love me I can kill you
HA HA I RETURN VICTORIOUS OVER WRITER'S BLOCK. Er, no, now it's going to come back and hit me. Anyway.
title: Six Simple Machines
re: Keith, some Keith/Anita, etc.
words: 600
note: Title/concept from the lovely atrata.
never happened: don't sue!
summary: Six vaguely linked drabbles. Everything else is fucking extraneous.
the telex
arrives at some allegedly decent hour of the morning, you'd guess, but you sure as hell aren't awake. When you rise you're feeling fine, stretching and strutting. It's sunset, you're drinking coffee with a splash of Rebel, some maid hands you the printout like it's nothing--that's how you find out Mick's throwing the tour over, fucking you over, his words in your fist and all the bitterness on earth burning your tongue. I'll slit your throat, you mutter, and you might, only you'd have the balls to kill him to his face. Not over the wire. Not like this.
the handgun
slips in your fist, in your sweat. Ninety degrees tonight and you're freezing. You wish you hadn't copped on opening night. Felt good, but now you're in motherfucking Milwaukee, doing cold turkey all over again, forgetting the gun until its weight surprises your hand, forgetting why you needed it--maybe--
No. A visceral no, final and firm even as the snake uncoils in your gut. Instead you aim, carefully, and put a bullet in the TV. Glass flying, sparks, smoke, and just enough adrenaline to lift you up a little off the mattress. When the boys rush in, you're laughing.
the Bentley
thunders along, a black shining car under a black shining sky, innumerable stars and infinite desert whirling past the windows. The backseat smells of grass, sex, incense and everything that's good in the entire fucking world except maybe guitars. Anita throws one bared leg across your thighs, and when you touch her where Brian bruised her she presses out a sigh but doesn't flinch or pull away. She sort of smiles when you tell her you love her, and you fuck to the rhythm of the moonlit road, careless of who you're leaving behind, knowing they'll catch up to you.
the camera
clicks, flashes, clicks, flashes, driving you from jumpy to bored to completely mad. Jackets on, jackets off. Greasepaint holds your face like a mask. When the photographer finally calls a break, Brian puts out his tongue, Charlie hands round a packet of fags, and Mick reaches over and musses your hair with his fingers. You hit him on the arm. He winces, then laughs. This is bollocks, you begin to say, leaning in toward Charlie for a light.
The photographer says, that last will make an excellent album cover. Well, it's still bollocks, but you have trouble inhaling your smoke.
the tape recorder
balances on your knees, with the reels whirring backward. You can feel Mike--Michael, he prefers, the prat--and Dick staring at the tape, praying it doesn't snap or twist. You know this because you're praying too, sort of, not that anybody's out there to give a toss--and then the tape is back at the beginning. You stop it. You play it.
Out of the shitty, beautiful little machine comes the crackling sound of your guitar, Dick's guitar, Michael's voice, loud and distorted and--real. You lean down close, drinking it in.
I can barely hear myself, says Michael.
the amplifier
whines. But feedback vanishes under the tremendous roar of the Philly crowd. In the shadows behind the amps, you put on a dry shirt and your Telecaster, its weight leaning warm against your stomach. Charlie rolls a hot little pattern off the snare when Mick introduces him. They're going mad out there, beyond the glare of the stage.
Nothing competes with this. You should've known it never could. Everything else is fucking extraneous.
Mick says your name.
They're still your band, you're still theirs.
Your hand touches his for a beat as you step into the light and the noise.
title: Six Simple Machines
re: Keith, some Keith/Anita, etc.
words: 600
note: Title/concept from the lovely atrata.
never happened: don't sue!
summary: Six vaguely linked drabbles. Everything else is fucking extraneous.
the telex
arrives at some allegedly decent hour of the morning, you'd guess, but you sure as hell aren't awake. When you rise you're feeling fine, stretching and strutting. It's sunset, you're drinking coffee with a splash of Rebel, some maid hands you the printout like it's nothing--that's how you find out Mick's throwing the tour over, fucking you over, his words in your fist and all the bitterness on earth burning your tongue. I'll slit your throat, you mutter, and you might, only you'd have the balls to kill him to his face. Not over the wire. Not like this.
the handgun
slips in your fist, in your sweat. Ninety degrees tonight and you're freezing. You wish you hadn't copped on opening night. Felt good, but now you're in motherfucking Milwaukee, doing cold turkey all over again, forgetting the gun until its weight surprises your hand, forgetting why you needed it--maybe--
No. A visceral no, final and firm even as the snake uncoils in your gut. Instead you aim, carefully, and put a bullet in the TV. Glass flying, sparks, smoke, and just enough adrenaline to lift you up a little off the mattress. When the boys rush in, you're laughing.
the Bentley
thunders along, a black shining car under a black shining sky, innumerable stars and infinite desert whirling past the windows. The backseat smells of grass, sex, incense and everything that's good in the entire fucking world except maybe guitars. Anita throws one bared leg across your thighs, and when you touch her where Brian bruised her she presses out a sigh but doesn't flinch or pull away. She sort of smiles when you tell her you love her, and you fuck to the rhythm of the moonlit road, careless of who you're leaving behind, knowing they'll catch up to you.
the camera
clicks, flashes, clicks, flashes, driving you from jumpy to bored to completely mad. Jackets on, jackets off. Greasepaint holds your face like a mask. When the photographer finally calls a break, Brian puts out his tongue, Charlie hands round a packet of fags, and Mick reaches over and musses your hair with his fingers. You hit him on the arm. He winces, then laughs. This is bollocks, you begin to say, leaning in toward Charlie for a light.
The photographer says, that last will make an excellent album cover. Well, it's still bollocks, but you have trouble inhaling your smoke.
the tape recorder
balances on your knees, with the reels whirring backward. You can feel Mike--Michael, he prefers, the prat--and Dick staring at the tape, praying it doesn't snap or twist. You know this because you're praying too, sort of, not that anybody's out there to give a toss--and then the tape is back at the beginning. You stop it. You play it.
Out of the shitty, beautiful little machine comes the crackling sound of your guitar, Dick's guitar, Michael's voice, loud and distorted and--real. You lean down close, drinking it in.
I can barely hear myself, says Michael.
the amplifier
whines. But feedback vanishes under the tremendous roar of the Philly crowd. In the shadows behind the amps, you put on a dry shirt and your Telecaster, its weight leaning warm against your stomach. Charlie rolls a hot little pattern off the snare when Mick introduces him. They're going mad out there, beyond the glare of the stage.
Nothing competes with this. You should've known it never could. Everything else is fucking extraneous.
Mick says your name.
They're still your band, you're still theirs.
Your hand touches his for a beat as you step into the light and the noise.