Pickles (the Drummer) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doodilydoo) wrote2022-10-01 09:13 pm
doodilydoo) wrote2022-10-01 09:13 pm
[sail] tonight, i'm gonna burn down the garage.
Who: "Sharky" and...
Where: ???
What: Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?
When: October 5th - ???
[OCTOBER FIFTH.]
[Sharky wakes up an hour after Pratt leaves, still fucked up, nauseous, and reeling from what feels like a decade's worth of good memories crammed into one night. It's almost enough to make him throw up when he sees the room bedecked the room with lights. Is it possible to be so overcome with emotion that you vomit? It definitely feels that way, as Sharky lurches out of bed and staggers into the bathroom to deal with the immediate nausea.
Mistake number one is not falling back asleep after he's done booting. But as he stumbles back to bed, he finds himself reaching for the shoe-box of pictures for a little goodnight nostalgia. The box isn't where it should be, and a quick look around tells him that it's nowhere Pratt would leave it. He remembers shoving it aside at one point, maybe throwing his shirt on top of it? Which means it's probably still sitting up there in the club, abandoned and possibly thrown out with the trash.
Mistake number two is not texting Pratt to go and get the photos for him. The dude's already done enough, Sharky figures, and besides, walking is supposed to help sober you up. He's starting to think that, you know, maybe carrying water around and limiting his drinking to the latter eight hours of the day... was a really fucking good idea, and why the fuck isn't he doing more of that? Right now, he feels fucking awful. How did he do this every day before the camping trip? Holy shit. Is he an alcoholic??? He thought that it skipped a generation, though!
Sharky takes the elevator up to the promenade, bleary-eyed and chugging down water in a frankly reckless manner. It's that weird, empty hour before sunrise, too early for the early-risers and too late for most of the night-owls, and so the whole place is almost completely dead. Rischie is the worst of them all, bland dance music echoing in the empty club, and Sharky quickly picks the shoe-box out of the leftover garbage lying around. The creepy, all-eyes-on-me vibe follows him the whole way out.
The elevator makes a weird noise when he pushes the call button, the grinding, squealing sound of an unmaintained piece of machinery. Sharky knows the ship isn't repairing itself, so he decides to be smart and avoid the potential death drop. It would suck to die in what amounts to a bad trip to Disneyland.
And so, we arrive at mistake number three: the stairs.
Sharky gets from deck five to deck three with no problem. The stairwell is even emptier and stranger than the promenade had been, so he finds himself singing to himself under his breath as he goes. "Mmm-mm-hmm, woman's man, no time to talk; music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born..."
Singing leads to dancing, and dancing leads to him gleefully stepping off the landing, singing, "Life goin' nooo-where, somebody help me--!"
And it's about then that he realizes he missed the next step in the staircase. His ankle buckles as he goes down too hard, too fast, and he pitches forward. In the half-second before his head hits the landing, he laments the fact that his first death on the ship is going to be falling down the stairs. The thought that he might not die immediately when his neck snaps doesn't occur to him until it happens, leaving him momentarily gasping in white-hot pain and searing panic.
And then, something fucking spooky happens.
Pickles could not for the life of him tell you what the fuck just happened, but he knows for a fact it was spooky as shit. In the endless, yawning chasm of nothingness that had been his existence for as long as... forever... he had felt something. Or seen something. Or -- he can't remember, can't remember anything other than the dizzying giddiness of blinding bright lights and a rattling respiratory system, gasping for air in some stranger's body until, at last, he found himself sitting up.
And now he's here, slumped against the stairs, one side of his face a bright-hot flare of agonizing, delicious pain, a tooth laying out among the scattered photographs around him. He feels like he just got hit by a truck, and then he laughs because fuck, it feels so good. It takes him a solid five minutes before he can finally gather enough awareness to gather up the pictures, staggering to the feet he's wearing -- his feet. And then he makes his teetering, hungover way back to the room that he knows, somehow, belongs to this body. He needs time to think, and if he sits here too long, Friday's gonna show up and ruin everything.]
Where: ???
What: Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?
When: October 5th - ???
[OCTOBER FIFTH.]
[Sharky wakes up an hour after Pratt leaves, still fucked up, nauseous, and reeling from what feels like a decade's worth of good memories crammed into one night. It's almost enough to make him throw up when he sees the room bedecked the room with lights. Is it possible to be so overcome with emotion that you vomit? It definitely feels that way, as Sharky lurches out of bed and staggers into the bathroom to deal with the immediate nausea.
Mistake number one is not falling back asleep after he's done booting. But as he stumbles back to bed, he finds himself reaching for the shoe-box of pictures for a little goodnight nostalgia. The box isn't where it should be, and a quick look around tells him that it's nowhere Pratt would leave it. He remembers shoving it aside at one point, maybe throwing his shirt on top of it? Which means it's probably still sitting up there in the club, abandoned and possibly thrown out with the trash.
Mistake number two is not texting Pratt to go and get the photos for him. The dude's already done enough, Sharky figures, and besides, walking is supposed to help sober you up. He's starting to think that, you know, maybe carrying water around and limiting his drinking to the latter eight hours of the day... was a really fucking good idea, and why the fuck isn't he doing more of that? Right now, he feels fucking awful. How did he do this every day before the camping trip? Holy shit. Is he an alcoholic??? He thought that it skipped a generation, though!
Sharky takes the elevator up to the promenade, bleary-eyed and chugging down water in a frankly reckless manner. It's that weird, empty hour before sunrise, too early for the early-risers and too late for most of the night-owls, and so the whole place is almost completely dead. Rischie is the worst of them all, bland dance music echoing in the empty club, and Sharky quickly picks the shoe-box out of the leftover garbage lying around. The creepy, all-eyes-on-me vibe follows him the whole way out.
The elevator makes a weird noise when he pushes the call button, the grinding, squealing sound of an unmaintained piece of machinery. Sharky knows the ship isn't repairing itself, so he decides to be smart and avoid the potential death drop. It would suck to die in what amounts to a bad trip to Disneyland.
And so, we arrive at mistake number three: the stairs.
Sharky gets from deck five to deck three with no problem. The stairwell is even emptier and stranger than the promenade had been, so he finds himself singing to himself under his breath as he goes. "Mmm-mm-hmm, woman's man, no time to talk; music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born..."
Singing leads to dancing, and dancing leads to him gleefully stepping off the landing, singing, "Life goin' nooo-where, somebody help me--!"
And it's about then that he realizes he missed the next step in the staircase. His ankle buckles as he goes down too hard, too fast, and he pitches forward. In the half-second before his head hits the landing, he laments the fact that his first death on the ship is going to be falling down the stairs. The thought that he might not die immediately when his neck snaps doesn't occur to him until it happens, leaving him momentarily gasping in white-hot pain and searing panic.
And then, something fucking spooky happens.
Pickles could not for the life of him tell you what the fuck just happened, but he knows for a fact it was spooky as shit. In the endless, yawning chasm of nothingness that had been his existence for as long as... forever... he had felt something. Or seen something. Or -- he can't remember, can't remember anything other than the dizzying giddiness of blinding bright lights and a rattling respiratory system, gasping for air in some stranger's body until, at last, he found himself sitting up.
And now he's here, slumped against the stairs, one side of his face a bright-hot flare of agonizing, delicious pain, a tooth laying out among the scattered photographs around him. He feels like he just got hit by a truck, and then he laughs because fuck, it feels so good. It takes him a solid five minutes before he can finally gather enough awareness to gather up the pictures, staggering to the feet he's wearing -- his feet. And then he makes his teetering, hungover way back to the room that he knows, somehow, belongs to this body. He needs time to think, and if he sits here too long, Friday's gonna show up and ruin everything.]
[OCT 7TH] night @ the roxbury
But music? That, he missed almost more than anything else in the multiverse. It's his lifeblood -- he might as well not exist if he can't get his hands on an instrument and let loose. It doesn't even have to be metal, at this point! He'd spent almost all night bouncing between Renly's and John's, even though all they've got to offer is shitty eurotrash and Billy Joel instrumentals!
His soul is literally thirsting for it, though, and listening just isn't the same as playing. So, late in the evening when he knows there's nobody in the theater (or its rafters), he decides, fuck it. What are the chances that this guy ever talked about being bad at the drums, specifically? Can't, uhhhhhhh, Charlemagne have some hidden fuckin' talents beyond drinkin' and fuckin'?
There's a drum kit and an empty stage. Pickles sits behind the kit, sticks in hand, and closes his eyes. It'd be pretty silly to try summoning the spirits of Dethklok through raw drumming power...
And yet, somewhere deep inside, Pickles knows that is exactly what he's trying to do when he picks up the drum track for Thunderhorse. He's too slow, he knows it as soon as he starts, but he still remembers how to play. It'll just take practice, and he's got plenty of time for that now.]
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Okay, not always. That would be totally impossible, 'cause there's a lot of people on the ship, and a lot of music, and he can't be everywhere, all the time, following every single whiff of a tune or a melody and--
--doesn't matter, moot point. The point is, it's only inevitable that Jeff's drawn to the theater before long. He's got his guitar slung over his shoulder, because he had been planning on practicing, but he pauses at the threshold when he hears that killer drum beat.
A drummer.
There's a fucking drummer!
Do you have any idea how exciting this is?? Jeff rushes to the stage, bright eyed with an excitement that only grows when he sees Sharky seated at the kit. ]
Dude! I didn't know you played! Wish you'd told me-- we could've been jamming this whole time!
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Someone climbs the stage, and Pickles fumbles. It feels like the worst blue balls in his life, and he glares at the encroacher -- and the memories chucked into the back of his brain pick out names and faces and why is he thinking about Man in the Mirror all of the sudden??]
Aaaah, fahhhhk dude -- [Wait, jamming??? -- Oh, right, grandpa guitar. ...Hm.]
Yeeeah, sorry I didn't, uhhh... it never came up? [Hopefully?] You ahhh, thinkin' about jammin' now??
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[ excuse you it's a totally sweet Gibson SG, not a grandpa guitar!! Anyway, Jeff immediately winces. ]
Shit-- sorry, dude, I didn't mean to interrupt, it's just, um, I got really excited, 'cause, you know, you can't have a band without a drummer, and I never saw any drummers here, so I was like, 'fuck, I'm never gonna have a band again,' but then I heard you and--
[ Wait that's not answering the question. ]
Uh-- yeah! I was thinking-- I mean, I came here to-- we don't have to jam if you don't want... [ But why wouldn't Sharky want to? Unless he's self conscious. But does the guy ever get self conscious? ] But there's some old amps backstage, so I was gonna go bring one out and... you know. Noodle around or whatever.
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It's, like, there's this ginormous gap of emptiness between his memories of then and now, a yawning chasm of nothing that swallows up any of the emotions he should connect to the memories. Was it eaten by the ship? Or is it just buried somewhere under all this cheap-ass Montana good-old-boy bullshit?]
Yeah? Uhhh, I mean! Yes, I'm ~totes~ down to jam, are you kiddin' me? [Might as well get a feel for this dude's capabilities. ...If he's a better guitarist than Toki, would that make Toki better? Probably not, huh, but it really makes you think.] I haven't gotten to play wit' anybody else in... I dunno. An eternity, I guess? [SHRUG]
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(Kind of. Sort of. Almost. Could've been.) ]
Yeah! It fucking feels like an eternity for me, too. I've just been doing, like, solo shit ever since I was kidnapped, but I can't stand it, dude. The whole 'one guy with a guitar' thing, it's sooo fucking limiting. [ Time to be a little bit vulnerable now. It's Sharky, he's a cool dude. Jeff can be real with him. ] I, um... I really miss my band. Even if they probably... totally hated me by the end.
[ But that's a bummer, and a story for-- never, honestly. So Jeff perks up-- he forces himself to perk up from that bummer detour, and gets back to talking animatedly as he goes searching for the nearest amp to plug in to. ]
Anyway! What are you feeling? You know Primus? Dinosaur Jr.? Meat Puppets? Pixies? Or should we go, like, I dunno, classic rock or something. We could just freestyle, whatever, I'm open. I can wing it.
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It's hard, bein' on yer own, forrrrr sure. 'Specially if everybody hates ya. [Makes selling out shows difficult, at least.] But, yanno, plenty'a dudes go through multiple bandmates in their careers. Ya shouldn't get pinned down, man.
[Not that it actually matters, but fuck it. None of the others are around to get on his case for being gay and caring about some dude's nonexistent musical future.]
And, c'mon, dude, obviously I fuckin' know Primus. Let's see, shit. Guess I should be startin' slow -- you got a fave of theirs?
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Jeff nods solemnly as he drags an amp out to center stage and starts to plug in. ]
Yeah. I just-- I always thought me and Ally... [ Would make it to the top, together, even if bassists and rhythm guitarists changed. But talking about his best friend still feels like poking at an open wound, even after a year, so he just strums out a few chords, plays a few licks, just gets a feel for the sound and everything, then puts on another smile. ]
Oh! John the Fisherman? Bet that's a good warmup before we get into, like, Tommy the Cat. [ A beat, then a dreamy: ] Man, I wish we knew a bassist here...
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And anyway, he's gonna have to face the Nothing eventually. Might as well make sure his body doesn't get tossed into the pile like the rest of 'em.]
Yeeeah, man, sounds good to me! [He'd normally bank on something harder, faster -- but he needs to warm up, and nobody's around to try and get on his case for slowing down for some pleb. One good thing about the ship -- fuckin' nobody ever tried to film him doin' stupid shit for clout.]
Somebody here probably plays, but who's gonna admit to it? [Hahaha, bassist jokes.]
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Fuck, he feels good. He's practically vibrating with excitement. Collaboration! Working with his guitar, working with other artists, to create something-- it just fucking electrifies him. It's what he always loved about making music. ]
Fuck it, we'll draft someone. Make 'em learn to play the bass.
[ Because guess what, Sharky? You and Jeff are starting a band. That's happening. But for now: jamming. Once Jeff's satisfied with all the tuning and settings, he strums one more sample chord... Yeah. That's good. Perfect. ]
Ready when you are, man. [ Take it awaaaaay! ]
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Yeaaaa, dude, alright...
[Pickles stares at the drums in front of him for a second, trying to conjure up the song that he should know. Thankfully, the moment he sets stick to tom, it's like the music just moves right on through him. Muscle memory that isn't even part of these muscles, the same way Thunderhorse had come unbidden --
It's a slower groove than he's used to, but there's no denying the drumbeat is a fun one. Fuck, it's been so long, long enough that he's giggling barely any way into the song.]
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Jeff's not even close to the world's fastest guitarist, but he's got the skills and the heart to make his guitar come alive. There's potential here! It's just a shame his career was totally derailed by... himself, mainly. Demons and interdimensional kidnappings sure as fuck didn't help, though.
Fuck, Sharky's got some sick skills. He's like, legit. Why hasn't he been playing, like, every day? What made him drop the drums for so long?
One song turns to another (hey, they've gotta play Tommy the Cat, since he basically issued the challenge to himself, anyway), and another, and... The songs he knows like the back of his hand, he might sing along to. The ones he doesn't, he'll just improvise his riffs, add his own flavor to Sharky's beats. Jeff doesn't even know how much time has passed. He's just lost in the music, smiling, laughing, fucking whirling with electric charged happiness.
What a great day. ]
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The thing that draws him out is the wobble in his seat. The stool creaks when he shifts around, and he can't seem to get the height right for this new body of his. It isn't until he's adjusting for the third time that his fingers brush across a familiar tear in the thin fabric beneath. It's stapled shut and still sticky from the long-lost duct tape that kept peeling off --
Holy shit. Is this his drumkit? Did the motherfucker not -- did he just leave -- this is his drumkit! The same one from when Magnus tore the apartment up, the same one that Faceless Friday painstakingly wrapped in gaudy nautical paper and left him to open like a kid on Christmas! The only reason he hadn't realized it sooner is because someone scraped off the old Dethklok stencil.
Funny how quickly a realization like that can overwhelm a person. Pickles doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.]
Fuuuuck, man, time -- time out. I, aah, needa breather. [His hands are cramping. He doesn't know when that started. Individual sensations are hard to pick out from the whole.] Damn, yer pretty good. Guess I should'a figured, since.. ya got yer own guitar.
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You're pretty good, too. I mean, better than good. [ Jeff's going to find some nice, safe spot to set his guitar down, then flop down to sit on the stage, leaning back on his hands as he looks over at Sharky. ] I think this is, like, the longest I've played with another person in, um... I dunno, probably a fucking yeah. Thanks, Sharky. For... you know, jamming with me. I know I totally interrupted you earlier.
[ He just missed this so much. And now that he's had a taste again, it's like. Man. He feels extra alive right now. ]
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No wonder he was so goddamn easy to possess. At least this kid will make a better score for -- well, he hopes it'll be one of his brothers, but it could be anyone. Fuuuuuuck, he hopes it's not Daisy.]
It's been forever for me, too. Feels like... I dunno. Decades? Centuries? Since I gotta jam like that. Usually, it's all about playin' faster, playin' better -- heh, like my music could save the world. Nice to just let loose.
[Pickles takes a breath. He does feel a little bad about this next part... but fair's fair. Next time the lines between life and death on the ship are blurred, the kid can steal a body for himself.]
Hey, uhhh, would ya mind if I took a look at your guitar? I never was as good at them as the drums, but...
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Get to the top. Be a star. Blow up, burn up, doesn't matter what happens to him, as long as he gets his music and magic out there. The stakes always felt so high. ]
Yeah... It's nice, man. [ As for the guitar? ] Oh! Dude, knock yourself out! Maybe we can teach each other sometime, I mean, 'cause I was never any good at the drums, and I want to learn, and it's like, we've got nothing but time here, so we've gotta do something to keep from going totally crazy and--
[ He's just going to happily-- and obliviously-- keep on rambling, just a sunny, optimistic kid talking about a future that's never going to come. ]
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So. Time to get got, Jeff.
Pickles listens to him babble on and on as he gets up and meanders over to the guitar. He picks it up, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. It's a Gibson -- that's pretty good. Really good. He hopes whoever he's about to unleash can fuckin' play it.]
Nothin' but time, [he agrees, wandering behind Jeff across the stage. His hand placement moves from proper form, turning the guitar over until it's less a musical instrument and more of a blunt force instrument.]
...But we're a lil' late for crazy, [as he lifts the guitar overhead, both hands tight around the neck, and then he swings downward with all his might.
KABONK.]
1/2 ooOOOOOOOO
Huh?
[ He starts to turn his head, to look over his shoulder at his pal, but he barely manages to move, much less process a single fucking thing, before he's struck with so much force, just wham, something solid cracking his skull, and he can't really--
Nothing makes--
Everything's spotty and spinning and it's like his brain's crashing around in his skull, and he's moving, he's really trying to crawl away, body on autopilot, all instinct with no real direction besides survive.
But there's big dark spots in his vision, one blooming over another and another, until there's nothing but black, and it feels like--
Something tugging on his sleeve, gently, whispering let go. He doesn't want to let go, though. He wants to stay, he wants to keep clutching to the spark inside, he-- ]
2/2 WITCHY
It feels so good to feel anything at all. He takes another breath, hitched with a manic giggle, and gets to his feet. Wobbly and unsteady, he feels like a baby deer learning to walk because jesus, is this guy all legs or something? His center of balance is totally different.
Having a body again is gonna take some getting used to. Having a body that isn't his is even weirder. But he'll adapt. He'll survive. He always does.
(Says the twice-dead 18-year-old. Well, more, if you count every death on this ship that led up to The Big One.)
He turns and looks at (drumming, he was just playing the drums, they were jamming--) who can only be Pickles, holding a guitar. ]
Whoooaaaa, sick guitar, dude. [ How's that? Does he sound like Jeff? Chase grins in... honestly a way that's probably instantly recognizable as the teenage shithead he is. ] Play Freebird.
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The shit-eating grin is eerie to see on the surfer-bro body he'd just been talking to, but the creep factor is outweighed by the fact that FUCK YOU CHASE YOU CAN'T EVEN PLAY WHY DO YOU GET TO HAVE THE GUITARIST'S BODY --]
Oooooh, I am gonna kill you, motherfucker! [As he brandishes the guitar -- hey, the neck's still straight! -- for another swing.] I teed that kid up perfectly for Toki or Skwis!!!
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Chase holds up a hand to stop Pickles in his tracks-- you know, just in case he gets any funny ideas about actually taking a swing-- only to realize, uh... all the Power he feels in this body? It doesn't want to listen to him.
Not yet, anyway.
Well, time to cover that up with a laugh. He didn't just try and fail to use magic, you saw nothing! ]
Oh yeah, like they wouldn't get caught the second they opened this mouth and started talking like the Swedish Chef. C'mon, Pickle, think strategicallys for a minutes.
[ How's that for a Toki impression? ]
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--UUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!! [He almost smashes the guitar, but -- that feels like insult to injury. If his own drumkit could survive here until he found a way back to it, then Jeff should get the same chance.]
UUUUGH. Fuckin' hate you. [Okay that's uncharitable, he actually likes Chase, in that "I wouldn't kill you first in Battle Royale" sorta way. It's just!!! 😔, yanno???]
Look -- dunno what's goin' on around here exactly, but you saw how easy that fuckin' was. This whole group's just sittin' around, havin' parties every day like a buncha spoiled douchebags, an' the way I figure it, that ain't fuckin' fair! If they aren't gonna do shit, then we might as well take this shit back, do it right this time. Finally murder that fucker who put us in there.
[Chase knows exactly what there is.]
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But that grin falls, replaced with a look of... aggrieved confusion, really, as Pickles lets him in on the current state of things. ]
Parties? What, like they're just braiding each others' hair in an endless slumber party? Don't tell me the bastard's gone soft...
[ Well. That's fine if he has. It makes the Captain easier to take out. ]
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Speaking of... Pickles goes ahead and sets Jeff's guitar beside another, faded black Gibson with distinctive, sharp curves and unfamiliar scuff marks. He doesn't think about that any longer than he needs to, nope!]
They went to a god-damn beach. A real one! An' you wanna know what they did? They fuckin'... played drinking games!!! [WHINY AND ANNOYED VOICE IS GO] And they had a great time!!!! How's THAT fuckin' FAIR?