sirenspull | Entries tagged with !: pickles the drummer

[Picture it: the grimy interior of an international pancake house, where all good culinary choices go to die in a semi-hygienic grave. One might ask themselves who in their right mind would hang out in such a place on a Tuesday afternoon by choice, aside from stoners and people on dates that they're trying to hide from their friends and the rest of respectable society.

Once the NV is propped up against something (presumably a napkin dispenser) that question is answered in the form of Pickles the Drummer, sitting alone in one of the faded blue and yellow booths. There's a pint of coffee and a giant stack of pancakes in front of him, slathered in butter and maple syrup. He lifts his eyebrows at the camera in response to well...everything.]

Guess this means I'm back for a while. If yer surprised, that makes two of us--I was out there tryin' to destroy that stupid piece of shit, an' it still puts me back in this place? I thought machines were supposed to be smarter than us. I've been here nine months, an' it's shaped up to have less IQ points than a fuckin' vibrator. I dunno.

Anyway, I'm glad that bein' killed was actually pretty brutal. Death, an' people gettin' murdered, that's the kinda shit my band always talked about. It's in all of our fuckin' songs. I mean, I'm a death metal musician, for fuck's sake, that's my bread an' butter right there, y'know? So it wasn't a huge let-down, that's all I'm sayin'. An' that's good: I don't wanna make no more job changes. It sucks.

But apparently the news came out an' said that I was some kinda menace, a while back. Now there's a strip club ten minutes away from my pal's apartment that won't let me back in 'cause they think I'm gonna set the girls on fire, or some bullshit like that. An' that's the fuckin' lamest part. [He rolls his eyes while delivering this hyperbole and takes a bite of pancake. And yes, being banned from a boobie bar is clearly the most inconvenient part about being gunned down by a group of Canadian robocops.]

So what else did I miss?

dr_orpheus

[The video feed cuts in suddenly, and the network is treated to another accidental show. In this case, it's the downside to having a skull NV with a tendency to bounce when it's sitting on a table and you bang your fist against that table with great force because, well...]

WHAT is going on here?

Dude, nothin'! [If anyone could believe that someone yelling at Pickles could really be over “nothing,” the proof is in the visuals: a naked blonde tearing through the frame with her clothes while Pickles tries to cover himself up with a towel. Yeah, even he seems to know he doesn't have much to stand on in the innocence department.] ...S' fine. Dude, s' only water--s' not like we were in yer bed or nothin', relax--

It is not only water! It is a beaver habitat! Would you entertain a lady of the night IN FIDO'S BACKYARD HOME?

[A sound escapes his throat, almost like he was going to say something to that, but then...doesn't.] It's a fuckin' pool in yer house! How was I supposed to know beavers lived in there?!

I introduced you to them on your first day here!

...I thought they were stuffed animals. [He was high, okay?]

Stuffed-! [No, there are more important things to be enraged about at the moment.] Where are they now?

How the hell should I know? S' not like I was lookin' for a bunch of beavers to come out when I opened the fuckin' door.

[Orpheus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. They most likely retreated to the bathroom after the intrusion. He will look for them later.] Well, the damage has been done. [He walks over to the edge of the whirlpool tub and peers inside.] I will have to give the pool a proper cleaning... [His voice trails off as he leans over the side of the tub and reaches for something. That something comes into view when he stands up, holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger and keeping it at a great distance. It is a well-used lady's thong. There are no words, just a look of utter disgust for Pickles.]

[While Pickles stares back at the thong without any noticeable reaction, adjusting his towel a bit.] ...Hey. I can throw that out for you if you want. I mean, she probably ain't comin' back for it now, y'know.

[He listens to the offer with no change in his expression, but then something snaps. Orpheus has had enough. His hand, still holding the thong, whips towards the door.] OUT!

[Pickles looks a little shocked for a second; then he settles on annoyed, rolling his eyes and heading back to where his own clothes were.] Fine. Jeeez. Don't have a fuckin' heart attack, dude.

[Both Pickles and Dr. Orpheus disappear off-screen, but the argument doesn't end there: it just becomes distant and harder to hear, as though the vitriol was coming from the other end of the apartment. About eight minutes later, Pickles’s voice comes closer, choice words like "douche bag" and "fuck" being uttered, and the last thing the NV sees is him slamming his key down on the table before the feed shuts off.]

drinkthebleach

[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?

drinkthebleach

[Ever wondered what the office of an AGI accountant looked like? It's rather sumptuous, with a mahogany desk, fully-functional Zen rock garden, and one wall-length window spanning from the floor to the ceiling. It’d give someone a sunburn just from standing in front of it too long.

The window is the focus of the video and the glaring anomaly in the overall picture--not because company bigwigs don’t normally like scenic views, but the gaping hole in the glass.

At this point in time, you might notice the big desk is also missing a chair.

Whoever is holding the NV, they walk towards the damage, almost close enough to peer over the edge.]

...That's good for a two-week notice, ain't it? [For someone that was reported to have died in a fire four days ago, Pickles sounds healthy, at least. Aside from the rage and the tension that's hardly restrained in his voice. It only percolates, becoming more obvious as he continues.]

I shoulda never let myself get tied up with corporate dildo mother-fuckers in the first place. That's my own fault, there--forgettin' they don't screw you any less in fuckin' Canada than they do in the real world. Fool me twice, I’m fucked an' all that. But I'm not doin' this no more. I've had it.

[Glass shards pop under the soles of his sneakers (most likely from something else that Pickles broke in the office).] Fuck you, you bunch of mafia twats. Take all that money I "owe" ya an' shove it up hard. That means I quit. ...An' I pissed on yer desk.

[It's on that note that the feed closes and fades to black.]