Six years before Dethklok:
Pickles got home late; he had skipped school to rehearse and drink with a local band, VenomRot, and lost track of time. He didn't expect anyone to be upset, or even notice, and yet, here he was, standing beside the door with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand before his mother and brother.
Not that Seth was saying anything. He just stood there, out of Molly's view, smirking at him. What a douchebag.
"It's not nice of you to take things away from your brother. He knew those boys before you did, and he wanted to join their band too, you know. They're all much older than you and I feel that it's inappropriate for you to be hanging out with boys that are over twenty! Besides, you aren't very good at singing or guitar... or even drums. Seth is very good and..."
Pickles couldn't hear her, and he didn't care what she had to say. He was staring down Seth. Maybe this time Seth would speak up and defend him? At the very least, maybe he would back down and give up. Seth knew that his younger brother was the one with anything resembling talent... right?
There was nothing but amusement in Seth's eyes. He said nothing.
Pickles looked up at his mother, and finally down at the floor.
Seeing that he had given up, Molly wrapped up her speech. "Besides dear, 'Pickles' is a stupid nickname, don't you think?" She gave him a pat on the shoulder and gently removed the whiskey from his hand.
Pickles let it go, although he did glare at her as she walked away. He had more in his room anyway.
"Pickles is a stupid nickname little bro,"
"Shut up,"
"Don't get hostile. I'm just looking out for you. I don't want you to embarrass yourself. I've heard you play and you make them sound awful. That's the truth of it. Listen, I think-"
"I'm joining VenomRot. Not you. None of you can make me change my mind, okay?"
With that, Pickles slipped past his brother and down into the basement, where their drum set was kept. He could see Seth standing in the doorway as he picked up the sticks and sat down. He could hear his brother begin to say something, and Pickles took a reckless swipe at the cymbals to drown him out.
The sound died away, and Seth's raised voice came clear. Pickles took one mor look at his brother, still framed in the doorway, with the light from the hallway behind him, making it had to see his face.
What a douchebag.
Pickles began playing, loud enough so he couldn't hear what his brother was saying, and within a couple minutes Seth disappeared and Pickles stopped playing quite as loudly so his mother wouldn't show up.
No such luck. He only played for fifteen minutes before he saw her in the doorway. He tried playing harder to drown her out as she tried talking to him from upstairs, but she made her way to the drum set and grabbed his wrist.
"I hear that my little speech didn't make you change your mind."
Pickles stared at her with silent fury. With his free hand, he continued what little playing he could.
"I wish you would listen to me,"
Pickles looked down and played a little harder, adding in some extra double bass pedal to make up for his lack of second arm.
"It's not that I'm not proud of you for trying..."
A little harder.
"... I just. I'm only looking out for you."
Pickles looked at his mother again. He really wanted to say something, but it wasn't easy to keep it in. His one-armed drumming wasn't going to drown her out or deter her.
"Let Seth take your place and maybe in a few years you'll be good enough to join your own band. Okay Jean?"
Pickles stood up and used the arm his mother was still holding to push her backwards. She lost her footing and fell into a pile of cardboard boxes filled with Christmas decorations.
"My name is Pickles!" He yelled at her as she laid amongst their garland and ornaments. "And I am sick of your crap, okay? I'm going to do what I want, when I want, and you can't stop me."
Molly sat up and looked up at her younger son. "If you won't obey me then you aren't welcome in this house."
"Fine! You're all douchebags anyway!"
Leaving his mother laying among the boxes, Pickles threw the drum sticks at the wall above his mother's head and stormed off to his room.
It was a sparsely decorated room, with only one band poster and a lot of hastily-scrawled swears on his walls. The floor was mostly clothes and empty bottles. He kept his full bottles of booze on his dresser.
It only took about five minutes for Pickles to gather some clothes, booze, and anything else he wanted into a duffel bag. He stopped by the bathroom to get his hair spray and headed downstairs. His mother making dinner loudly in the kitchen, so Pickles headed to the living room.
The only thing Pickles could see of his father was whatever the glow of the television illuminated. Pickles set down his bag beside the doorway and took a step closer.
"Dad?"
"Get out! You belong in a garbage can."
Pickles paused momentarily, watching the TV's colors flash across his father's face. He clenched his teeth and picked up the bag. There was one more thing upstairs he needed to do. Slipping into his parents' room, he easily found their wallets and took all the money from both before tossing them carelessly on the floor.
He was out the door without further confrontation.
Struggling with his bag, Pickles made his way into town. Where was a homeless sixteen year old supposed to go? He paused a few times at lit-up windows and businesses, but instead he found himself at the bus station. He purchased a ticket without a second thought.
Part of him had hoped, as he waited for the bus's arrival, that his parents would find him and ask him to come home. That way he could laugh in their stupid faces, and leaving would be his choice. Not theirs.
Deep down, Pickles also wanted to see that one last sign that they cared about him... even half as much as they loved Seth. If they loved him, they'd find him and at least try to bring him home, right?
The bus arrived nine hours later, at eight in the morning. Pissed that he didn't get his final confrontation and reassurance, Pickles boarded the bus and was on his way to Los Angeles.
Three or four days and way too many stops later, Pickles finally escaped the confines of the bus. He had a rough plan: get famous. Step one would be getting an instrument, if he could find something cheap and mobile. That meant no drums, sadly. Step two would be to get money for, like, food and whatever. Step three would be finding a band to join.
Pickles came across a few pawn shops, but it was the third one that had an instrument he could afford. With his father's money, Pickles bought it and was on his way again.
Out of pure luck, Sammy Twinskins saw Pickles sporadically over the next month, as he played on the street with his open guitar case. Sammy often tossed in couple bucks, but eventually, he stopped and the pair got to talking.
Twinskins had a band. They were a couple years old, but they had lost their last member to an overdose and were looking to get serious again.
Pickles accepted immediately.
Despite the beautiful, clear blue sky, it was a cold day. Over the past few months, Skwisgaar had gotten into the habit of being out of the house any time he wasn't at school. It had been a couple years since he had found his guitar, and he finally felt like he was getting somewhere with it.
It helped that he didn't do much else.
One of the men from town sat down beside Skwisgaar. He was used to it; a lot of people stopped to talk to him. Most people knew who he was and who his mother was and why he stayed out here instead of in his own home, but nobody ever really said anything. Skwisgaar preferred it that way.
"You in a band yet, boy?" the man asked after a short period of just listening to the strings' quiet sound.
Skwisgaar wrinkled his nose. "No,"
There was another silence. Skwisgaar's fingers fumbled, and the guitar screeched. He swore to himself before starting again.
"I know a band who might want be interested in you,"
"And why shoulds I, huh?"
"You have a talent. You could be great one day,"
"So's what?"
There was another long silence. Swisgaar concentrated on the guitar and pushed himself to do better, but he fumbled two or three more times before he heard a voice.
"Fame could be your ticket out of here,"
Having thought that the man had left, Skwisgaar was startled. His fingers stopped and rested on the smooth body of his guitar. "Whats you say?"
"Fame could be your ticket out of this town,"
Skwisgaar paused a moment before he began playing again. "Maybes," he said.
The man stood up. "Think about it," he said, before leaving.
Skwisgaar didn't have to think about it for very long. He wouldn't put quite so much time into playing guitar if he hadn't thought of that idea. What Skwisgaar now knew from his talk was that he was good enough, and old enough, to play in bands. When he first started, every band he tried out for turned him down, and his classmates were uninterested in the concept.
In fact, finding people who were interested in being in a band with him was fairly easy for Skwisgaar now. He found a group of classmates who claimed they were interested in joining a band. The drummer started playing just after Skwisgaar, the bassist had been playing for a year and the singer was just willing to give it his all.
The drummer took up control immediately. Skwisgaar let him; he was in it to play, not plan. At the drummer's suggestion, they learned a couple popular songs to cover, they had gigs to play in no time.