Pickles the Drummer (
drinkthebleach) wrote in
sirenspull2012-03-14 08:15 pm
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009 [video] Forward-dated to midnight, 3/17
[It's Pickles the Drummer from Dethklok, and he's being fucking festive right now, wearing a green T-shirt and his dreads pulled back underneath a darker green beanie. The bruises from the fight with AGI have even faded, by now (much to his appreciation)—they’re more of a pallid corpse yellow as opposed to that obnoxious purplish-black. He lights a cigarette with one hand and leans back.]
Okay. Everybody knows holidays suck an’ there's no point to any of them. There's only like, two that even matter: [Counting them off on his fingers.] New Year's Eve, an' this one right here. An' I know there's gonna be at least five or six culture-shocked dildos makin' videos askin' 'bout the green an' what's goin' on an' all that crap, which gets really annoying, after a while. I'm just gonna lay it all out for you right now. Saint Patrick was this dude a really long time ago that cleared all the snakes outta Ireland—that was important for some reason, I dunno. So now we all celebrate him by listenin' to depressin' folk music in bars an' drinkin' a crap ton of booze in one night. Everyone gets involved: even non-Irish dudes wear green an' get drunk. S' all about gettin' totally hammered, 'cause throwin' up is supposed to be symbolic of spiritual renewal, or whatever.
Big surprise, yer gonna see me passed out before eleven, tonight. An' then I'm doin' a total overhaul of my fuckin' life over here. So all this shit you see? [He tilts forward to take control of the NV again and swivel it around the room.] S' for sale. I’m leavin' this dump in the dust, an' I don’t wanna take anythin' bigger than a duffel bag with me. S' just the way I move.
[A long, almost contemplative drag, which he traps in his lungs for a couple seconds and then exhales through his nostrils.] Anyone need a TV? A chair, or whatever? I got a side table that has this little mirror-thing that comes out—I'll sell it to anyone that wants to do some coke.
If none of that interests you, I'm also givin' this up:
[Pickles sets his cigarette down somewhere off-screen (presumably in an ash tray) and reaches for an electric guitar. He brandishes it by the neck for everyone to see (and looks like Christmas in the process, with the cherry red instrument standing against his shirt).] This is a JS22R Dinky. S' not a Gibson, but s' not that shitty, neither. Chrome bridge. Heavy tone. Humbucking pick-ups, y'know. Round near the nut so you can finger the thing pretty good.
'S all yers—y'know. If you don't mind the fact that the dude that had it before died in a fire. I even thought 'bout burnin' his guitar too, I dunno. That's what I'm gonna do with whatever doesn't sell--I'm just gonna light it all on fuckin' fire, probably. Give it a viking funeral. I just figured waste not, want not, y'know? An' I could use the extra cash.
So yeah. [He lifts his eyebrows at the NV.] You gonna help me out, friends?
Okay. Everybody knows holidays suck an’ there's no point to any of them. There's only like, two that even matter: [Counting them off on his fingers.] New Year's Eve, an' this one right here. An' I know there's gonna be at least five or six culture-shocked dildos makin' videos askin' 'bout the green an' what's goin' on an' all that crap, which gets really annoying, after a while. I'm just gonna lay it all out for you right now. Saint Patrick was this dude a really long time ago that cleared all the snakes outta Ireland—that was important for some reason, I dunno. So now we all celebrate him by listenin' to depressin' folk music in bars an' drinkin' a crap ton of booze in one night. Everyone gets involved: even non-Irish dudes wear green an' get drunk. S' all about gettin' totally hammered, 'cause throwin' up is supposed to be symbolic of spiritual renewal, or whatever.
Big surprise, yer gonna see me passed out before eleven, tonight. An' then I'm doin' a total overhaul of my fuckin' life over here. So all this shit you see? [He tilts forward to take control of the NV again and swivel it around the room.] S' for sale. I’m leavin' this dump in the dust, an' I don’t wanna take anythin' bigger than a duffel bag with me. S' just the way I move.
[A long, almost contemplative drag, which he traps in his lungs for a couple seconds and then exhales through his nostrils.] Anyone need a TV? A chair, or whatever? I got a side table that has this little mirror-thing that comes out—I'll sell it to anyone that wants to do some coke.
If none of that interests you, I'm also givin' this up:
[Pickles sets his cigarette down somewhere off-screen (presumably in an ash tray) and reaches for an electric guitar. He brandishes it by the neck for everyone to see (and looks like Christmas in the process, with the cherry red instrument standing against his shirt).] This is a JS22R Dinky. S' not a Gibson, but s' not that shitty, neither. Chrome bridge. Heavy tone. Humbucking pick-ups, y'know. Round near the nut so you can finger the thing pretty good.
'S all yers—y'know. If you don't mind the fact that the dude that had it before died in a fire. I even thought 'bout burnin' his guitar too, I dunno. That's what I'm gonna do with whatever doesn't sell--I'm just gonna light it all on fuckin' fire, probably. Give it a viking funeral. I just figured waste not, want not, y'know? An' I could use the extra cash.
So yeah. [He lifts his eyebrows at the NV.] You gonna help me out, friends?
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Do you really know how to play? I mean, yer not just honin' in on this thing 'cause it's shiny an' shit? [It still wasn't his preferred brand, but Pickles got to know these guitars from other guys in the heavy metal scene--ergo he'd rather burn the thing than let another talentless hack touch it.]
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[Even if it does sound empty to his own ears without his heart. To the people down at the club, he's pretty good.]
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[And that's when the feed cuts out, but as Demyx said? About twenty seconds after he ended the call a dark corridor swirls to life outside of his door. Normally he would have just popped on in, but he didn't want to breach any boundaries with someone he was just starting to get to know. So, once Demyx makes sure he's presentable, he knocks on the door.]
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But then he hears a knock at the door not even a minute after the feed closed. He jumps, and then he concludes that it has to be someone else because again--not physically possible for Demyx to get to his apartment so fast without being in the building to begin with. So he doesn't answer the first knock.]
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He just stares at him for a beat.]
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[Rubbing his arm awkwardly, Demyx glances down at his boots as he thinks about how to explain it to Pickles. It was harder than he thought to come up with an excuse, so he just does the next best thing; he holds his left hand out to open up the same portal he used to travel over here.]
Like that.
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Okay, yeah, I get yer point.
So it's like some kinda inter-dimensional puddle, you use?
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[He waves his hand to dismiss the portal.]
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So uhh...come on in. [Pickles steps aside to let Demyx in.]
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How come you're movin', anyways?
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To be honest, s' been overdue for a while, though. I mean, this apartment sucks. You can see that. [He walks over and hands Demyx one of the beers (nope, doesn't matter if he wanted one or not, and if he wants to be pals, he's going to accept that damn beer).] I'd rather kill myself than keep livin' here like some miserable douche bag.
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Uh... W-Well, Sector 4 has some pretty nice places. I can afford it just offa my salary down at Purgatory and it's pretty cozy. Two bedroom place, me 'n Axel have been living there since he got here 'n that's been since September, I think? We don't gotta pay for water, plumbing or heating really cuz of our powers combined. I got control of water 'n he's fire.
[Demyx, no. You're babbling again, stop that.]
D'ya got a place lined up though?
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Not at all. [He presses the small of his back against the oven and sips his beer.] But y'know, s' not that big of a deal. I mean, either way I'm movin' somewhere in this city, right? I figure I'll just get outta here an' then pick a spot--or whatever. Who cares.
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