Disclaimer: The following is a work of totally ridiculous and asinine fiction. Fortunately, it is just for R&R, and not for profit because no one in their right mind would purchase such trash, and yammering dribble, however much fun it may be to read. :) No harm is intended to those involved.


This chapter is kind of pointless. I'm still trying to decide where I'm going to go with this, so this first chapter is sadly just a "fluff" chapter, until I get my shit together...If I ever do. :lol:



Chapter One


It was a shitty day outside. Cold, drizzling, gray, pure, unfiltered, shitty. The shitty weather fit Cliff Burton’s shitty mood as he impatiently drummed his fingers upon the dashboard of his shitty car.

“Come on Kirk, hurry up,” he sighed to himself as he lit up a cigarette to help pass the time as plump, glassy, raindrops pelted loudly against the windows of his car.

Cliff and Kirk were on their way to rehearsal at the Metallimansion, or at least they were supposed to be on their way to rehearsal. Unannounced to Cliff, Kirk had decided to run all of his weekly errands for himself and his mother while en route to rehearsal. Not only was he wasting Cliff’s (who was doing all of the driving) time, but he was also wasting his gas. Cliff’s car had an unreliable gas gage, and even though it still read a quarter of a tank left of fuel, Cliff knew better than to trust it. He had been caught stranded along I-80 numerous times, the worst being when he had gotten stranded right on The Bay Bridge on his way to Oakland, right in the center lane, during rush hour. He certainly did not want to relive that today, especially in such dismal, and did I mention shitty, weather conditions.

They were already about twenty minutes late for rehearsal. Kirk had had Cliff chauffer him around all over hell’s half acre. First, he had made him go down to the Safeway and pick up a jar of evaporated milk, a tube of Preparation H, and a green pepper for Kirk’s mother. Then Kirk had to stop by the bank, the post office, and the pharmacy. Finally, they were on their last stop. Mrs. Hammett had asked Kirk to drop off a spinach and macaroni casserole to her friend Mrs. Marsh. Cliff had opted to wait outside in his car while Kirk went along inside. He was hoping that the fact that he was outside in the car waiting, would have hurried Kirk along, but obviously he was still taking his own sweet time.

This was not the rehearsal to be late to, for it was very important. The band’s manager Brian Slagel had been in cahoots with some big-shot record producer dude, who they were hoping would agree to fund, market, and produce their second album. Slagel had been making this dude out to be the Messiah, the one person who could launch Metallicas’ careers into the stratosphere, and provide them with the funding and promotion that they would need in order to make their marks in the world of heavy metal. He was flying in from New York City in just five days to hear the band, and get to know them to see if they would be a “good fit.” Slagel had even arranged for him to stay in a house for a few weeks that was just right down the street from the Metallimansion. Things seemed pretty hardcore and serious, so everything just had to sound perfect. Brian really wanted Metallica to impress this dude.

“What the hell is he doing in there?” Cliff wondered aloud as he watched the quiet and totally still house for any sign of life. Just then, Cliff’s windshield wipers decided to quit working. “Pig fuck!” Cliff muttered as he put down his cigarette, and climbed out of the car into the shivery rain. The rain pelted him like owl pellets as he reached over the windshield, and violently smacked each windshield wiper hard against the windshield with a violent thud. “Take that motherfucker!” he grunted as the sleepy windshield wipers slowly and lethargically came back to life.

Speaking of life, Kirk Hammett emerged from the front door of the house, chattering like a magpie to Mrs. Marsh, and holding a loaf of bread that was wrapped up in red tissue paper.

“You be careful now driving about in that rain Kirk,” Mrs. Marsh warned as he happily trotted down the front porch steps. She looked over at Cliff, who was standing there soaked and freezing his ass off in the rain. “You’ll catch your death standing out in the rain!” she croaked at him. “Don’t you know any better?”

“Fuck you,” Cliff grumbled under his breath as he opened the door to his car, and slithered into the driver’s seat in a wet slimy blob. Kirk cheerfully hopped in the passenger’s side.

“I get shotgun!” he squeaked happily.

“I wish that I had a shotgun,” Cliff growled as he backed the car out of the driveway. “Just what the fuck took you so long?” he demanded.

Kirk caressed the loaf of red tissue paper that was sitting all safely nestled in his lap as if it were a newborn baby pigeon. “Banana bread,” he answered. “Mrs. Marsh was baking fresh loaves of banana bread for her church group, and she let us have a loaf for our rehearsal. I had to wait for it to come out of the oven though.”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps it’s more important to be on time to rehearsal, rather than well fed to rehearsal?” Cliff snapped as he sped up through a yellow light.

“I can’t play well on an empty stomach,” Kirk retorted hotly as he tossed his hair and gazed out the window at the gloomy landscape.

“You can’t play well even on a full stomach,” Cliff quipped testily. “You’ve fucked almost the whole god damn day away, not to mention nearly an entire tank of gas.”

Cliff pulled into a gas station, the lumbering station wagon sputtering its way over to one of the pumps.

“What are we doing here?” Kirk asked.

“We’re going ballroom dancing,” replied Cliff as he reached into his pocket. “We’re getting gas you nincompoop!” he ranted. “What the fuck do you think people do at gas stations?”

He stuffed a crumpled up ten dollar bill into Kirk’s hand. “Here,” he muttered as he lit up another cigarette. “Now get the fuck out!” he ordered. “Go pump the gas.”

Kirk just looked at him. Blinking.

“I’ve driven you all over this godforsaken city!” Cliff spat. “The least that you can do is pump the fucking gas for me, while I smoke my cigarette.”

“But it’s raining,” Kirk protested.

“You’re under a cover,” said Cliff.

“It’s cold,” Kirk whined.

Cliff slid off his denim jacket and hurled it over at Kirk. “Here,” he said flatly. “Now pump my fucking gas.”

“But, but,” Kirk stammered, his dark eyes spilling with desperation. “Cliff,” he went on. “I uh, I uh, I don’t know how.”

“What do you mean you don’t know how?” Cliff demanded. “Everyone knows how to put gas in the car. Even my aunt’s fucking dog could put gas in a car.”

Kirk looked down at the loaf of banana bread that was in his lap, taking comfort in its warmth. His whimsical curls fell over his face as he spoke

“I didn’t have a father around to show me how,” he said quietly. “And my mom doesn’t know how either.”

“Well if your old man ain’t around, and you and your mom both don’t know how to put gas in the car, how the fuck do you people get around?” Cliff asked.

“My brother fills our gas tanks for us,” replied Kirk. “I’ve never had to put gas in the car. Not ever.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” said Cliff.

“Oh honestly Burton,” Kirk laughed. “You don’t expect me to put gas in this thing before rehearsal do you? I don’t want to get that shit all over my hands, and then go touch my guitar!”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Cliff squawked as he grabbed his jacket back, and stalked out of the car. A cigarette dangled from his mouth as he roughly stuffed the gas nozzle from the pump into the fill spout of his car. Even though the gas station pumps were under a cover, the wind blew the rain right into his face in whipping, wet, horizontal, sheets. As Cliff stood there smoking his cigarette, he got even more drenched and chilled down to the bone. Kirk and his curly crown of curls sprouted out of the car.

“I’m going inside to buy a slush puppy,” he announced. “You want anything?”

“Yeah,” said Cliff. “I want to take a giant shit on your head.”

“Well don’t do that,” Kirk scoffed as he flounced off inside the convenience store.

Cliff filled the tank up, and then went inside to pay, and purchase a pack of smokes. When he finished, he scanned the mini mart for Kirk. You would think that buying a slush puppy would take but a minute, but Kirk Hammett buying a slush puppy was quite the ordeal.

“You ready to go Hamster?” Cliff asked as he came up behind him.

“Should I get a grape slush puppy, or a white cherry slush puppy?” Kirk proposed.

“You mean you haven’t even bought the fucking thing yet?” Cliff squealed.

“Well it is a tough decision,” Kirk defended.

“Kirk,” Cliff said. “It’s a fucking slush puppy...From a gas station. It’s not top shelf Cognac. It’s going to taste like ass no matter what flavor you get.”

“That’s your opinion,” Kirk retorted.

“Get grape, and let’s get the fuck out of here,” Cliff snapped.

“Yeah, but white cherry is a brand new flavor,” Kirk argued.

“Then get white cherry.”

“But what if I find out that I don’t like it?” Kirk whined.

“Oh for heaven’s sake Hamster!” an exasperated Cliff shrieked, throwing his hands up in the air. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. “I’ll buy you both of them,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“That’s a good idea Cliff, but if I drink both slush puppies, I won’t have any room in my tummy for banana bread,” replied Kirk as he followed him to the cashier.

“Then you can shove a finger down your throat, and puke some of it up,” Cliff returned as he ordered the two slush puppies.

“But Cliff,” Kirk started to whine.

“I just want to get to my fucking rehearsal!” Cliff snapped as he threw his money down on the counter. “Before next Christmas…”

Yey! A new Verity story! I like it! :biggrin :horns:

Love what I've read so far!

:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:

omigod, I fell off the chair xD
MORE! :D

:lol: :lol: :lol: Poor Cliff,he's always the one that gets pissed :lol: And Ham Man whines more than my stupid little cousin that's been fed up with a fucking spoon all her life <_< :lol:

I like the sound of it(hope they don't get to fuck up the meeting with that big guy :ugh: ) :P Careful everybody,cause Ashley's fan fic is up and running! :horns: :lol: :horns2

Great start already, Ashley :) Oh man, that chapter was funny as fuck, poor Cliff :lol: Kirk's being a whiny little pussy, and wasting Cliff's gas and money, poor guy. And all for some banana bread. Well, since I'm from New Jersey, almost no one here can pump gas, in fact, it's illegal to put gas in your own car. I learned how to do it in Florida, maybe I can give Kirk lessons :wink Keep going :horns2

Really? Why, are they scared that you will pour gas on someone and set him on fire? That's really strange :D

OMG- I seriously would have left Kirk. I would have just waited 5 minutes for him to drop off the damn casserole and left.

I always end up sympathizing with Cliff in your stories. Maybe 'cause I'm also seriously impatient, anti-social, and grouchy :) But very sweet on the inside. (I hope)

I am SO GLAD the damn gas station didn't go up in flames with the cigarette Cliff was smoking. I sort of got worried that was going to happen. I guess the rain would have doused it... I just sort a mental picture of the station wagon lumbering quickly away from a big ball of flame.

Kirk grates... :ugh: :ugh: :ugh: :ugh: :ugh:

I can't wait to see where this is going!

OMG!! This is hilarious!! Brilliant writing, I love how exasparated Cliff gets with Kirk. Have to say he would have got a slap up the side of the head from me if I'd been stuck with him! :lol:

this fic is killer!!!! :lol: can't wait for more!!!! :biggrin

Hallelujah you are back and with a new and feisty lookin' fic!

I was laughing my socks off at poor Cliff's frustration and aggravation with Kirk. It says a lot for the dude's patience... if I was the one doing the drivin he would have got a bitchslap a long time ago lol!

I love how you can make a whole chapter just of them trying to get to rehearsal and not only make it incredibly goddamn funny, but in between manage to get us familiar with traits of the characters - Cliff's patience, Kirk's whininess, the fact that Kirk doesn't have a father around, and the way that Cliff reacts to a hideously bad day!

I have to admit I've been picturing the other guys in rehearsal just waiting for 'em so I'm looking forward to seeing what happens there!

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Cliff squawked as he grabbed his jacket back, and stalked out of the car. A cigarette dangled from his mouth as he roughly stuffed the gas nozzle from the pump into the fill spout of his car.

That was so funny - you can just feel the frustration practically dripping off him and damn I am not surprised!!

I can't wait to see what happens next with this one :)

Mihaela- thank you!

Claire- you'll like this even more as it goes on I think.

Simone- you made me laugh. :lol: I was pissy and whiny yesterday, so it really came out in that last chapter.

Grucha- Thank you for reading. That is a good question about the pumping gas in New Jersey. I know that you can't pump it yourself there, but I have no idea why. Maybe Vanessa can answer that for us. :)

Vanessa- I'd say that Kirk needs lessons in pumping gas definitely. How come they don't allow people to pump their own in New Jersey? Grucha and I want to know. :)

Maisy- I am VERY impatient too. And grouchy, and sometimes antisocial. I would have left Kirk too. I was wondering if anyone would notice that Cliff was smoking while pumping gas. Believe it or not, I see people who do that all the time down here. :blink:

Tallicachick- Thank you. I was worried that the first chapter would suck big time since it revolves around slush puppies and pumping gas.

Lars's Sex Slave- Thank you!!!! I want to put lots of Lars in this.

Shayi- You rock girl. Thank you. I was worried that the first chapter was going to be dumb and mundane. I'm happier than a pig in shit that it was at least somewhat funny.



Sweet. That was everybody. :)



*The following chapter contains lyrics from Creeping Death. Though I’m sure that most of you girls would have figured that out.




Chapter Two

A very strained, flat, and un-enchanted, James Hetfield marched around the garage/rehearsal room at the Metallimansion warbling

“So let it be written, so let it be done
I'm sent here by the chosen one
So let it be written, so let it be done
To kill the first born pharaoh's son
I'm creeping death! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

Brian Slagel sighed in a combination of annoyance and desperation as he shook his head and scribbled down some notes. His grandma could have given a more inspired rendition of the song. It was evident that the boys had not done much rehearsing lately, and as a result they were not on top of their game.

Metallica was playing the song way under tempo for some reason. Maybe it was the dreary rainy weather but still, that wasn’t an excuse, especially when they had big name record producers flying in just to see them. Brian winced as Kirk hit a very sour note, obviously out of tune. He had come in late to the rehearsal, and had not had time to properly tune up his instrument beforehand. Lars kept lagging further and further behind the rest of the band, and he could have sworn that around the second verse, Cliff had started playing the bass line to Moterbreath instead. James fucked up one of the song’s riffs once again towards the end, practically taking a giant shit all over the notes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, as he fell behind the rest of the group.

Finally the torture finished, and Metallica ended the song though they did not end it together. Somehow Cliff finished a bar before the rest of them, and Kirk feeling shy without Cliff’s bass plugging along, immediately dropped out. James looked up from his guitar at Brian.

“That wasn’t none too bad,” he commented. “I’d say that ought to impress Mr. Record Producer Dick. I’m going to get some beer.”

James laid his guitar down, and started to make his way towards the kitchen, but Slagel grabbed him by the arm. “You will remain here Mr. Hetfield until I am finished,” he said sternly.

James folded his arms over his chest and scowled. He wasn’t the only one who had been trying to high tail it out of there. Cliff had already packed up his bass, and had been tip toeing over to the door.

“You too Mr. Burton!” Brian bellowed at him. He cleared his throat. “I was hoping that you boys would have Creeping Death up to snuff by the time that the new record producer arrives,” he preached. “But never mind…We’ll just stick with The Four Horsemen instead.”

“Sweet,” James mumbled. “Now can I go get my beer now?”

“I’m not finished!” Brian barked at him. “Now this record producer used to be a colonel in the military, and he spent a good amount of time stationed over in Borneo. Lord only knows what he heard for music over there.”

He heard Kirk unsuccessfully try and stifle a giggle. He immediately scanned the room so that he could see just what was so fucking funny. Lars had taken two pieces of banana bread, cut holes in the middle of each, and had put them over his eyes while making pig faces over at Kirk at the same time. Obviously a record producer of great renown didn’t carry that much importance to them. Brian picked up a drumstick and smacked it harshly on one of Lars’s drums.

“I hope that your face doesn’t freeze that way Mr. Ulrich!” he barked.

“Why?” shot James. “He’d sure as fuck look a lot better.”

“Fock off Het you inflated dick!” hissed Lars.

“You’re right Larsykins,” replied James. “My dick is inflated. Why it’s so inflated that-”

“Silence!” Brian screeched as he whacked the drum once again. “Now,” he went on once he had their attention. “This new record producer has also spent the past six years dividing his time between New York City and London. He’s worked with Iron Maiden…He was very instrumental in producing The Number of the Beast.”

“6 6 6 the number of the beast!” James sang with ardor, holding his fist as a fake microphone.

“If only you knew your own Metallica songs as well,” Brian sighed. “He has also worked and produced albums for King Crimson.”

“Ooooooh!” Kirk squealed in delight as he looked up from the piece of banana bread that he had been delicately buttering. “King Crimson! I adore King Crimson,” he sighed.

“As you can see, the man has worked with the best,” Brian continued. “And I don’t want him to think that we of the Bay Area underground thrash metal scene, are some uncultured backwater area.”

He started to wave the drum stick through the air. “What we play,” he shouted. “We play right!”

“Fock yeah!” Lars whooped as he raised his beer bottle.

“That’s nice,” Cliff muttered flatly. “Can I go home now?”

“No you may not Mr. Burton,” Brian replied. “We now have other things to attend to.”

“Like business,” said Lars, his eyes dancing. “And money,” he added.

“Yes Lars,” Brian sighed. “Business and money: your two favorite things.”

“And good beer,” added Lars. “And braless chickies, tramp stamps on whores, wet T-shirt contests in the spring.”

“These are a few of my fav-o-rite things!” Kirk sang happily.

“Shut the fock up Lerner and Loewe!” Lars snapped as he smacked Kirk upside the head.

“Actually dude,” said Cliff in his “professor tone” as he lit up a joint. “That was Rogers and Hammerstein,” he lectured.

“Oh go fock yourself Burton!” Lars snapped. “You castrated cow.”

“Boys!” Brian cut in. “We have business to attend to. Now this new record producer will be here in less than a week’s time.”

“Does this dude have a name?” James asked as he took a swig of beer and then reached for a piece of banana bread. “Or are we just supposed to call him Mr. Producer Dude?”

“His name is Mr. Clive Pettibone,” replied Brian. “Actually, Colonel Pettibone.”

“Colonel Pettibone?” Lars squawked as he doubled over with laughter. “That sounds like a dude who should be making fried chicken…Not producing a Metallica album.”

“He was good enough to produce for Iron Maiden,” Brian shot. “However, Iron Maiden you guys are not. Unless you guys drastically get your shit together, your level of performance is not going to impress Colonel Pettibone. So instead, we have to do whatever we can to try and impress him elsewhere.”

“You want us to suck his dick?” James asked with a mouth full of banana bread. “Have Kirk do it,” he mumbled. “Because I ain’t.”

“Well, I was actually thinking along the lines of sprucing up the house,” answered Brian. “Furnishing Colonel Pettibone and his family with a place to stay for a few weeks is part of the contract, so I’m letting the Pettibones stay in one of my rental houses down the street.”

“Hopefully their hot water heater works better than ours does,” Lars quipped bitterly as he took his chewing gum out of his mouth and stuck it under the table to safe keep it for later.

“Pay your rent Lars, and you will have a hot water heater that works,” Brian replied smoothly. “I was thinking that we could freshen the place up a bit,” he suggested. “After all, the house will be a reflection of the entire band.”

“Many hands make light work,” said Kirk. “If we all pitch in, we should have the place up to tiptop shape in no time.”

“Right,” sighed James, obviously unenthused. “What the fuck do we need to do exactly?”

“Check the ledger Lars,” said Kirk. “Let’s see when it was last wallpapered.”

Lars flamboyantly opened up the ledger book as if Metallica’s band ledger book was as important as the Bible. No one except Lars Ulrich, ever got to even touch the band ledger, not even James.

“It doesn’t need papering,” Brian cut in. “I remember hanging that wallpaper myself…It’s as good as new.”

“Here it is!” exclaimed Lars. “June! 1960.”

“Surely the least that we can do is hang some new wallpaper every twenty-three years,” put in Kirk.

“Colonel Pettibone and his family arrive on Sunday,” said Brian. “It’s going to take at least a few days to get the paper in.”

“We could hang it on Saturday,” said Kirk thoughtfully.

“I’d help you son,” Brian sighed. “But my back can’t take that kind of labor anymore. Not since my motorcycle accident.”

“That’s alright Mr. Slagel,” Kirk replied. “Metallica will take care of it... Anything to help you out.”

“Whoa!” cut in James. “Hold it right there Hamster Wheel. I can’t hang paper on Saturday. Remember? I’m supposed to drive to Modesto and pick up that repaired amplifier.”

“Oh for pity’s sake!” Kirk sighed. “I’ll do it myself.”

“You can’t do it by yourself Kirk,” said Brian Slagel. “It’s way too big a task.”

“Oh, I’ll have help,” Kirk returned as he twisted one of his ebony satin curls around his finger and glanced over at Lars and Cliff who had become surprisingly quiet once the conversation had turned to devoting Saturday afternoon to hanging wallpaper. He gave Lars, who was picking at a piece of banana bread a sly smirk. “We all want to help out,” he continued. “Ain’t that right boys?”

Yeah! I really liked this chapter! It's funny! Especially the part where Lars calls Cliff a "castrated cow" and many many more! Keep it going girl!
I luv your stories! :horns2

I love Kirk in this...........hanging wallpaper, can't see it myself somehow..... :lol: :lol: sounds like a recipe for disaster!!! lmao.

Uh oh hanging wallpaper? you've gotta be kidding me right? I can see big trouble happening!! Can't wait to see how more I'm gunna like this! :biggrin :biggrin

Hanging wallpaper should be interesting :lol: , I wonder if they're going to get stoned on the glue :P The reason you can't pump gas by yourself in Jersey is that the owners are afraid of drive-offs, where people don't pay for their gas, or that they'll spill too much gas and waste it or cause an explosion. Us and Oregon are the two states where you can't pump your own gas. I hope this answers your question :)

Oh yes oh yes does this fully rock out!

That chapter was hilarious! Lars and his banana bread antics fully reminded me of my younger brothers dicking around when they are supposed to be being serious...so excellent!

“If only you knew your own Metallica songs as well,” Brian sighed.

Excellent line! That will show James (and his inflated dick!).


Brian winced as Kirk hit a very sour note, obviously out of tune. He had come in late to the rehearsal, and had not had time to properly tune up his instrument beforehand. Lars kept lagging further and further behind the rest of the band, and he could have sworn that around the second verse, Cliff had started playing the bass line to Moterbreath instead. James fucked up one of the song’s riffs once again towards the end, practically taking a giant shit all over the notes.

What a monumentally crappy rehearsal. It just really made me giggle like an idiot because I could just see it in my mind's eye and it was so damn funny. That's what makes your writing so great (well one of the things), the way that it just fully brings the story so so much to life. Not to mention that your characters are amazing.

I adore your Lars in this, money grabbing weasel that he is! He's just too funny. Bitchy too which is just fantastic... I also think it's great that not even James is allowed to touch the almighty Ledger Book.

The idea of them hanging wallpaper? Oooh I can see so so many things that could go wrong lol!

I can't wait for the next chapter!

This is HYSTERICAl. I'd write more but I have to get the house cleaned and I have to pee. As soon as I have a second, I will write my usual, long-winded response :)

Ashley, this is great! :D
I love the idea of this producer and his family coming, I smell fun :biggrin . Especially the guy was a colonel, now that sounds dangerously! I think this meeting will be really, really interesting… :lol:
And I loved how whinny Kirk was, it was hilarious, but I’m also pretty impatient person and I think I wouldn’t take it as long as Cliff did, :lol:
I can’t wait to see where it’s going! :nanner:

Maggie- Thank you for reading this one too! I'd say that you are right about that colonel.

Shayi- Thank you. :) I'm stoked that you like Lars's banana bread antics.

Maisy- I hope that you had fun peeing. Don't fall in. :lol:

Vanessa- Thanks. That does answer my question. I remember that about Oregon too.

Claire- The trouble begins :wink

Tallicachick- Thank you. I like Kirk too, in any shape or form. :lol:

Mihaela- I'm glad that you liked "castrated cow." I do enjoy writing Lars's character in this. :)


This is kind of long. Sorry about that. :blush:


Chapter Three


Kirk Hammett, Lars Ulrich, and Cliff Burton were congregated at one of Brian Slagel’s rental houses hanging wallpaper up in the living room. What’s wrong with this picture? The fact that neither one of them knew how to hang wallpaper, not even Cliff.

To make things even a fuck-load worse, unlike the other day, today was beautiful outdoors: mild temperature, a playful breeze, a cloudless blue sky, and plenty of sunshine. It sucked having to be stuck indoors, or stuck under a sheet of slimy, gooey, wallpaper as was poor Kirk Lee Hammett.

“This hateful wallpaper will not stick!” Kirk shouted from his perch on top of the ladder as he unsuccessfully tried to slap a long sheet of paper against the wall. Instead it wrinkled and crinkled, as if the sheet of paper were saying “fuck you Kirk. Go straight to hell.”

He hurled another glob of runny wallpaper paste at it. The paper slowly started to seep down the wall, leaving a trail of wallpaper paste ooze. “Fuck you!” Kirk screamed at the sheet of wallpaper as it fell to the floor in a crinkled heap.

“Don’t blame the wallpaper,” said Lars who was just standing there watching and being rather useless. “You clearly put too much water in that last batch of paste,” he lectured.

“Lars!” Kirk shrieked from the top of the ladder. “You said that we were running low on paste. You assured me that the water would stretch it!”

“So it will stretch it,” Lars shrugged. “But I never said that it would help it stick.” He set down his beer. “Let me do it,” he commanded. “That’s the only way that it will get done right.”

“Alright!” Kirk replied huffily as he cast the sheet of light gray, waterlogged, wallpaper off to the side, and then climbed down the ladder. He immediately went to check himself out in the mirror. The paper wasn’t sticking, but Kirk’s precious permed curls sure were. Flakes of dried wallpaper paste peppered his dark hair like snow flakes. It was like the plague. He had dried wallpaper paste all over himself. It was on his arms, face, nose, shoes, and jeans. His whole entire body felt sticky and corroded.

“This is the last time that I volunteer for anything,” he vowed irritably as Lars tried to salvage the rather wrinkled and sorry looking piece of wallpaper that they had been trying to hang for the past forty-five minutes.

“At least you volunteered,” Cliff quipped, as he held onto the ladder.

“I’m sorry Cliff,” Kirk sighed. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“It’s not the wallpapering that I mind,” said Cliff. “It’s carting you all over this fucking town.”

“I’m sorry,” Kirk said again. “I’ll never make you do anything that you don’t want to again.”

Cliff snorted. “Tell that to Slagel,” he muttered. “He insists that I look after Colonel Pettibone’s little daughter when they arrive.”

“Now Cliff,” mused Lars in a very preachy tone as he mixed up a batch of wallpaper paste. “It can’t hurt the band if you show the little girl some hospitality,” he said. “You just have to take her under your wing until she learns her way around El Cerrito.”

Lars paused so that he could pull his hair back into a messy ponytail. He was not going to get wallpaper paste and shit stuck in his locks. He knew better than Kirk did.

“How old is the brat?” Cliff asked huffily as he lit up a cigarette.

“A vivacious ten, according to the letter that Colonel Pettibone wrote to Mr. Slagel,” Kirk reported importantly.

Cliff scowled as he flicked the ashes off of his cigarette down onto the floor since it was already a mess of paste and wallpaper clippings anyway. “Why can’t James look after her?” he whined.

“Humph!” Lars snorted as he started to climb up the ladder. “Putting James Hetfield in charge of the colonel’s daughter would be like letting a fox mind the chicken coup,” he shot. “Slagel insists that you do it Burton. And hold onto that ladder! It’s a rickety piece of shit. Heaven forbid I fall off and break my neck.”

Cliff sighed as he held the wobbly, decrepit, ladder still. “Great,” he sarcastically groaned. “So what’s that charming little tyke’s name?” he asked.

“I think its Claire,” Kirk answered as he handed Lars the sheet of wallpaper. “Yeah, that’s it. Claire.”

***

“This is it,” said the taxi cab driver dude cheerfully. “El Cerrito California.”

He pulled the taxi up in front of a dirty brick building that had a busted fire escape, and boarded up windows. The building housed Brian Slagel’s shitty little office on the third floor.

“Are you planning on staying for long?” the taxi man asked.

“I sure hope not,” Claire quipped as she opened the passenger side door, and stepped out of the car.

“So what do you think of El Cerrito Lieutenant Pettibone?” Colonel Pettibone asked as he paid the taxi driver. Now that she had turned nineteen, her father’s pet name for her had gone from sergeant to lieutenant.

“You told me that we were moving to San Francisco,” said Claire. “Why are we in El Cerrito instead?”

“It’s close enough to San Francisco,” the colonel replied with a shrug.

“At least we aren’t staying for long,” Claire muttered under her breath as she watched a wild and emaciated pit bull greedily sift through the overflowing trash cans. The arousing smell of garbage, toilet paper, and fresh urine filled the air. Rats peered their beady little eyes out from underneath the piles of rotting garbage that littered and festered in the street.

Claire Pettibone was used to living in new places. Back in her father’s military days, her father had moved the family all over the world. She had lived in Borneo, New Orleans, Casablanca, Johannesburg, San Antonio, Wiesbaden, Bangkok, and Sao Paulo. For the past few years her father had been focused on record producing, and they had lived in London. It had been so nice to actually spend more than a year in one place. Claire had grown rather accustomed to London, and she had made friends there. She wasn’t too happy when the colonel had told her and her mother that he was taking them to the United States for a while to check out some new up-and-coming band, but when he had mentioned San Francisco she had gotten half excited. She had heard many wonderful things about it, and she supposed that living there for a little while was going to be fun. There was just one problem: the Pettibone’s had actually moved to El Cerrito, a crappy little suburb outside of the city. Moving to El Cerrito wasn’t nearly as exciting as moving to San Francisco, and Claire just wanted to go home, back to England. She turned to her mother Viola, who had just climbed out of the taxi.

“It smells here Mum,” Claire whined.

“I kind of find the smell invigorating,” Viola replied as she took a deep breath of air.

“You find trash and rat urine invigorating?” Claire asked.

“Lieutenant,” said Colonel Pettibone as he put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “You haven’t smelled anything until you’ve smelled the smell of rotting flesh, gangrene, crusted blood, gunshot, and eminent death, all mixed together in the sweltering heat.”

“Oh yes Father, you’re right,” Claire replied quickly in order to avoid another Vietnam story.

“I guess that we should probably let Mr. Slagel know that we’re here,” said Viola. “After all, we are a day early.”

***

“Oh you stupid, miserable, motherfucking, bloated piece of cock’s shit!” Lars cursed as the rather stubborn piece of wallpaper crookedly half clung to the wall for a split second, before starting to slip away off the wall in a seepy, waterlogged, blob.

Enraged, and pissier than a jack rabbit with an enema stuffed up its ass, Lars violently ripped the paper off of the wall before it seeped down to the floor. “You can focking go to hell!” he screeched at it as he somehow managed to tangle himself up in the paper. The paper twisted and turned in various directions all around his body.

Lars began to spout off an impressive repertoire of obscenities as he fought with the wallpaper. The crappy, rickety ladder that he was standing on began to shake back and forth violently even with Cliff holding onto it for dear life. A full bucket of wallpaper paste was sitting right on top of the ladder as well. It nearly toppled over.

“LARS!” Kirk shrieked at the top of his lungs as he helped steady the wobbling ladder. “You’ll fall and break your neck!” he gasped.

“Yeah dude,” said Cliff. “Be careful.”

“Oh go thump your willy somewhere, will yeah?” Lars hissed at them both. He glared at Kirk. “This is all your fault Hamster!” he bellowed.

“My fault?” Kirk squeaked. “How is it my fault?”

“You’re the bozo who wanted to re-wallpaper the focking place!” snapped Lars bitterly.

“I just wanted it to be nice for Colonel Pettibone is all,” replied Kirk. “We had to do something for him.”

“Oh honestly Qurik,” Lars quipped as he slopped ungodly amounts of wallpaper paste onto the stubborn piece of paper. “He’s just some record producer. He’s not the King of Siam.”

“If it’s anybody’s fault it’s yours!” Kirk shot at Lars. “You’re the one who wanted to buy the cheapest, for-shit, wallpaper that we could find.”

“Is it a crime if I would rather spend Metallica’s hard earned money on new equipment such as P.A. systems and amplifiers, rather than on some ugly, candy-ass, wallpaper for a house that I don’t even reside in?” Lars retorted.

“Ugly!” Kirk squawked, as his eyes clouded with anger and he stomped his foot. “You take that back Lars Ulrich! That wallpaper is not ugly! I picked it out myself,” he shouted.

Cliff took the cigarette out of his mouth. “It’s pretty damn ugly,” he commented.

Just then, the piece of “asshole” wallpaper started to slide down off of the wall again.

“Lars! The paper!” Kirk shrieked.

Lars whirled around to grab it, nearly falling off the ladder in the process. Again the ladder and bucket of wallpaper paste teetered back and forth. A sponge and razor blade that had also been sitting on top of the ladder fell off.

Brian Slagel burst through the front door. “Look whose early,” he said as he frowned at the disaster state that his rental house was in. The living room wasn’t even close to being finished yet. In the entire four hours that the boys had been working, only one measly piece of motherfucking wallpaper had been hung, and it was lumpy, and loaded with shitty little air bubbles.

Colonel Pettibone trooped into the room behind Brian Slagel. He was one opposing looking dude. He was tall, even taller than James believe it or not. From the outside, you would never be able to guess that he was the mastermind behind Number of the Beast. He did not look at all heavy metal producer. Heavy metal producers were supposed to be bald and fat with great big graying beards, or fat with long graying hair usually pulled into a ponytail, and a great big beard. Colonel Pettibone was just the opposite.

He had to be in his mid forties, with short neatly clipped brown hair that was slightly graying, and Kirk hated to admit it, but the dude had a really bad comb over. His lips were pressed into a hard, expressionless, thin line, and his gray eyes actually radiated an iciness. They almost seemed to pierce at anything that they looked at. He was wearing a boring, nondescript, beige polo shirt, a pair of clunky brown shoes that Kirk thought looked more like correctional shoes rather than a fashion statement, and he adorned an ill fitting pair of brown slacks. Kirk also noticed that Colonel Pettibone definitely needed to pluck his eyebrows. He had a bit of a unibrow thing going on.

An attractive woman and a girl who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen stood behind him, observing the mass mess that was around them.

“The one on the ladder is Lars Ulrich,” Brian introduced. “And that’s Kirk Hammett, and Cliff Burton.” He pointed to Colonel Pettibone and his family. “These are the Pettibone’s,” he said to the boys as if they couldn’t have figured that out on their own.

“Colonel Pettibone!” Kirk said warmly. “Welcome to California.”

“That’s Colonel Pettibone Sir,” Colonel Pettibone snapped coldly. “You will address me as so.”

“Uh, yes Sir,” Kirk mumbled, blushing. He was going to try and impress him by doing one of those little army salute things, but he couldn’t remember which hand to do it with. Was it the right or the left?

Lars, who was still standing at the top of the ladder, was looking straight at Claire. “Who’s the girl?” he asked bluntly.

Claire suddenly felt shy as all eyes on the room fall upon her. She looked down at the floor that was littered with wallpaper paste, tools, smashed beer cans, and cigarette butts.

“This is my daughter Claire,” Colonel Pettibone introduced. He grabbed the tam that she was wearing off of her head.

“Hi,” Claire said shyly as she looked up at the three long haired and rumpled dudes that stood before her, ogling her as if she were some prized venison carcass hanging in the butcher shop window.

“Jeepers!” exclaimed Kirk. “You wrote that she was a vivacious ten.”

“That must be Clive’s penmanship,” said Viola.

“I meant to say that she was a vivacious teen,” replied the colonel irritably, not liking having his sloppy penmanship criticized, or the way that those boys were looking at his daughter.

“Hmmm yes,” Lars mumbled as he eyed her. “She certainly is.”

“Cliff here,” said Brian as he gestured over at him. “Has been assigned to show Claire around town,” he informed them.

Cliff let go of the ladder and turned around. He threw out his cigarette, his face brightening once he got a good look at the “vivacious teen.” Now, having to show the colonel’s daughter around didn’t seem all that bad. He flashed Claire one of his nicest smiles, and was about to say something when Lars, who had leaned just slightly forward, knocked the full bucket of wallpaper paste right off of the ladder, and right onto Cliff’s head.

Cliff was totally saturated in a monsoon of gooey wallpaper paste as the entire fucking bucket poured out all over his head, making him look like a watered down ghost. It was all over his face, his clothes, his shoes, and all over his hair. He wiped some of it away from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Claire stood there gazing at him with a look of disbelief and amusement.

“Charmed to meet you,” Cliff said as he offered her a sticky, wallpaper paste endowed, hand and gave her a lopsided smile…

OMG!!!! At first I thought wtf? 10? but I like it that i'm 19!(again I wish!) I totally fell about laughing at the wallpapering scene thou!

Ashley you rock I seriously can't wait for more

:biggrin :heart: :nanner: :horns:

Yay, Claire, you're in this! :nanner: Man, Metallica didn't make a good first impression, did they? :lol: Hmm, do I smell something brewing between Cliff and Claire? :wink

I totally love it! The dialogues are so damn funny I nearly fall off my chair ^^

And previous chapter was great, too! I loved this talk and the way Brian spoke to the band :)

I'm waiting for more

:heart: :heart: :heart:

this is so funny!!!! Lars had some funny lines there!!!! :lol: this made me laugh like a lunatic!!! you're an amazing writer!!! I'm truly loving this!!!! :heart:

What an awesome update! It lived up to everything that I could have hoped it to be - it was so so damn funny :)

I love that they thought it was a vivatious ten not teen - good for Cliff but that's one in the eye for James really isn't it! And this Colonel - I think that he's going to find Metallica an uhhh how do I put it nicely, experience!

Your characters are always superbly executed and from the looks of things, the Pettibone family will be no exception.

“This hateful wallpaper will not stick!” Kirk shouted from his perch on top of the ladder as he unsuccessfully tried to slap a long sheet of paper against the wall. Instead it wrinkled and crinkled, as if the sheet of paper were saying “fuck you Kirk. Go straight to hell.”

Man that rocked out! I couldn't help laughing at poor Kirk there - I know how he feels, I've been decorating my room and was trying to mask off all the skirting boards and the fuckin' masking tape kept on coming off!

“Lieutenant,” said Colonel Pettibone as he put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “You haven’t smelled anything until you’ve smelled the smell of rotting flesh, gangrene, crusted blood, gunshot, and eminent death, all mixed together in the sweltering heat.”


That too rocked my socks and made me laugh like an idiot :) You do the best descriptions on the planet - no matter if he's happy, sad, gross, whatever, you describe it like no-one else can and I salute you for it! Yet another way that your stories just rock out in an unreal way. Do I see Vietnam stories coming on like Cliff's old republican rants did?

Once again I so so wish that this could be made into a TV series because man I would watch it every day - without fail! It is just excellent and we're only onto chapter two!

Never apologize for a long chapter!! The longer, the better!

This is exactly what I needed after a long day of playdate hell.

I'm not patient enough to do any sort of shit like hanging wallpaper. Just the descriptions of the wallpaper curling up and falling all over and stuff made my skin crawl. I'd be throwing that shit on the floor and stomping on it and cursing it and punching walls and stuff. I hate when things get that complicated and I especially hate when things STICK TO ME. I seriously would have chucked the whole nine yards out of the window.

What cracks me up in these stories is not that Kirk (or James or Cliff, but usually not Lars- he's not exactly a brainiac) comes up with these ideas (but the ideas are always *very* funny), it's that the guys go along with them so quickly. I can just see Metallica running all over town in fast forward, like some old silent slapstick movie. It cracks me up.

El Cerrito sounds like hell. Smelly and gross. I can kind of see old-school Metallica in the midst of that.

Yay for Claire! It sounds like Cliff may have finally met his match! I hope she gives him a run for his money :)

As always, reading your stories makes me insanely happy. Thank you for writing them!


:heart: :heart: :heart: :heart:

Thanks everyone for your comments. They really do help me stick with things and keep writing. I hope that this next bit is okay. :)





Chapter Four


“Is it lunchtime yet?” Kirk asked. “It is four o’clock.”

When you’re a heavy metal band, your lunchtime isn’t going to be at noon like the rest of the world. More than likely, you’ll still be in bed at noon.

“I’d say that we can break for lunch,” Lars replied as he set down his drumsticks and happily got up from his drum kit.

“What do you mean break for lunch?” said Cliff. “What the fuck do we need a break for? We haven’t done dick all day long.”

Sadly, Cliff was right about that. Colonel Pettibone was set to come over to the Metallimansion at seven o’clock that evening to hear Metallica play for the very first time. Lars had called a band rehearsal for one o’clock that afternoon, and you’d think that somewhere in those three hours that a lot of rehearsing would have gotten done. Wrong. Actually, it was just the opposite. For one thing, Lars and James had managed to spend two and a half hours fucking around with a cranky amplifier that for some reason wanted to spew out lots of bothersome feedback. Then they had to wait another thirty minutes while James went to take a shit. After that, Lars spent another forty-five minutes talking to some skank that he was currently banging, who worked at the tattoo parlor that was down the street. Then they had spent fifteen minutes tuning up, and fucking around with volume levels so that they could finally rehearse, but by that point, it was lunchtime.

“I’m sorry Cliff,” said Kirk. “But I really got to eat. I just don’t perform well when I’m hungry. I always get so weak and shaky.”

“We’re not going to perform well anyway because we haven’t rehearsed,” grumbled Cliff.

“Mealtime is important Burton,” preached James. “And there’s some week old pizza in the fridge that’s calling to me.”

“But what about the Colonel?” Cliff asked.

“Fock the Colonel,” shot Lars as he started to prepare himself a lunch of kipper snacks, sardines, and saltine crackers. “He’s worked with Iron Maiden,” he reminded him. “I’m positive that Iron Maiden takes lunch breaks too.”

“And I’m positive that Iron Maiden rehearses like fiends,” Cliff growled.

“Well, when you have your own band you can rehearse all day long if you want to,” retorted Lars. He flamboyantly tossed his long, shimmering, hair over his shoulder as he popped a kipper snack into his mouth. “You’re such a practice Nazi,” he muttered.

“Come on Cliff,” said Kirk rather cheerfully. “Let’s takes our lunches outside and eat out on the front stoop. You look like you could use a little sunshine.”

“It’s cloudy outside you idiot!” Cliff snarled.

“Well son-of-a-streetwalker!” Kirk exclaimed as he peered out the window. “I guess it is. Tut-tut, it looks like rain,” he mused. “Oh bother.”

Lars picked up the morning newspaper and rolled it up. He handed it to Cliff. “Smack him over the head for me. Will yeah?” he asked.

“Gladly,” replied Cliff as he took the newspaper and batted Kirk over the head with it.

Instead, the boys wound up taking their lunches in the garage/rehearsal room. They sat on the floor amongst the many amplifiers, distortion pedals, mic stands, and empty beer bottles and cans. Kirk had perched himself on an upside down egg crate. He hungrily dove into the paper sack lunch that his mother had packed for him. A frown immediately formed upon his pretty face.

“Oh no!” he gasped.

“What up?” asked James, with a mouth stuffed with pizza. “You piss yourself again Hamster?”

“No!” Kirk retorted. “Momma packed me cheese again. That’s all that she ever packs for me nowadays are cheese sandwiches.”

“That explains why you’re so cheesy,” said Lars.

“I’ve had so many cheese sandwiches lately that it’s a wonder that I can even shit right,” Kirk sighed as he looked down at the evil cheese and mayonnaise sandwich that lay sinisterly in his lap.

“Have you ever thought that maybe your mom thinks that her twenty-one-year-old son is old enough to be packing his own lunches?” Cliff asked as he pulled a most scrumptious looking submarine sandwich out of his lunch sack. Kirk nearly salivated. It was made on parmesan cheese bread, with an array of fine Italian meats, and it had crushed green olives on it. Real green olives!

“Ooh Cliff!” Kirk squeaked. “Your mom packs you the best lunches.”

Cliff looked up from his sub. “Dude,” he said. “I fucking packed this lunch myself. I’m not in fucking kindergarten. My mom would laugh her vagina loose if I asked her to pack a lunch for me.”

Kirk immediately felt like shit as he took a small bite out of his pathetic cheese sandwich on plain, boring, lay-in-the-box, white bread. He couldn’t pump his own gas, he couldn’t make his own lunches, and he wasn’t none too good at hanging wallpaper either. Was there anything that he could do?

“I’ll trade you lunches?” he asked Cliff.

“I prefer to eat my own lunch,” Cliff replied.

Kirk was heartbroken. He really didn’t want to eat another fucking cheese sandwich. Suddenly, he got an idea. He reached for his guitar case, and pulled out a small, flimsy, paperback book. “I’ll trade you my book,” he offered. “Pride of the Punjab.”

Cliff eyed the book with interest. He actually was in between books at the moment, though a flimsy little novel like Pride of the Punjab would only take him but an hour to read at the most. He could fucking read it in one sitting while taking his bedtime shit. Actually, he could probably finish the fucking thing within twenty minutes if no one disrupted him.

“It’s got tiger hunts, daring swordfights, everything,” Kirk went on.

“Oh alright,” Cliff sighed as he took the book and handed Kirk his sandwich.

“Did somebody say poon-jab?” James asked as he plucked a bit of slightly hardened cheese off of his pizza and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’d be down with reading a book about poon,” he stated eloquently.

“If you even knew how to read,” Lars teased.

Metallica did manage to squeeze in almost twenty-five minutes of solid rehearsal, Hallelujah! But then the good ole Heineken started to kick in and Lars’s tattoo parlor skank Brandi had come over to hang out, or hang on Lars I should say.

***

Since they were staying just right down the street, Colonel Pettibone and his daughter Claire had decided to walk down to the Metallimansion. The sound of Judas Priest blaring from the living room could be heard from the front yard of Colonel Pettibone’s house. Originally, he wasn’t going to take Claire with him to go hear Metallica play for the first time, but she had begged him to let her go. There wasn’t much else to do in El Cerrito. Colonel Pettibone thought that he’d at least make it somewhat educational for her though.

“What was General Patton’s serial number while he was in the United States Army?” the Colonel quizzed as they walked.

“O-2605,” Claire replied automatically.

Colonel Pettibone nodded looking very pleased with him self. “Which famous U.S. army division was nicknamed "Hell on Wheels?” he barked at her.

“The 2nd Armored Division,” answered Claire proudly. “They were under the command of General Patton, and they were involved in the capture of Palermo, Sicily.”

“That is correct Lieutenant Pettibone,” he replied as they made their way up the front walk of the Metallimansion. “Those delinquents have the radio on loud enough to wake the dead,” he commented as he banged on the door.

“But it is Judas Priest,” said Claire.

“I don’t care if it’s the heavy metal band of the resurrection of General Patton himself,” retorted the Colonel. “No one needs to have their music on that loud. They’ll go deaf, and being musicians, I can’t imagine that being very desirable.”

The Colonel decided to let himself into the house, since he doubted that anyone would even hear him knocking through all of the noise. Colonel Pettibone had seen many, many, countless battles, but nothing could have prepared him for the battlefield that he was about to walk in to.

It was six fifty-five in the evening, and all hell had broken loose at the Metallimansion. A wasted out of his mind James Hetfield, was peeing over in the corner of the living room, while Kirk was throwing spitballs at him. Lars was fucking Brandi over on the sofa, and Cliff sat quietly in an easy chair deeply entranced by Pride of the Punjab. The movie Deep Throat was on the TV, though nobody seemed to be watching it.

Colonel Pettibone slammed the front door shut behind him with so much force that it made the entire house shake. The room immediately fell silent at once. James stopped peeing, and hastily stuffed his dick back into his jeans and zipped them up. Kirk dropped a spitball in mid air, and Brandi nearly fell right off of Lars as he raced to turn off the TV and stereo. The only one who didn’t seem to notice the Colonel’s entrance was Cliff, who was grossly into his book, far, far away in Punjab.

The only sound came from the steps of Colonel Pettibone, as he marched on over to the head of the room. A staid, emotionless, expression was on his face. On his way, he walked by Cliff. He roughly plucked the book from his hands, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. When it looked as if he had all of their undivided attention he said

“You may call me Colonel Pettibone, and I shall address you by your own formal surnames…Mr. Ulrich?”

Lars just stared at Colonel Pettibone stupidly.

“Mr. Ulrich?” the Colonel repeated coldly. “When I call your name, I expect a response…Not sloth and lethargy…Up!”

Lars just sat there, openmouthed.

“Did you not hear me?” the Colonel barked. “I said up! Up!”

Lars had a boner the size of Texas, and he really didn’t want to have to stand up. He also didn’t want to get his ass kicked by the colonel. He had no other choice. He slowly stood up.

“Stand up straight!” Colonel Pettibone ordered.

Lars hadn’t been told to stand up straight since he had been at least six or seven years old. He wasn’t even quite sure how to stand up straight anymore, years and years of bad posture taking their toll.

“Do you think that I’m dimwitted, Mr. Ulrich?” the Colonel snapped at him.

“No,” answered a breathless Lars.

“No, what?” shot Colonel Pettibone as he made his way towards him. Lars gulped.

“No, I don’t think that you’re, that you’re, dimwitted,” he stammered nervously.

“Miss Pettibone,” the colonel said to Claire who had taken a seat in the bean bag chair.
“What is our proper response?” he asked her.

Claire shot right up. “To end each and every address with a respectful sir, Sir!” she replied confidently.

“Thank you Miss Pettibone,” replied the colonel. He gave Lars a very, very, cold look. “Mr. Ulrich?” he barked.

“No, I do not think that you’re dimwitted… Sir,” Lars mumbled.

“Thank you Mr. Ulrich,” Pettibone replied. Lars started to sink back down onto the couch. “You will remain standing Mr. Ulrich!” the Colonel snapped at him. He turned to Brandi, who was sitting on the couch in nothing except her panties, and half undone bra. “And you!” he barked at her. “Put some clothes on!”

I can imagine the look on the colonel's face when he saw the scene :o :lol: OMG, that was so fucking funny! Lars fucking Brandi, James taking a piss, Kirk throwing spitballs, and Cliff oblivious to everything. He's got a lot or work to do with them, time for boot camp :lol:

this story kicks ass!!!

Metallica tradingf lunch was so funny!!! :lol: and come on Cliff!!! lunch time is sacred!!

don't like that Colonel :rolleyes: telling Lars to stand up!!! I would tell him to go *censored*

Judas Priest has to be listen loud!!!!!!!! :nanner:

its a truly funny story!!! great job!!!!!!

more please!!!! :biggrin

“I’ve had so many cheese sandwiches lately that it’s a wonder that I can even shit right,” Kirk sighed as he looked down at the evil cheese and mayonnaise sandwich that lay sinisterly in his lap.


Ironically enough my brother spent an entire couple of days eating nothing but cheese and waffle sandwiches and had exactly that problem. He was rolling round on the floor clutching his stomach claiming he was going to die. As it happens, it's okay now lol. So that section just made me laugh so hard! Also the fact that it was lying in a sinister fashion - the idea of a cheese sandwich being sinister in any way is just funny! I'd always thought of them as so innocent!

And another bit that made me giggle was the whapping Kirk over the head with the newspaper section - absolutely perfect.... oh bother indeed!

Something that always gets to me about your writing is the absolutely superb phrases that you come out with! I dont' know where the hell you get 'em from but for instance 'laugh her vagina loose'? Seriously! That made me laugh so much - it's bits like that which are so so ridiculously funny!

Colonel Pettibone sounds like he needs to pull the stick out of his ass! I feel so sorry for poor Claire being constantly drilled on question like that... at least she knows the answers! I'm sure it won't take that long for the Metallica boys to corrupt her and cause some real trouble!

And poor Lars - talk about the inopportune moment - that there was it! That section was so so funny, I'm not surprised the poor guy was totally dumbfounded, I would have been for sure!

That chapter rocked out - I just can't wait to see what's gonna happen when he hears them play after their oh-so-long rehearsal (hah!).

Holy shit my imagination went into overdrive there! i could just about imagine the scene actually! :lol:

I can't believe Colonel Pettibone let Claire in the house! I would have pushed my kid out the door and made her sit on the porch until order was restored! I love the fact that Claire just plopped down and observed. All she needed was some popcorn and she'd be set :)

Kirk- GROW UP!! Oh my god. Make your own damn lunch. :blink: I know that sounds bitchy, but God, he's such a mama's boy.

I'm not shocked that Cliff traded his sandwich for a book, but that sandwich sounded DELICIOUS and I wouldn't have traded it. I swear, you need to be a cookbook author or something. I bet you write fanfic at Food Network forums, too, don't you? :wink :wink :P

I can't wait to see what happens. !! :nanner: :nanner:

“Come on Cliff,” said Kirk rather cheerfully. “Let’s takes our lunches outside and eat out on the front stoop. You look like you could use a little sunshine.”

“It’s cloudy outside you idiot!” Cliff snarled.

“Well son-of-a-streetwalker!” Kirk exclaimed as he peered out the window. “I guess it is. Tut-tut, it looks like rain,” he mused. “Oh bother.”

Lars picked up the morning newspaper and rolled it up. He handed it to Cliff. “Smack him over the head for me. Will yeah?” he asked.

“Gladly,” replied Cliff as he took the newspaper and batted Kirk over the head with it." that was brilliant!!! :lol: :horns2

And the scene that welcomed Colonel Pettibone must have been hilariously terryfying :lol: :lol: :lol: Good thing he didn't kill anyone, the guy is harsh! And I think there's some harsh, harsh time before Metallica :o :lol: ...
I also loved previous chapter. Poor Kirk and evil wallpaper :P
I hope you will decide to continue this because it's amazing to read already!
:heart:

Shayi- cheese and waffles sandwiches??? I'm not sure if that sounds positively gross, or actually quite yummy. Your poor brother though.

Maggie- I'm glad that you like Kirk and evil wallpaper. thank you so much for taking the time to read this one. :)

Maisy- :blush: No, I don't write on any food forums. I honestly can't cook. I made world's shittiest grilled cheese sandwich the other day.

Larssexslave- I don't know your name. :blush: Sorry bout that. I agree about Judas Priest though. :horns:

Vanessa- You're right about the Metallica boot camp. Glad I'm not one of them because I would surely die in boot camp.

Claire- If you can imagine everything, that's good. I'm glad that you're enjoying this.


:heart: I do hope and pray that this chapter doesn't suck. :heart:


Chapter Five


“The horsemen are drawing nearer, on the leather steeds they ride
They have come to take your life
On through the dead of night, with the four horsemen ride
Or choose your fate and DIE!!!!!!!!” James sang as he lumbered around the garage/rehearsal room like a sick reindeer.

He was trying desperately to get some sort of reaction out of Colonel Pettibone, but it was impossible. The man just sat there like an inanimate sack of shit in his chair with his legs crossed, resting his chin in his hand. His mouth was a pursed, thin, line that really didn’t indicate anything but indifference. That was thing that irritated James the most about Colonel Pettibone: you had no idea just what the fucker was thinking. James was one of those people who wanted to know if you weren’t digging the flow of his music while he was on stage. Perhaps there was something that he could do to make it better, but with not knowing, how could he try and fix it? Not knowing how the Colonel was going to react also made him all the more uptight and nervous. After all, this dude had worked with Maiden and King Crimson, the cream of the crop. He knew that they weren’t as tight as they could be at some of the song’s transitions. He would never admit it to Cliff, but he silently wished that they had put some more time into shedding that week.

James wasn’t the only one feeling some serious pressure. He could tell that Hamster was scared shitless. For one thing, Kirk didn’t bust out into his solo as if his balls were the size of the Taj Mahal. Instead, he pussed out, opting for a toned down, non dramatic, light and airy, conservative, pussy solo that was very unimpressive, and very musically unimaginative. However, there was some light at the end of the tunnel. Claire seemed to be digging it. She was sitting next to her father, and at first she had started to head bang right along with the music. Until the colonel had grabbed her by the shoulder and had mouthed “no.”

Colonel Pettibone was torn about Metallica. He wasn’t torn over whether or not they were a decent band or not. They were a plenty good band, or they could be if they rehearsed more. He could tell that some of the guitar playing was sloppy. The lead guitarist was trembling like a leaf, and the rhythm guitar was a bit sluggish from lack of practice. The drummer had a tendency to drop a beat here or there which caused the band to flirt with disaster, and he also could be a bit too loud. It was hard to hear Kirk’ solo, but then again Kirk should have been playing way louder. It was evident that he was falling to the prey of nerves. The bassist seemed to totally neglect the fact that he was even in a band. He stayed with them timing wise, but he obviously wasn’t concerned with making his bass lines blend in with what was going on musically around him. He was too concerned with playing his bass lines down to perfection, which would be fine if he were a soloist, but he wasn’t. He was in a band, and he was the bassist in the band. He couldn’t just play bass lines that galloped all over the place like wild ponies.

But Metallica did have some serious potential. Colonel Pettibone noticed right away that there was some skilled songwriting talent in the band. The song that they were playing was good, solid, material. It needed to be tighter performance wise, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a good heavy metal song with imaginitve writing. He knew that with some work, adjustment, and refinement, that Metallica could very well be something truly special.

The thing that worried Pettibone the most about taking on a band like Metallica, was that he wasn’t sure that they even had the drive and ambition to really improve themselves. Here they were performing for him for the very first time and they were wasted beyond all means. The boys were young, and obviously much more concerned with how many parties they could attend, how many beer kegs they could drink dry, and how many babes they could screw. Even if they got together to rehearse, were they even capable of having a lucid, honest-to-god, productive rehearsal?

The Four Horsemen ended with Lars distastefully banging the living shit out of his drums, and showboating to the max. There was virtually a five minute drum solo at the end of the song. Finally, Lars put down his drumsticks.

“Are you finally finished Mr. Ulrich?” Colonel Pettibone snapped.

“Yeah,” replied Lars as he loudly chomped on his chewing gum.

The Colonel frowned.

“Yeah sir!” Lars corrected.

“It should be yes sir,” the Colonel quipped sullenly.

James was growing impatient. Who cared about Lars’s fucking grammar? What he wanted to know about was the music. “Well Mr. Colonel dude,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think that you should never refer to me as a dude again,” retorted the Colonel. “If I had referred to my chief commander as a “dude” I would have been court-martialed immediately.”

“What’s court-martialed?” Kirk asked.

Colonel Pettibone just looked at Kirk as if bunny ears had just sprouted out of his ass.

“You mean you don’t know Hamster?” Lars scoffed at him. “Gawd, you’re so focking stupid.”

Actually, Lars didn’t even know what court-martialing meant either, but he would never admit that to the colonel. He was sure that whatever it was, it couldn’t be very good.

“Do you like our tunes Colonel Sir?” Lars asked.

“I only heard one tune,” replied the colonel. “Don’t you have anything that’s going to be from your new album? Some more recent material perhaps?”

Lars and James just looked at each other. This must have been why Brian Slagel had been constantly on their ass all month long about getting Creeping Death “up to snuff.” Really, they didn’t know what they could play. Creeping Death was a mess, and they had this other song For Whom the Bell Tolls, but it was only about half written. James was sure that Colonel Pettibone would want to hear more than just thirty seconds of a song.

As Lars and James warbled over which song they should play next, Cliff’s eyes and mind began to wander. He noticed Claire sitting quietly next to her father looking rather bored. He decided to fuck with her a little bit. He started staring right at her, trying to see how long it would take until she noticed. It took only about five seconds. She looked at him briefly, for like a second, and then her eyes fell back down to her lap. However, only about two seconds later she discreetly looked up at Cliff again. This time he smiled and winked at her. She blushed, and again lowered her eyes.

“Okay guys,” said Lars. “We’re going to try and hit Call of Ktulu.”

Kirk very, very, shakily started to play the opening, lone, solo passage, trembling as he did so. It had been over a month since they had last played that song, and he really had to think hard about each and every note. To make things even worse, the adrenalin was kicking in, making him play faster than he really should have been playing for not being as familiar with the music. He fucked up, and immediately stopped.

“Oops,” he sputtered. He looked up from his guitar. He saw Lars put his head down on the top of his drum kit in shame. He was such a fuck up. Not only could he not pump his own gas, and pack his own lunch, but he also couldn’t handle playing guitar under serious pressure. He looked over at Colonel Pettibone. “May I please start it over again Colonel Sir?” he asked. “I promise to play it right this time around.”

“Just shut up and get on with it!” the Colonel snapped.

Kirk took a deep breath, and again started Call of Ktulu. He played way too quietly, the arpeggiated chords sounding nearly breathless as he glossed over them. He finished the opening, thankful that he had made it through the solo passage. Now at least Cliff would be coming in to help him out. It wasn’t as scary to perform if you had Cliff Burton accompanying you. There was just one big problem: Cliff didn’t come in.

He was standing there, making faces over at Claire. His bass wasn’t even in position to play.

“Cliff!” James hissed at him.

Nothing.

“Clifford!” James hissed again, this time elbowing him.

“Jesus fucking Christ James! You prune-dick!” Cliff yelped. “That hurt!”

Hastily, he grabbed his bass. He assumed that they must be trying to attempt Creeping Death for the Colonel. He launched right into it instead of Call of Ktulu much to James, Lars, and Kirk’s horror and complete surprise. They had no other choice but to follow Cliff and start playing Creeping Death instead.

The Four Horsemen they had been able to pull off and have it sound decent, but Creeping Death wasn’t to that point of musical maturity yet. Now at least the Colonel did show some sort of reaction. He was frowning. His eyes were demure and somber.

“Well,” sighed the colonel as Metallica ended the torture that would eventually become known as the butchering of Creeping Death. “This obviously proves that when it comes to rehearsing, you boys can’t be left to your own devices,” he scoffed.

“We were just nervous!” defended Lars hotly. “We aren’t usually this off. I promise that it will be better next time, sir.”

“You know Mr. Ulrich,” returned the colonel as he stood up from his chair. “When you’re playing for a big name record producer, there isn’t a “next time.” When you’re on the bill at a gigantic music festival for thousands of people, you can’t restart the song each and every time that you make a mistake. That’s not the way that the world works. Do I make myself clear?”

For once, Lars was speechless. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. He coated the tip of his tongue with his piece of chewing gum, and loudly sucked on it.

“Mr. Hetfield!” barked Colonel Pettibone.

“Yes dude- I mean sir,” answered James.

The colonel walked a circle around James while looking him up and down. “I thought that a front man was supposed to be sexy,” he stated.

“Why I am sexy!” James squealed. “I’ve bagged so many ladies that-”

“Hold your tongue!” Colonel Pettibone interrupted. “The only reason that you’ve been laid is because you’re screwing the lame, crusty, pathetic, chicks that nobody else wants to screw! You’re the only person desperate enough to sleep with them, and they’re out on a constant quest for cock and you deliver it.”

He paused to make sure that James was listening. James waslistening. He was also sulking. The colonel went on, bearing no mercy.

“You’re stagnant and torpid. You lumber about the stage with your guitar like a herd of cattle going to the barracks.”

“Well just what in the Steven’s fuck am I supposed to do then?” demanded James, quickly becoming agitated. “Am I supposed to pirouette around like a cock-sucking ballerina?” he spat.

The Colonel gave James one of his most icy and penetrating glares. “I suggest that you get into shape, and by that I mean technically, as well as physically,” he snapped. “You’ll perform much better if you’re in prime physical condition. Bruce Dickenson can run a mile in under four and a half minutes.”

“Well isn’t he the pistol,” quipped James sarcastically.

“And his band mates aren’t very far behind him,” Colonel Pettibone carried on. “Sticking to a rigorous physical regime not only helps the body look and full better, but it also keeps the body and mind swift and agile, qualities that a serious guitarist and singer should desire.”

He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it for a moment. “We have some time left,” he said to James. “There’s no reason why we can’t get started now Mr. Hetfield. I want to see fifty-six pushups.”

“Colonel dude,” replied James. “The only pushups that I know of are those push up bra thingies that all the flat-chested chicks wear.”

“Enough psycho-dribble!” snapped the colonel. “Just do as I say, and do not call me colonel dude!” He turned to Lars. “And you too Mr. Ulrich!” he spat. “Let’s see how many pushups that you can do.”

James looked over at Lars who just shrugged. Slowly they both got down on their hands and knees. “This is dumb,” mumbled Lars.

“Shut up!” The colonel barked at him as he set the timer on his pocket watch. “You each have two minutes to do fifty-six pushups.”

“Two minutes!” Lars squawked. “That’s completely focking asinine! I haven’t done a pushup in-”

“You’re very good at doing pushups with your mouth Mr. Ulrich,” interrupted Colonel Pettibone. “Now I suggest that you get a move on. Time is ticking away…”

Colonel Pettibone Rocks! love the fact he's showing no mercy! God what I wouldn't give to watch Lars and James do push ups! Like that Cliff was pulling faces at me could think of a choice few i could pull back :lol: :lol:

Oh, that was funny :lol: Poor guys, they have to get in shape, that sucks. I can't even do one push up, or a sit up :blush: And I don't run unless I'm scared, I know, I suck :blush: This sounds like it's going to be interesting :lol:

chapter 4 was so ridiculously funny!!! :lol:

Love this line

“Well son-of-a-streetwalker!” Kirk exclaimed as he peered out the window. “I guess it is. Tut-tut, it looks like rain,” he mused. “Oh bother.”
Kirk sounds so camp here. lol

And the whole scene with the cheesse sandwiches had my laughing out loud, especially this line......... Cliff looked up from his sub. “Dude,” he said. “I fucking packed this lunch myself. I’m not in fucking kindergarten. My mom would laugh her vagina loose if I asked her to pack a lunch for me.”

And Lars having to stand to attention while sporting a hard on, and having to adrress the Colonel as Sir...........just cracked me up.


Chapter 5

This made me laugh The Four Horsemen ended with Lars distastefully banging the living shit out of his drums, and showboating to the max. There was virtually a five minute drum solo at the end of the song. Finally, Lars put down his drumsticks.

“Are you finally finished Mr. Ulrich?” Colonel Pettibone snapped.

Colonel Pettibone is a hard taskmaster, I love how he makes them all so nervous.

“Hold your tongue!” Colonel Pettibone interrupted. “The only reason that you’ve been laid is because you’re screwing the lame, crusty, pathetic, chicks that nobody else wants to screw! You’re the only person desperate enough to sleep with them, and they’re out on a constant quest for cock and you deliver it.” Poor James :lol:

And the visual of Lars and James being forced to do push-ups was class!!!

Love this can't wait for more.

oh this is so funny!!! :lol: :lol: poor guys!!! and that "yeah sir" was so funny! :lol: and Claire and Cliff...sounds promising :D can't wait to read more!!! :biggrin

btw my name is Carla :)

Hmm cheese and waffle is surprisingly edible... but I don't know if our waffles are different to your waffles - ours are made of potato...

James sang as he lumbered around the garage/rehearsal room like a sick reindeer.

What a fantastic line - what an image! It did however make me think of Jon Bon Jovi who me and mum often liken to a startled reindeer!

I loved the beginning part where Colonel Pettibone was just listening to them - and your comparison of Kirk's balls to the Taj Mahal (on a usual solo-ing day) made me giggle! He is such a dull disapproving git that Colonel and I think you make that just so so clear without ever having to say it specifically. It's just the way that you describe the band performing through his eyes...

And Lars - I can't help it, I know the dude is a show-off and an ass - but I really love the way that you write the character, it just makes me laugh so much.

“Are you finally finished Mr. Ulrich?” Colonel Pettibone snapped.

“Yeah,” replied Lars as he loudly chomped on his chewing gum.

Heh. Nice one Lars. Nice to see that sarcasm and subtle hints have no power to shame you! You just keep all of the guys so well in their very individual characters throughout the story, it really is fantastic... I know I've said it before but it's true, if their names were removed and it was just down to their speaking and actions you would still know exactly who it was talking. Which I think is absolutely wonderful.

And at the end where the boys are being told they have to get into shape? I could just picture the expressions on their faces and couldn't help laughing!

This chapter was simply superb - from the Colonel's reaction to them playing, to the flubbed Ktulu/Creeping Death (which was the most marvellous little scene) to the pushups at the end - the whole thing just rocked out! :heart:

This cracked me up. My daughter's in a "making faces" mode, so I instantly imagined Cliff making the same crazy faces that my almost-three year old makes. It made me laugh so hard just thinking about it! :biggrin :biggrin

Call me "lame crusty pathetic" cause I'm definitely in the "I wanna screw James camp". However, I much prefer modern-day James to early-80's James. He's definitely grown into his looks.

56?! That's so random. So typical of military.

This was such a great chapter.

:heart: :heart: I'd write more but everyone is looking over my shoulder and it's making me nervous!