing scholarship," he muttered, with some effort, finding a space in the crowded hatch for the weapon.
"Oh, is dat wut DIS is about?" inquired Pickles, fishing a plaque out of the pile on the back seat.
"Uh, yeah, that was an award," Charles mumbled, handing the plaque as well.
"But DIS ain't a fencin' deal!" noted Pickles, fetching the blade back. “It's like a ninja t'ing.”
"Uh, no, it's actually just an antique. A saber from the Civil War. Just something I keep. I dunno." Charles tried to snatch the sword, but Pickles was now going all Errol Flynn.
"In case yer beset by marauders?" Pickles inquired, nearly slicing Charles neatly in two with a drunken swing.
Charles ducked, and then caught Pickles from the back as the musician overswung and lost his balance. "Yeah," said Charles, deftly grabbing the musician's wrist and prying out the sword. "In case I'm beset by, uh, marauders." He frowned at the sword, and then secured it in the back well away from Pickles' eager reach. He swung the passenger door open wide. "You wanted to go clubbing?" he urged, hoping to distract Pickles from all that was bright and shiny.
"Oh, yeh, ninja dood! I wanted t' show you an awesome singer dood! He's da best! Totally brootal."
"Oh. I had thought it was a guitarist. Same guy?" asked Charles, now crawling into the drivers seat.
"Naw! You wanna see dat dood? We cud see him too!"
Charles turned the key, and was mortified when the stereo came on full blast.
It wasn't the volume. It was the song.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Dood, turn it back awn! Dat song's brootal!" announced Pickoes, waving his beer bottle.
"Pickles, should you be...?" Charles started, nervously eyeing the beer bottle. "Oh, forget it."
"Go down Sunset!" Pickles ordered. "An' I see yer TROO COLORS shinin' t'rough...” he sang along.
Charles' cheeks were crimson. But he still noted that Pickles handled the vocal, which was a bit tricky, very capably. And he seemed to know all the words. A human songbook?
"An' dat's why I love yoo! Oh, wut's yer name, ninja dood?"
"Uh. Charles."
"So don't be afraid to let it shooooowww... Ah'm Pickles!"
"Yeah. I sort of guessed."
Charles had a brief moment of terror as they pulled into the club's parking lot. Pickles wouldn't think of looking for street parking, and Charles' wallet currently held some trading cards and a distressingly old condom pack. But it appeared all Pickles needed to do was hook a friendly arm around the attendant and parking was on the house.
"Here we go, Charles dood!" said Pickles. "Don't ferget dis, we may need it!"
"Uh, Pickles, they are not gonna let me into the club with a Civil War sword,” Charles warned, waving his hands.
"We're nawt goin' in without it!" Pickles vowed. "Wut if we're beset by merawder doods?"
"OK. OK. Just let me...." Charles managed to wrest the sword away from Pickles yet again. He dearly hoped he wasn't going to add arrest on charges of reckless endangerment to his evening's activities.
As he had hoped, he gained entrance to the club as a friend of Pickles. The bouncer, as he had feared, wasn't terribly keen on the sword, which Charles had hooked on his belt.
"That'sch not a weapon!" He turned to see Pickles, whom he hadn't noticed disappear, stroll up with a frizzy-haired bouncer. The second bouncer picked up the sword and regarded it with an appraising eye. "Thisch isch obviouschly a valuable antiquity!" he announced, handing it back to a very surprised Charles. “We are honored to have it in our humble eschtablischment!”
Charles shrugged and tucked the rare antiquity back in his belt, and then dove into the club after Pickles. It was one of those places that looked like a dive and smelled like a dive, but the scruffy-looking musicians up on stage were often already signed to multi-million dollar recording contracts.
Charles pulled his leather jacket closer around him. The jacket was scruffy because it was old, not because he'd paid a designer six hundred dollars to make it look scruffy. The place was crowded as hell, quite the opposite of the joint they had just departed, but the crowd seemed to magically part as Pickles wafted through. Pickles looked back and mouthed something, pointing, but even with his ear a few inches from Pickles' mouth, he couldn't make it out from the noise of the band onstage.
“PICKLES!”
The voice cut through the noise and smoke and perspiration like a heavenly light through the parting clouds. Charles stared. The amazing voice evidently belonged to the most arresting figure he had ever seen. He was huge, as big as a legendary giant, dark complected, but shining through long raven hair a pair of eyes of the color blue that looked as if it would cut diamonds with its brilliance.
Charles was.... Well, he wasn't exactly certain. He decided he very much wanted this man to be the head of a religion, so he could give up his worldly possessions to follow him.
Not that Charles had any worldly possessions.
Pickles said something unintelligible to this incredible being, and then they were all seated at his table and provided beer. Charles placed his sword carefully on the table in front of him next to the beer. How he longed to down his drink, but he wondered about imbibing on an empty stomach, especially as he was now charged with ferrying around a genuine rock star. His digestive system was currently nagging him every time a plate of hot wings or nachos zoomed by on tray.
He was startled out of his reverie by a meaty hand gripping his shoulder.
“WERE YOU JUST WATCHING THAT PLATE OF NACHOS?” the big man thundered into his ear.
Charles rattled his head, in desperate hope of stopping the buzzing. He had no hope of being heard above the din, so he simply nodded guiltily.
“WAITRESS! GET US SOME FUCKING NACHOS! Because,” he blasted into Charles' ear again. “CHIPS ARE AWESOME!”
“I wuz jest tellin' Nat'an dat yer a lawyer.”
“I NEED A LAWYER!” Nathan thundered.
“Uh, actuallly, I'm not...” Charles began.
“HERE WE ARE!” announced Nathan as the double serving of nachos arrived in record time. “ANY MAN WHO LIKES CHIPS IS ALL RIGHT!” Nathan concluded, whacking Charles so hard on the back that Charles' life nearly ended then and there as he suddenly inhaled a cheese-covered chip. As Charles struggled for breath, Nathan looked up at the stage. “IT'S FUCKING SKWISGAAR! YOU GOTTA SEE THIS DUDE!” he exclaimed, emphasizing Skwisgaar's incredible acumen with yet another slap to Charles' back, which this time fortunately dislodged the errant chip from his respiratory system, sending it skittering out onto the table, where Charles collapsed, panting for breath.
At length Charles managed to push himself back up to a sitting position and regard the stage. What he saw confused the hell out of him. A musician was casually wandering onstage right in the middle of the set. He looked like Gunnar probably imagined himself in his dreams, tall and blond, and dressed head to toe in resplendent white. He took his sweet time plugging in, completely ignoring the rest of his band grinding through their number, and then at length stood poised.
Charles gasped, but this time, not from the hors d'oeuvres. Skwisgaar's solo was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was was like he was in an awful hurry, and had decided to play all the solos for tonight, the rest of the week, and maybe the rest of the whole fucking month, but crammed into 90 seconds of white hot fury. But the best part was that Skwisgaar didn't even break a sweat. In fact, he looked bored as hell, as if he were just grinding out some scales before the real solo began.
And then it was over, just as quickly as it had begun. Not changing his slightly annoyed expression one whit, Skwisgaar unplugged and causally strolled off stage while the band continued to thrash as if nothing had happened.
“What. The. Fuck?” Charles asked Pickles through a mouthful of nachos.
“WAIT AN' SEE, DOOD!” Pickles promised. Indeed, just as Skwisgaar's band – Charles guessed, although Skwisgaar himself acted like he didn't want to be associated with them – finally finished their set, and the club quieted from an angry din to a more mellow roar, Skwisgaar emerged from backstage and casually ambled over to Pickles' table.
“Awesome set dood!” Pickles congratulated him.
“Pffft,” replied the blond.
“Do you always perform, uh, like that?” Charles ventured.
“Dey ams pays me by da note,” Skwisgaar sniffed. “And dat ams all da notes dey ams getsing tonights. And who ams dis ninjas guys?” he asked, pointing at the sword.
“You should meet THIS GUY!” Nathan rumbled. This time, Charles managed to brace for the back whack. “He's a BADASS ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER!”
“Akshooly....” Charles started as he licked the sauce from the hot wings from his fingers.
“Entertanglemint lawyerings?” asked the guitarist. His expression suddenly changed, to something that resembled a real emotion. “I ams needing da lawyerings.”
“What can I help you-” Charles started.
“WE'VE BEEN SCREWED!” Nathan howled. “Not literally, I mean, but in a technical sense involving a nonpayment of funds that we've been owed by various parties.”
“I'm sorry,” said Charles. “How...”
“We've been CHEATED,” grumbled Nathan.
“Ams mistreated,” agreed Skwisgaar.
“When will we be luved, dood?” Pickles wondered.
Skwisgaar and Nathan suddenly stared at Pickles. “Pickles, dude,” Nathan told him, “Conveying our predicament like that, although expressive, is A LITTLE GAY.”
“Ah, who, specifically, owes you money?” Charles ventured.
“THAT GUY!” Nathan bellowed.
Charles blanched. He had never guessed that the person in question might possibly be present. And might be the biggest single human being he had ever seen, bigger still than even Nathan.
“Uhhh,” said Charles, having no idea what else to say.
“Will you get it back for me?”
“Uh.”
“Pickles says you're a NINJA LAWYER.”
Charles stifled a burp. Well, they had fed him. He probably owed them something. Noting sadly that although his stomach was no longer empty, his beer glass definitely was, he squared his shoulders and rose, stopping only to place the Civil War saber once more in his belt, more to keep it out of Pickles' eager grasp than anything else.
He strode over to the individual in question.
“My friend says you owe him money,” he told the big man, hooking a thumb at Nathan.
“So? I have told him, he must wait!”
“He wants it back.”
“He should be patient!”
“We'd like it back. Now,” said Charles, crossing his arms in what he desperately hoped looked like an authoritative manner.
“We?” asked the big man. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“I'm his attorney,” Charles blustered.
To Charles' chagrin, the big man erupted in laughter.
“Go away,” said the big man. But then he gasped.
Charles had him up against the wall, hand on his collar, saber at his neck.
“You didn't say the magic word,” Charles muttered at him.
“I'll call the bouncer!” the big man vowed.
“I know the bouncer. I'm only showing you a rare Civil War antiquity. Like it?” He pressed the sword harder.
“I'll give you half now,” the big man promised.
“All of it.”
“All right. All right. Put down the fucking broadsword.”
“It's a saber. Magic word?”
“Put down the saber! Please!”
Charles backed off, and to his relief, the man reached for a wallet, and extracted a large stack of cash. As he was handing it to Charles, though, he grabbed Charles' arm and growled, “I warn you, little man, I never forget a face.”
“Neither,” said Charles, his eyes flashing, “do I.”
Charles returned to Nathan's table, where, as all sat stunned, he tossed the wad of cash to the table.
“Awesome!” said Nathan. “We were OUT OF NACHOS!” He grabbed some bills and headed for the bar.
“Pickles,” said Charles as he sat down and placed the saber once again along the table. “Uh, who was that guy.”
“A badass dood,” Pickles replied.
“Oh.”
“But dat's okey!” he cheered. “Cuz yer badder!”
Charles shuddered involuntarily.
“NACHOS!” yelled Nathan, returning bearing snacks.
"Uh, so, do you guys ever jam together?” Charles asked, picking out a chip.
He looked up. The three musicians were gaping at him.
“What, WITH EACH OTHER?” bellowed Nathan.
“Uh. Yeah? I mean, Pickles can drum, and Skwisgaar is a guitarist, and....”
“I'M A VOCALIST!”
“Yeah, I sort of guessed that, Nathan.”
“Ninja dudes ams gots da points.”
Nathan tossed some of the pile of bills at Charles.
“You don't, uh, need to do that....”
“Yes we do! Go forth and BUY CHIPS! Because, chips are awesome.”
Charles leaned over and pulled a cassette out of the crowded glove compartment. “You probably won't know these guys.” He pushed the Rewind button and then, satisfied, pushed Play.
“No, I never heard dis one,” Pickles, sitting in the passenger seat, agreed.
Charles shot him a questioning glance. Pickles grinned. “Yeh, dood, go ahead.”
Charles pushed Play again, and Pickels sang along, every word prefect.
There are thing that I'd like to say but I'm never talkin' to yoo agen
There's things I'd like to phrase some way but I'm never talkin' to yoo agen....
“Wish I could do that,” Charles remarked, shaking his head.
“Aw, dood, dat wuz a simple one! You shoulda pick somethin' harder.”
“Is this the address?” asked Charles, slightly surprised. He had expected at least a nice ranch house, but this was an apartment building, in a nondescript section of West Hollywood.
“Yep! Dis is me!” Pickles cheerfully agreed. “Wut?” he added, looking at Charles.
“It's just. Nothing.”
“Da old manager got da mansion. An' da six cars. An wutever.”
Charles frowned. “You'll do better next time, huh?”
“I know we will, dood! We got a secret plan!” And then he cheerfully bounced out of the passenger seat, without even a goodbye.
Charles shrugged and put the car in gear. To the end of his days, he wasn't entirely certain how Pickles managed it. One moment, he was wriggling out of the passenger seat, the next, he was leaning into the Driver's side window.
"Dat's pretty brutal, dood! Livin' in yer car like dat!"
Charles froze. There was no use denying it. He didn't look at Pickles, but put his hand on the shift. "I'm having some, uh, cash flow issues. At the present time. Since my parents...." He trailed off.
"So," agreed Pickles enthusiastically. "No purmuhnent address! Da open road."
"Uh, yeah. Something like that."
"But hey, yoo know, doo to my drivers license issues at da present time, I got an empty parkin' spot!" Pickles announced, pointing Vanna White style to a vacant spot below his apartment.
"Yeah?" asked Charles, eyeing the stretch of concrete between two painted yellow markers with vaguely hungry eyes. It wouldn't be a bad place to crash for the night. He would have to get out before the cops made their rounds in the morning....
"An' a couch!"
Charles was now staring at Pickles. “Uh...” he stammered.
"Wut? Given dat I'm gonna start jammin' wit dose two douche bags, I'm gonna need a driver dood. An', like, a ninja Civil War bodyguard dood!”
Charles' hand gripped the stick shift handle. “And a lawyer?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yeh, especially a lawyer dood!”
“As an entertainment attorney, I charge a percentage,” said Charles. “A really high percentage.”
“Wut's a really high purcentage of nuttin'?”
“Ah, zero.”
“Cool. I kin afford dat. Oh, and bring dat cassette, so I can learn da rest of da songs!”
"It's Husker Du."
"Wut's dat?"
"It means, do you remember."
"Well, o' course dood! I remember everyt'ing! Now, folly me!" And with that, Pickles started inside, Charles hurrying to slot the car between the yellow lines.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Imagining early Dethklok
Warnings: Cursing, some vague suggestion of C/P
And now for something completely different.....
Dunno why this story popped up in my brain, but this is what I wrote off and on during my two days of orientation meetings (remember everybody: germs are bad). I hadn't been able to come up with an idea for a Metalocalypse genfic for a long time, so it was weird to encounter this story. Anyways, this is fondly dedicated to my 88 Honda Civic, the best little car in the whole wide world.
Charles was tired.
Not physically tired, mind. Thanks to many years of competitive fencing, he had built up rather a unholy amount upper body strength, not to mention a trained athlete's level of endurance. He could have played drums all night. If the playlist hadn't been making him slightly crazy. Gunnar knew three chords. And one drum pattern. His original compositions universally reflected this sad fact.
He added a little flourish at the end of the chorus, to an immediate stony glare from the lead guitarist. This decided him. He kept the flourish at the end of every verse and chorus. Artie, their impossibly mellow bassist, who knew all of three notes, agreeably rumbled along, but you could tell it threw Gunnar off. He made even more fingering mistakes than usual.
Charles held a cymbal to stop it vibrating. There weren't a whole lot of people left in the dingy club at the end of the set, as there hadn't been a whole lot of people present for the performance to begin with. Charles had done a rough count in his head, as it wasn't especially occupied with his duties in the percussion section. Despite the meager audience, he suspected Gunnar had some kind of deal with the manager to undercount the door and cut the rest of the guys out on the take.
As usual, none of the other guys seemed to give a shit about this.
"I told you not to improvise," Gunnar snapped at Charles. Oddly enough, despite the lack of audience, Gunnar already had a girl under each arm. Did they just appear out of thin air? Or grow from Gunnar's armpits? "Whaddya think this is, fucking jazz?"
"Obviously not," Charles grumbled. "You guys could use a drum machine for what I do."
"A drum machine would be better looking," sniffed Gunnar. Gunnar knew three chords and one drum pattern. But he was tall and blond. So he was their leader. So everybody laughed at his stupid put down: band and proto-groupies.
Charles put a hand self-consciously through the hair he had stupidly hacked off last month. He had wanted to look tough, but he just sort of looked like himself, with his hair hacked off. "You should let me take a pass on guitar."
"You can't play guitar."
"I know more than three fucking chords," Charles told him. "And I usually manage the fingering."
One of the armpit girls giggled at that.
Gunnar got quiet. Which was usually bad.
"What do I keep you in the band for?"
Charles glared.
"What do I keep you in the band for?" Gunnar repeated.
"Play the drums. And load the van," Charles sighed.
"So. Load the fucking van." Musicians and girls, laughing, made their way off, with only a vaguely sympathetic shrug from Artie. Charles glowered at the bassist. Artie had been sort of a friend before Charles had joined the band. He suspected Artie had served as Gunnar's former target.
He cast his eyes around to the cluttered bandstand. He picked up Gunnar's guitar, which he noticed the asshole hadn't even bothered unplugging. It was nice: vintage. Probably bought with Daddy's money, as there was no way he made enough playing, even skimming the door.
He looked around the darkened club. It was utterly silent.
He tried on the guitar for size, fingering a couple of chords. "You're in a dysfunctional relationship. You deserve better," he told the guitar.
He tried some runs and chords, and then, winding up, thrashed out a bit of Andy Gill's guitar line from What We All Want. His fingers weren't properly calloused, as Gunnar never let him play, so it hurt his fingers, but in a good way. Some day, he thought, he would have a whole team of guys to load the fucking van. And a different team of guys to unload the van!
And his own fleet of vans.
And then his fingers froze.
Hugo Burnham had suddenly joined Andy Gill.
He jerked around, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest.
"Don't stop now, dooooood!" someone called from behind the drum kit.
Charles took a closer look, and added a stroke on top of his heart attack. It was Pickles from Snakes and Barrles. There was absolutely no mistaking him. The red hair and that weird accent. He looked a bit worse for wear. He was balding now, and the hair that was left was matted into unkempt little braids.
And, from the smell of him, he was pretty clearly roaring drunk.
"Play da rest!" Pickles urged, tapping impatiently.
Well, Charles could hardly refuse. Especially when Pickles began singing.
Could I be happy wit' someone else?
I need someone t' fill my time!
Charles tried his damnedest to pay attention. It did not escape him that Pickles, a fucking guitarist, was a better drummer than he. No, not just better: he was in a whole different league. And he could sing as well! Charles gripped the guitar neck more tightly even as he felt his daydreams of rock stardom cruelly melt away.
"Dat was brutal, dood," Pickles announced, saluting him with a drag from a long necked bottle. Charles squinted. It was an import beer. That brand was not available at this crummy dive's bar. Did Pickles carry a six pack? Maybe he had a guy who followed him around with beer?
"I know a dood, a guitarist, you should meet him. He's totally brootal!"
"Uh, yeah, that would be good," Charles allowed. Anyone, anyone else would qualify, he thought sadly.
"Wut are yoo doin' now, dood?" Pickles asked. "We'll go see him now! Yoo got wheels?"
"You.... You don't have a car, Pickles?" Charles asked, a bit taken aback.
"Oh, I got plenty o' cars, dood," Pickles assured him. "I jest don' got a license!"
"I have a car but...." Charles began. His thoughts drifted to his current transportation, and he ruefully decided he didn't want Pickles from Snakes and Barrels to see it. Under any circumstances. Ever. "Uh. Sorry. I gotta pack up this stuff," he said, indicating the equipment.
"Is dis yer drum kit, dood?" asked Pickles, skeptically twirling a drumstick in the relevant direction.
"Uh, no. It belongs to some guy in my band." Gunnar's daddy, Charles thought ill-temperedly.
"Eh. Jest leave it den."
"Look, were you around before? You must've heard the guys...."
"Yeh, I heard dem dood! Dey don't say DA MAGIC WURD, did dey?" Pickles asked, suddenly coming around the drum kit and draping a friendly arm around a completely flustered Charles' shoulders. He smelled of incense sticks, sweat, and mystery.
"Uh. I guess not."
"So. Da only solution is, yer goin' clubbin' wit' me!" Pickles concluded, waving his beer for emphasis.
Charles surveyed the instruments. And then he looked at the grinning redhead.
Charles was trying to work as efficiently as possible to eke out a human-sized space in the vicinity of the passenger seat of his 88 Honda Civic.
Pickles was not making the job any easier. Charles wondered if the musician was actually some kind of sprite, sent to live among the humans for a day, as he seemed infinitely curious about nearly everyone.
'Yoo got a lawt o' books, dood!” Pickles observed.
“Uh, yeah. I'm putting myself through law school. Or trying.”
“Yer parents ain't....”
“We're sort of.... Not....”
“Yeh. My parents and me are sort of nawt either. So. Yoo carry all yer books around in case dere's emergency homework?” speculated Pickles, leafing through a contract law manual.
“Uh. Yeah. Something like that,” said Charles.
"OOOOOO! Wut's DIS, dood?" Pickles asked, suddenly tossing away the law book.
"Be careful with that!" Charles warned, grabbing the sword from Pickles' eager hand. "I'm, uh, I was in college on a fencing scholarship," he muttered, with some effort, finding a space in the crowded hatch for the weapon.
"Oh, is dat wut DIS is about?" inquired Pickles, fishing a plaque out of the pile on the back seat.
"Uh, yeah, that was an award," Charles mumbled, handing the plaque as well.
"But DIS ain't a fencin' deal!" noted Pickles, fetching the blade back. “It's like a ninja t'ing.”
"Uh, no, it's actually just an antique. A saber from the Civil War. Just something I keep. I dunno." Charles tried to snatch the sword, but Pickles was now going all Errol Flynn.
"In case yer beset by marauders?" Pickles inquired, nearly slicing Charles neatly in two with a drunken swing.
Charles ducked, and then caught Pickles from the back as the musician overswung and lost his balance. "Yeah," said Charles, deftly grabbing the musician's wrist and prying out the sword. "In case I'm beset by, uh, marauders." He frowned at the sword, and then secured it in the back well away from Pickles' eager reach. He swung the passenger door open wide. "You wanted to go clubbing?" he urged, hoping to distract Pickles from all that was bright and shiny.
"Oh, yeh, ninja dood! I wanted t' show you an awesome singer dood! He's da best! Totally brootal."
"Oh. I had thought it was a guitarist. Same guy?" asked Charles, now crawling into the drivers seat.
"Naw! You wanna see dat dood? We cud see him too!"
Charles turned the key, and was mortified when the stereo came on full blast.
It wasn't the volume. It was the song.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Dood, turn it back awn! Dat song's brootal!" announced Pickoes, waving his beer bottle.
"Pickles, should you be...?" Charles started, nervously eyeing the beer bottle. "Oh, forget it."
"Go down Sunset!" Pickles ordered. "An' I see yer TROO COLORS shinin' t'rough...” he sang along.
Charles' cheeks were crimson. But he still noted that Pickles handled the vocal, which was a bit tricky, very capably. And he seemed to know all the words. A human songbook?
"An' dat's why I love yoo! Oh, wut's yer name, ninja dood?"
"Uh. Charles."
"So don't be afraid to let it shooooowww... Ah'm Pickles!"
"Yeah. I sort of guessed."
Charles had a brief moment of terror as they pulled into the club's parking lot. Pickles wouldn't think of looking for street parking, and Charles' wallet currently held some trading cards and a distressingly old condom pack. But it appeared all Pickles needed to do was hook a friendly arm around the attendant and parking was on the house.
"Here we go, Charles dood!" said Pickles. "Don't ferget dis, we may need it!"
"Uh, Pickles, they are not gonna let me into the club with a Civil War sword,” Charles warned, waving his hands.
"We're nawt goin' in without it!" Pickles vowed. "Wut if we're beset by merawder doods?"
"OK. OK. Just let me...." Charles managed to wrest the sword away from Pickles yet again. He dearly hoped he wasn't going to add arrest on charges of reckless endangerment to his evening's activities.
As he had hoped, he gained entrance to the club as a friend of Pickles. The bouncer, as he had feared, wasn't terribly keen on the sword, which Charles had hooked on his belt.
"That'sch not a weapon!" He turned to see Pickles, whom he hadn't noticed disappear, stroll up with a frizzy-haired bouncer. The second bouncer picked up the sword and regarded it with an appraising eye. "Thisch isch obviouschly a valuable antiquity!" he announced, handing it back to a very surprised Charles. “We are honored to have it in our humble eschtablischment!”
Charles shrugged and tucked the rare antiquity back in his belt, and then dove into the club after Pickles. It was one of those places that looked like a dive and smelled like a dive, but the scruffy-looking musicians up on stage were often already signed to multi-million dollar recording contracts.
Charles pulled his leather jacket closer around him. The jacket was scruffy because it was old, not because he'd paid a designer six hundred dollars to make it look scruffy. The place was crowded as hell, quite the opposite of the joint they had just departed, but the crowd seemed to magically part as Pickles wafted through. Pickles looked back and mouthed something, pointing, but even with his ear a few inches from Pickles' mouth, he couldn't make it out from the noise of the band onstage.
“PICKLES!”
The voice cut through the noise and smoke and perspiration like a heavenly light through the parting clouds. Charles stared. The amazing voice evidently belonged to the most arresting figure he had ever seen. He was huge, as big as a legendary giant, dark complected, but shining through long raven hair a pair of eyes of the color blue that looked as if it would cut diamonds with its brilliance.
Charles was.... Well, he wasn't exactly certain. He decided he very much wanted this man to be the head of a religion, so he could give up his worldly possessions to follow him.
Not that Charles had any worldly possessions.
Pickles said something unintelligible to this incredible being, and then they were all seated at his table and provided beer. Charles placed his sword carefully on the table in front of him next to the beer. How he longed to down his drink, but he wondered about imbibing on an empty stomach, especially as he was now charged with ferrying around a genuine rock star. His digestive system was currently nagging him every time a plate of hot wings or nachos zoomed by on tray.
He was startled out of his reverie by a meaty hand gripping his shoulder.
“WERE YOU JUST WATCHING THAT PLATE OF NACHOS?” the big man thundered into his ear.
Charles rattled his head, in desperate hope of stopping the buzzing. He had no hope of being heard above the din, so he simply nodded guiltily.
“WAITRESS! GET US SOME FUCKING NACHOS! Because,” he blasted into Charles' ear again. “CHIPS ARE AWESOME!”
“I wuz jest tellin' Nat'an dat yer a lawyer.”
“I NEED A LAWYER!” Nathan thundered.
“Uh, actuallly, I'm not...” Charles began.
“HERE WE ARE!” announced Nathan as the double serving of nachos arrived in record time. “ANY MAN WHO LIKES CHIPS IS ALL RIGHT!” Nathan concluded, whacking Charles so hard on the back that Charles' life nearly ended then and there as he suddenly inhaled a cheese-covered chip. As Charles struggled for breath, Nathan looked up at the stage. “IT'S FUCKING SKWISGAAR! YOU GOTTA SEE THIS DUDE!” he exclaimed, emphasizing Skwisgaar's incredible acumen with yet another slap to Charles' back, which this time fortunately dislodged the errant chip from his respiratory system, sending it skittering out onto the table, where Charles collapsed, panting for breath.
At length Charles managed to push himself back up to a sitting position and regard the stage. What he saw confused the hell out of him. A musician was casually wandering onstage right in the middle of the set. He looked like Gunnar probably imagined himself in his dreams, tall and blond, and dressed head to toe in resplendent white. He took his sweet time plugging in, completely ignoring the rest of his band grinding through their number, and then at length stood poised.
Charles gasped, but this time, not from the hors d'oeuvres. Skwisgaar's solo was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was was like he was in an awful hurry, and had decided to play all the solos for tonight, the rest of the week, and maybe the rest of the whole fucking month, but crammed into 90 seconds of white hot fury. But the best part was that Skwisgaar didn't even break a sweat. In fact, he looked bored as hell, as if he were just grinding out some scales before the real solo began.
And then it was over, just as quickly as it had begun. Not changing his slightly annoyed expression one whit, Skwisgaar unplugged and causally strolled off stage while the band continued to thrash as if nothing had happened.
“What. The. Fuck?” Charles asked Pickles through a mouthful of nachos.
“WAIT AN' SEE, DOOD!” Pickles promised. Indeed, just as Skwisgaar's band – Charles guessed, although Skwisgaar himself acted like he didn't want to be associated with them – finally finished their set, and the club quieted from an angry din to a more mellow roar, Skwisgaar emerged from backstage and casually ambled over to Pickles' table.
“Awesome set dood!” Pickles congratulated him.
“Pffft,” replied the blond.
“Do you always perform, uh, like that?” Charles ventured.
“Dey ams pays me by da note,” Skwisgaar sniffed. “And dat ams all da notes dey ams getsing tonights. And who ams dis ninjas guys?” he asked, pointing at the sword.
“You should meet THIS GUY!” Nathan rumbled. This time, Charles managed to brace for the back whack. “He's a BADASS ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER!”
“Akshooly....” Charles started as he licked the sauce from the hot wings from his fingers.
“Entertanglemint lawyerings?” asked the guitarist. His expression suddenly changed, to something that resembled a real emotion. “I ams needing da lawyerings.”
“What can I help you-” Charles started.
“WE'VE BEEN SCREWED!” Nathan howled. “Not literally, I mean, but in a technical sense involving a nonpayment of funds that we've been owed by various parties.”
“I'm sorry,” said Charles. “How...”
“We've been CHEATED,” grumbled Nathan.
“Ams mistreated,” agreed Skwisgaar.
“When will we be luved, dood?” Pickles wondered.
Skwisgaar and Nathan suddenly stared at Pickles. “Pickles, dude,” Nathan told him, “Conveying our predicament like that, although expressive, is A LITTLE GAY.”
“Ah, who, specifically, owes you money?” Charles ventured.
“THAT GUY!” Nathan bellowed.
Charles blanched. He had never guessed that the person in question might possibly be present. And might be the biggest single human being he had ever seen, bigger still than even Nathan.
“Uhhh,” said Charles, having no idea what else to say.
“Will you get it back for me?”
“Uh.”
“Pickles says you're a NINJA LAWYER.”
Charles stifled a burp. Well, they had fed him. He probably owed them something. Noting sadly that although his stomach was no longer empty, his beer glass definitely was, he squared his shoulders and rose, stopping only to place the Civil War saber once more in his belt, more to keep it out of Pickles' eager grasp than anything else.
He strode over to the individual in question.
“My friend says you owe him money,” he told the big man, hooking a thumb at Nathan.
“So? I have told him, he must wait!”
“He wants it back.”
“He should be patient!”
“We'd like it back. Now,” said Charles, crossing his arms in what he desperately hoped looked like an authoritative manner.
“We?” asked the big man. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“I'm his attorney,” Charles blustered.
To Charles' chagrin, the big man erupted in laughter.
“Go away,” said the big man. But then he gasped.
Charles had him up against the wall, hand on his collar, saber at his neck.
“You didn't say the magic word,” Charles muttered at him.
“I'll call the bouncer!” the big man vowed.
“I know the bouncer. I'm only showing you a rare Civil War antiquity. Like it?” He pressed the sword harder.
“I'll give you half now,” the big man promised.
“All of it.”
“All right. All right. Put down the fucking broadsword.”
“It's a saber. Magic word?”
“Put down the saber! Please!”
Charles backed off, and to his relief, the man reached for a wallet, and extracted a large stack of cash. As he was handing it to Charles, though, he grabbed Charles' arm and growled, “I warn you, little man, I never forget a face.”
“Neither,” said Charles, his eyes flashing, “do I.”
Charles returned to Nathan's table, where, as all sat stunned, he tossed the wad of cash to the table.
“Awesome!” said Nathan. “We were OUT OF NACHOS!” He grabbed some bills and headed for the bar.
“Pickles,” said Charles as he sat down and placed the saber once again along the table. “Uh, who was that guy.”
“A badass dood,” Pickles replied.
“Oh.”
“But dat's okey!” he cheered. “Cuz yer badder!”
Charles shuddered involuntarily.
“NACHOS!” yelled Nathan, returning bearing snacks.
"Uh, so, do you guys ever jam together?” Charles asked, picking out a chip.
He looked up. The three musicians were gaping at him.
“What, WITH EACH OTHER?” bellowed Nathan.
“Uh. Yeah? I mean, Pickles can drum, and Skwisgaar is a guitarist, and....”
“I'M A VOCALIST!”
“Yeah, I sort of guessed that, Nathan.”
“Ninja dudes ams gots da points.”
Nathan tossed some of the pile of bills at Charles.
“You don't, uh, need to do that....”
“Yes we do! Go forth and BUY CHIPS! Because, chips are awesome.”
Charles leaned over and pulled a cassette out of the crowded glove compartment. “You probably won't know these guys.” He pushed the Rewind button and then, satisfied, pushed Play.
“No, I never heard dis one,” Pickles, sitting in the passenger seat, agreed.
Charles shot him a questioning glance. Pickles grinned. “Yeh, dood, go ahead.”
Charles pushed Play again, and Pickels sang along, every word prefect.
There are thing that I'd like to say but I'm never talkin' to yoo agen
There's things I'd like to phrase some way but I'm never talkin' to yoo agen....
“Wish I could do that,” Charles remarked, shaking his head.
“Aw, dood, dat wuz a simple one! You shoulda pick somethin' harder.”
“Is this the address?” asked Charles, slightly surprised. He had expected at least a nice ranch house, but this was an apartment building, in a nondescript section of West Hollywood.
“Yep! Dis is me!” Pickles cheerfully agreed. “Wut?” he added, looking at Charles.
“It's just. Nothing.”
“Da old manager got da mansion. An' da six cars. An wutever.”
Charles frowned. “You'll do better next time, huh?”
“I know we will, dood! We got a secret plan!” And then he cheerfully bounced out of the passenger seat, without even a goodbye.
Charles shrugged and put the car in gear. To the end of his days, he wasn't entirely certain how Pickles managed it. One moment, he was wriggling out of the passenger seat, the next, he was leaning into the Driver's side window.
"Dat's pretty brutal, dood! Livin' in yer car like dat!"
Charles froze. There was no use denying it. He didn't look at Pickles, but put his hand on the shift. "I'm having some, uh, cash flow issues. At the present time. Since my parents...." He trailed off.
"So," agreed Pickles enthusiastically. "No purmuhnent address! Da open road."
"Uh, yeah. Something like that."
"But hey, yoo know, doo to my drivers license issues at da present time, I got an empty parkin' spot!" Pickles announced, pointing Vanna White style to a vacant spot below his apartment.
"Yeah?" asked Charles, eyeing the stretch of concrete between two painted yellow markers with vaguely hungry eyes. It wouldn't be a bad place to crash for the night. He would have to get out before the cops made their rounds in the morning....
"An' a couch!"
Charles was now staring at Pickles. “Uh...” he stammered.
"Wut? Given dat I'm gonna start jammin' wit dose two douche bags, I'm gonna need a driver dood. An', like, a ninja Civil War bodyguard dood!”
Charles' hand gripped the stick shift handle. “And a lawyer?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yeh, especially a lawyer dood!”
“As an entertainment attorney, I charge a percentage,” said Charles. “A really high percentage.”
“Wut's a really high purcentage of nuttin'?”
“Ah, zero.”
“Cool. I kin afford dat. Oh, and bring dat cassette, so I can learn da rest of da songs!”
"It's Husker Du."
"Wut's dat?"
"It means, do you remember."
"Well, o' course dood! I remember everyt'ing! Now, folly me!" And with that, Pickles started inside, Charles hurrying to slot the car between the yellow lines.
