Title: Pickles the Drummer - From the Beginning
Summary: Our favourite drummer from Tomahawk Wisconsin from the start.
Warning: Drug use, but only a little. Oh, and self harm.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story. Otherwise, Pickles would still have his SnB hait.
Molly Reed looked down at her new born son as he slept in her arms. He was going to have red hair, she just knew it. His pale skin confirmed her theories – but that was the 'Irish' coming out in him. Tommy Reed was already turning out to be a second rate son.
"Calvert!" She called into the next room, not particularly worried about waking Tommy. Her husband shuffled into the bedroom – he had refused to drive her to the hospital to give birth (the car was low on gas) so he had called Mrs Sheeran, the next door neighbour, to act as an impromptu midwife. She had certainly known what she was doing for a fifty year old widow.
"Take Tommy into his cot, I need a smoke." Molly said, giving her husband the baby and lighting up a cigarette. Calvert took him next door into the room he would share with his older brother.
Two year old Seth was sitting on his bed, scowling. He had not received his parents' attention much for the past hour or so, and all the yelling was louder than he himself could drown out. And when his father had brought in the reason for the ignorance, well that was just mean.
"Seth, meet your new baby brother, uh, Timmy." Calvert said, putting the little bundle in Seth's old cot. Seth hopped off his bed and went to examine him.
"No, his name's Pickles." Seth said firmly, glaring at the baby. "His name's Timmy, son. Your mom went through six hours of labour, so she gets to name him, apparently." Calvert replied.
"Pickles!" Seth shouted. Calvert sighed. "Whatever, fine he's Pickles. Try not to wake him up." And with that, the suddenly father of two left the room to have a beer.
Seth looked down on 'Pickles'. "Listen up, I'm your older brother, so that means you have to do whatever I say. I get to use all of your stuff, and if mom gives you a cookie, I get half of it." He said. The baby didn't respond.
Seth narrowed his eyes, and he reached down into the cot and prodded Pickles. The baby didn't move, so Seth poked him again, a little harder this time. The baby woke up, crying loudly. Seth was alarmed. "Shut up, baby." He said desperately.
He could hear his father's foot-steps plodding down the hallway. He could almost detect the irritation in the movement.
Seth leapt back onto his bed and looked innocent. Calvert walked in. "Did you wake him up?" He asked his elder son. Seth shook his head, and Calvert sighed.
"Shut up, Timmy." He said gruffly. After a few minutes, Pickles stopped crying, his tiredness getting the better of him. "Good." He said, leaving the room.
"You'd better not get me in trouble." Seth whispered dangerously to the cot on the other side of the room. Again, he received no response. He got up from his bed and left the room, shooting the crib an angry scowl as he did.
Seth would manage to convince his parents to call his sibling 'Pickles' – the name was so thoughtful and original, they applauded their son of thinking of it.
Tommy Reed lived for only a few hours. Then he was replaced by Pickles the baby.
As Pickles grew up, he became used to Seth's dominance in the house. If Pickles had something, Seth always had to have it too, and if their parents had to pick a favourite, Pickles would miss out.
Seth was always quick to trick, extort, and blackmail his younger brother. For example, every Saturday the brothers were given a cookie to have some time during the day.
Seth would have his during lunch, and Pickles, being such an impressionable toddler, would join him. One day, a particularly overweight middle-aged man jog past. Seth got an idea from this, and nudged his younger brother.
"Hey, Pickles, you see that guy?" He asked, pointing at the man. Pickles nodded. "Well, you can tell he's a second born child." Seth began. Pickles blinked.
"How can you tell that?" He asked. Seth chuckled. "Second born kids get real fat when they eat cookies. First born kids, they have a special gland that the second born kids don't have, that makes them not fat." He explained.
"I don't wanna look like that guy." Pickles protested. Seth thought for a moment. "Better give me yer cookie from now on then." He said. Pickles frowned for a moment.
"But, can't I just have one cookie every now and then?" Pickles asked. Seth 'considered' this too, then shrugged. "Alright, every now and again, you can have half of your cookie."
Seth began school when Pickles was three. That was some relief in itself. But around the time, Pickles started having trouble seeing out of his right eye.
After a long time of complaining to his mother about the problems, she eventually had him looked at when she went in for her gout.
"Well Mrs Reed, I'm afraid your son… Pickles?" The doctor looked up from the files. Molly didn't flinch, just waited for the doctor to continue. So he did.
"Pickles has Glaucoma. Now there's not a lot we can do at this stage beyond medication, and it's going to get painful. So I personally recommend utilizing medicinal marijuana. It is legal in this state, and it may be the only alternative."
"Is it free?" Molly asked. "Yes, I believe it can be collected with a prescription from most government regulated pharmaceutical outlets-"
"So we can just go on to the drug store and pick up hash for free?" Molly pressed. "Well, you would have to bring the prescription…" The doctor said, regretting the way he had phrased the suggestion.
"Good, we'll do that. Come on Pickles. Could you make out that prescription now?" Molly asked, taking her son by the arm. Pickles was confused – what was marijuana?
Well he found out what marijuana was when his father taught him to smoke medicinal blunts. "Now you get the joint and breathe in the smoke. It'll go down rough the first couple of times, but you should get it eventually." Calvert said.
Pickles pulled from the blunt and was immediately submerged into a coughing fit. Calvert left the room and muttered. "Worthless piece of garbage…" Under his breath.
When Pickles was in school, he had a lot of trouble concentrating. Kids laughed at his name for one thing, even the teacher couldn't accept it, calling him 'boy' when she wanted his attention. She didn't want a name like that disrupting her class.
Pickles still had troubles with his eye sight, and couldn't see the board. Offered no assistance, he simply tried to amuse himself as best as he could while he waited for class to be over.
His parents didn't care about the detentions, or the letters home from school, even when he got suspended. They simply ignored him to focus on Seth, which suited Pickles fine.
However the only time his parents did pay attention to him was when Seth was blaming him for something, or when they took him to the doctors. At the age of five, Seth was bullying Pickles not only at home (where he could hide) but at school, with his friends.
One Wednesday, as Pickles was sitting alone in the playground tapping a book with two pencils (something he enjoyed doing immensely), Seth approached him flanked by all his friends.
"Hey dork, you gotta do something for me." Seth began. Pickles frowned and blinked. "What?" He asked warily. At the time he was six, and just beginning to fight back against his brother.
"You have to give me your lunch." Seth said. "I don't have any, so leave me alone." Pickles said, making sure to keep his voice strong.
"That's too bad, because I already ate mine. I guess we'll just take your shirt. It's a little cold." Seth laughed, and the group advanced on him.
Pickles was very scared. His brother hit him every so often, but never in a group. Since they were only seven year old kids messing around, he only got hit a few times, lightly. But he was so afraid, he began hyperventilating. His throat closed up, and his eyes were wide with fear.
"Hey, stop messing around." Seth said, his voice tinged with panic. Pickles continued gasping for breath – he stared at his brother pleadingly. Seth's friends simply ran away.
Seth was rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do. A teacher stopped to survey the situation about ten metres. Seth spotted him, and beckoned urgently, tears rolling down his face.
When Pickles was taken to the hospital, it was discovered that Pickles had asthma, and had suffered from an aggressive attack. He was told to carry an inhaler from then on.
When it was looked into as to why he had suffered the attack in the first place, the doctors ascertained it had been stress, and that Seth had been barely involved.
When Pickles was six, there was a terrible accident. Seth had been playing with matches with a few of his friends, and in doing so had accidently burnt down the garage.
Pickles had been tapping on his books next to the curb when it started – he had become alert when he smelled smoke coming from the direction of his house. Since investigating hings was often what got him in trouble, he was reluctant to look further.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked around the corner to look at the source of the smoke. When he saw his house ablaze, he ran for it without thinking.
Seth was around the side of the house, shouting for help. Pickles was smart enough to know he would be hurt if he remained where he was, so he ran around the side of the house, grabbed his older brother and ran far away from the house.
They got to the playground a few blocks away, and hid in the little tunnel. They gasped for breath, and looked at one another with wide eyes.
"Y-You saved my life." Seth whispered. Pickles nodded. "Thanks." Seth muttered, looking away from his brother. Pickles began sobbing. What would happen to them? The house was probably burned down by now.
"We gotta go back." Pickles said. "Or they'll hunt us down and shoot us dead." Pickles got most of his information on law enforcement from the old western movies his father watched.
Seth shook his head. "They gonna put us in jail for what we done." He said in a terrified voice. "What we done? Seth it was you and your friends who done it!" Pickles said angrily.
"You was there too, no one is ever gonna believe you weren't involved. It was your matches for your blunts anyway." Seth said finitely.
Pickles shook his head and jumped out of the tunnel. "I'm gonna go back and tell them it was you, and you gotta come or they'll shoot you dead!" He shouted. Seth stared at him for a moment, then crawled out of the tunnel. They walked back to the house in silence.
When they got there, the firemen had neutralised the blaze, and Calvert and Molly were talking to the firemen. Molly nudged Calvert, and he walked to them, looming over them like a great monster.
"One of you boys started that fire. Twenty grand of damages we gotta pay, and we ain't got no insurance. Which one a' you did it?" He asked in a low dangerous voice.
Pickles turned to Seth, waiting for him to admit his guilt. Seth did not look at his brother, but simply raised his arm, and pointed at Pickles. Pickles was so stunned, his mouth was agape.
Pickles, since he was only six, was not charged with arson. But he was grounded by his parents for almost three months, and the little attention his parents paid to him was replaced with anger.
For the past year before the fire, Seth had never let Pickles forget that it was his actions in calling the teacher that had saved Pickles after his asthma attack (one of which Pickles had after he was accused of starting the fire).
It seemed that Seth had lost his main reason for making his brother suffer, when his life had been saved in turn by Pickles dragging him away from the fire.
And that had made Seth madder than ever. He could never forgive Pickles for saving his life.
As Pickles grew up and his Glaucoma disappeared, not only did his vision clear, but so did his perspective. Seth was a jerk for what he did, and Pickles would not allow himself to be treated that badly ever. Not by Seth, not by anyone.
When Pickles was eight, he bought himself a drum kit from the pawn shop with money he had managed to collect over two years. It wasn't very good, but the manager of the pawn shop found someone to replace the skins for free.
Pickles started off by simply hitting the drums in a random order, to relief his anger and calm him down after an asthma attack.
But then he tried messing around with simple progressions, eventually being able to advance into harder stuff. Although as he got better, he had to take breaks more often, as he would run out of breath.
Seth got into some trouble with the law, as he hung out with his idiot friends, but he began to recognise that Pickles was getting stronger. He could stand up for himself.
Although to Calvert and Molly, who never gave their second son a second glance, Pickles was simply becoming more of a disappointment as his life progressed.
Sometimes, Molly would 'forget' to set him a place for dinner, and he would have to make something himself. Eventually, he ceased showing up to meals altogether.
Calvert began to detest his son's place in the family. Whenever Pickles entered the room, he would scowl and make a noise of disgust.
Pickles was generally self-sufficient, drumming on empty buckets in the park to earn money. He bought his own clothes, and mostly his own food, and lived in the basement to get away from his family (although when he had moved downstairs, Molly had already been storing her unused gym equipment in there for months).
He shopped at pawn dealerships, his prized possessions being an old Walkman with a large collection of CDs and his drum kit.
He began drinking at a young age, simply because he could. His hair grew long, and he kept it somewhat styled into the glam rock type that was popular around the time.
Due to his residence in Tomahawk Wisconsin, a place famous for its large quota of tornadoes, Pickles found that he was constantly having to re-assemble his drum-kit (which he kept above ground in a shed in the back yard, as his mother would not tolerate the noise in the house).
Molly hated her second born's lack of ambition. So unlike Seth, Pickles often skipped school, and never did anything but play that awful instrument.
And he was having a bad influence on Seth. Seth had been using unsavoury language – something he must have picked up from Pickles, and she had found empty liquor bottles in his room. Obviously left there by her second born.
This was not the case. If anything, Seth drank more than Pickles, having a more consistent supply from his friends. And Pickles didn't speak enough to Seth to use much bad language.
Once Pickles was fourteen, he couldn't stand living a home. He spent nights at the youth centre, pretending to be Christian. He kind of liked it there. For all intensive purposes, he was a normal teenage boy.
That was where he met his first love, aside from drumming and drinking. A girl named Rachel, who had pretty blonde hair and laughing blue eyes. Pickles fell in love with her when he heard her laugh.
He decided that he would make his move on the night of the Christmas party. He stole Seth's Playboy deodorant, and tried to make himself look presentable. He felt like a fag really. But he hoped it would be worth it.
He waited until Rachel was on her own, and then he sat next to her. "Hey Rachel." He said quietly. Rachel blinked and turned to him, and gave him a little smile.
"Oh, uh, hi… what was your name sorry?" She asked. "Pickles." He said. She gave him a sceptical look. "Really?" She asked doubtfully. Pickles nodded.
"That's a weird name." She said, looking at the dance floor to watch her friends attempt their various efforts of seduction on their partners.
"Look Rachel, I was wonderin'…" Pickles trailed off. Rachel was staring at him. "Why do I recognise your face?" She wondered aloud. Then a look of clarity flickered across her pretty face.
"Do you have a brother?" She asked. "Yeah, Seth." Pickles said, attempting in vain to keep the scorn out of his voice.
"Seth Reed? Oh my god, he IS your brother!" She clapped her hands in recognition, then blushed a little. "Hey can you do me a favour?" She asked, moving towards him so her hand brushed against his thigh.
Pickles swallowed. "What is it?" He asked. "Could you tell him I like him?" She asked, subsiding into a fit of giggles. Pickles was numb for a moment, then he stood up. "Dumb broad." He whispered, and then he left without looking at her.
He spent that night at a park. It was a clear night, so he could see just fine. It was the same park he had been in when he and Seth had been caught up in the fire incident.
Pickles sat in the same tunnel he had shared with his brother as they had been huddled together in fear – for once, they had shared a common enemy in their parents.
But Seth had taken that brief affection of his brother, and crushed it knowingly. Even now, he had taken the girl he had spent months thinking about without doing a thing.
He was done. Done with Seth, done with his parents, done with freakin' Tomahawk. He vowed that someday he would run away, and become a famous musician. Then his parents would look right through Seth.
He quickly banished that thought. He would not become a musician for his parents. He would do it for himself. He could do it on his own. He spent the rest of the night stealing alcohol and getting blind drunk. By the next morning, he had forgotten the promise he had made himself.
The tension between Pickles and his parents elevated even more when he began getting his own against Seth. Every so often, Pickles would pass his brother in the hall and drive his head into the wall. It made him feel better.
Seth still went on with his crap, blaming Pickles for anything and everything that went on. Although Pickles ignored his parents screaming at him, and telling him he was worthless.
Calvert shouted at his son whenever he saw him. Pickles had moved his few possessions out of the basement and into the small shed with his drum kit. There was little room in there, but he made it work for him. Anything was better than inside.
Molly would scowl at him through the kitchen window whenever he came in. Secretly, he craved his mother's approval, although he would never admit that to himself, or anyone else.
When times got really tough, Pickles would simply get high on government weed. He wasn't addicted or anything, he just preferred it when he felt nothing.
He went to the Pawn shop one day intending to purchase another snare for his drum kit. But instead, he found himself selecting a medium sized travel bag.
He took it home and filled it with all his clothes, his drum sticks, his Walkman, and his few favourite CDs. He pulled on his leather jacket (the one his parents hated) and walked inside the house.
His mother was cleaning in the kitchen. He watched her from the doorway for a moment, and when she didn't turn around he didn't say a word. He didn't want her disapproval now or ever. He simply continued on to where Calvert was drinking beer and watching television in the living room.
He banged the door open. "I'm leavin'. I ain't gonna live near a douchebag like Seth, or a drunken bastard like you!" He said aggressively. Calvert didn't even look at him. He just glared at the TV.
"Get out! You belong in a garbage can." He said venomously. Pickles turned and left the house in a rage. He didn't bother trying to locate Seth, it really wasn't worth it to see the smug look on his brothers face. Seth would take it as a forfeit. That he himself had won something.
Pickles took one last look into the shed that housed his drum kit. It would probably be sold or destroyed once he was gone. His father would see to that.
He clenched his fist, suddenly regretting not confronting his father over his words. But he would not go back inside. He was gone, and they'd be damned lucky ever to see him again.
Pickles made his way to the bus station where he knew he could get a cheap ride out of Tomahawk, although dusty it was he didn't really care. It suited him. He didn't feel out of place.
He got to Los Angeles, and thought that it was a better place than any to begin clawing his way to the top. He wandered through the streets, wondering where to go. It was dark, about seven thirty at night. He wasn't that hungry though. If he got hungry, he'd smoke or something.
He got tired of walking after a while. He looked up at a street sign to gauge where he was – the corner of two intersecting streets, Fairfax and Wilshire. There was a pawn shop a few metres away.
Pickles had a little money together, about seventy-five dollars. Perhaps he could find something useful in there. He wandered in, hearing the tinkling bell at the top of the door. It was similar to the one at the Tomahawk pawn shop, only a little deeper.
There was a middle-aged African-American man working at the counter. Or he was supposed to be working. In actuality, he was sitting on a stool looking very bored
The man seemed to brighten a little when Pickles walked in. "Hey kid, what you doing out this late?" He asked, attempting to make conversation.
"Mah parents don't give a shit where I go." Pickles shrugged. The man chuckled. "It's cool, we get a lot of lone wolves comin' in here, looking for somethin' worth doing." He explained.
"I'm gonna join a rock band, you got anything that can help me?" Pickles asked. The man smiled and turned to the wall behind him. He selected a well-used acoustic guitar and strummed a few blues notes. "How you like that?" He asked.
Initially, Pickles had intended to make his way as a drummer, but it seemed as though it would be more difficult to find himself a drum kit than it would a guitar. He looked at the small selection.
He met his second love that day – a Gibson Les Paul with a brass finish. He pointed at it on the wall, and gave the man a wolfish grin. "That one." He said finitely.
The man took the Gibson from the wall and strummed it. It made a nice sound – sort of rough and raw. But it was a sound Pickles never wanted to stop hearing.
"Yeah, sounds good." Pickles agreed. "How much is it?" He asked. The man considered for a moment. "How much you got?" He asked.
"Seventy five." Pickles said, taking out the small bundle of notes and coins he had in his pocket. "You got yourself a deal, son. You treat her right, you hear?" The man said, handing Pickles the guitar and an old worn case.
"I'll make it." Pickles said, flashing another smile before walking out of the pawn shop. That was the first step – he had an instrument. But now what.
He guessed he had to get good. He had never played a guitar before, but he had played the drums just fine without any problems. He would teach himself how to play guitar.
Over the next couple of years, Pickles learned the sounds of guitar, and eventually became pretty good at it. He stayed in crack houses and the like, and got books from the library on lessons.
But he could only learn the fundamentals from books, as he couldn't read that well. He taught himself that too, eventually. But by the time he was reading at an acceptable level, he was eighteen.
He joined a few bands over the years, all varied in level of talent. The band members let him stay at their places, although he never made friends with any of them.
People liked Pickles because he knew what he was doing, and he was a versatile musician. He could teach people things, and learn stuff quick. It was always he who abandoned a band, and no they who let him go. He would simply move on when he felt it was time.
By the time he was twenty one, he had mastered guitar, and was alright with vocals. He had done back up for some of the bands, and a couple had even wanted him to sing lead for them. He decided it was time to have a band of his own.
He met Antonio DiMarco Thunderbottom at a bar where Pickles would go frequently to get blind drunk. The man was slumped over, empty shot glasses in front of him, with his hat askew.
But none of these things were what attracted Pickles to this man. Well, ok that hat was pretty noticeable, but it was the bass guitar strapped to his back that made Pickles approach him.
"Hey man, is somethin' wrong?" Pickles asked, sitting on the stool next to DiMarco. DiMarco chuckled. "Nah, just waitin' to get drunk." He said, downing another shot.
"Dude, you're drinkin' the wrong stuff. Here." Pickles said, leaning over the bar and swiping a bottle of Grappa when the bar tender wasn;t paying attention. He filled one of the empty glasses for the man, and one for himself.
"Bottom's up." Pickles announced, downing the shot. His head was spinning instantly. "Woah, that's strong stuff." DiMarco remarked.
"You play?" Pickles asked, nodding at the bass on the man's back. "Yeah, I'm aright." He shrugged. "I'm Pickles, by the way." Pickles said, holding out his hand.
"Antonio DiMarco Thunderbottom." DiMarco said, shaking Pickles' outstretched hand slowly. "How about Tony?" Pickles laughed, knowing he'd probably forget the name, He was impressed that Tony had been able to say the whole thing through his inebriation.
"Yeah, ok." Tony nodded, accepting his new nick-name. "You got a band?" Pickles asked. Tony inclined his head to the side.
"Sort of. I got a drummer, and a guy to play rhythm, but no vocals. Or lead." Tony explained. Pickles became excited – this was his opportunity to be a front runner, and this 'Tony' was a nice guy. Maybe he had also found a friend.
"Well hey, I can sing for ya if ya want, and I can play guitar." Pickles offered. Tony stared at him for a moment. "You serious man?" He asked.
"Hell yeah." Pickles smiled and nodded. Tony returned the lopsided smile, warped a little from the inebriation. Pickles knew he had found a friend in Tony DiMarco, the bass player.
Tony took Pickles back to the apartment he and the two other musicians used as residence. "Candynose! Snizzy! I found somethin'!" he shouted to the apartment.
A young man with long blonde hair shuffled out of his room. "Who's that? His head's on fire!" The man said, pointing at Pickles' large red hair.
"Nah man, the coke's messin' with you again. This is Pickles, he's gonna play lead and sing for us." Tony explained, his speech slurred slightly. Candynose thought for a moment, then went over to the couch and fell asleep.
"That was, uh… Sammy 'Candynose' Twinskins. He's a crack cocaine user. Good guy when he's clean though. Good drummer too." Tony said. Pickles nodded. Sometimes people judged cocaine users from their high state. Pickles knew better than that.
"Snizzy's probably in his room. That's Snizzy Snazz Bullets. He plays the rhythm. He's probably asleep, and I'd rather not wake him up. He needs to sleep it off anyway. He does mushrooms and stuff." Tony said, walking down a hallway and opening a door at the end.
"This is my room. You could have had the couch, but I don't think Candynose is going to wake up. So You'll be sharing with me tonight. It'll be just like a sleepover!" Tony said excitedly.
"Uh, yeah." Pickles said, amused by Tony's enthusiasm. Pickles had never had a sleepover, but he was pretty certain that one didn't participate while drunk.
The room was very dark, littered with empty beer bottles, and strangely enough, the occasional bowl of pot-purri. "What the hell?" Pickles laughed as he approached one.
"My ex-girlfriend put those around. I'm gonna wait until she walks past the apartment, and then I'm gonna dump 'em down on top her from the window." Tony laughed.
"Whatever floats yer boat. Imma hit the hay." Pickles said, climbing into the small double bed with black sheets. Tony flopped down beside him, removing his shirt, but not his hat.
Pickles, not wanting to get his shirt dirty in case Tony couldn't hold his liquor and threw it back, removed his too. He rolled over – he hadn't slept in a real bed for some time.
"Hey, Pickles?" Tony asked. "Whassup?" Pickles asked. "What should we call our band?" Tony asked. Pickles mumbled something as his eyes closed. "What?" Tony asked.
"Snakes N' Barrels." Pickles murmured. Really he was recounting a dream he would have when he went to sleep drunk. But Tony rolled around the words in his head, and smiled as he went to sleep. "Snakes N' Barrels…" Tony whispered softly.
The next day, when the band members were a little cleaner, Pickles properly met everyone, and found out about their skills. Candynose was a good drummer – not as good as Pickles though.
Snizzy was alright with rhythm – he could hit the chords alright, but he sometimes missed them, or couldn't keep up with the other musicians.
Tony was very good though. He could not only keep up, but free styling wasn't a problem. He would speed up or slow down if the other members got sloppy, and lead them back on track.
They began playing straight away. Pickles got Candynose together with his beat, and he helped Snizzy speed up with his instrumentals. Pickles and Tony began writing songs. Musically, everything was going great.
But it was obvious very early on that all four members had a drug problem. Tony was an alcoholic, Candynose was a crack cocaine user, and Snizzy took any hallucinogen he could get his hands on. Pickles did it all.
Their habits didn't necessarily have an impact on their ability, but it did hinder the amount of time they spent practising.
In theory, they could have gotten their act together in a mere two weeks, but instead it took nearly three months to get anything prepared.
But once Pickles and Tony had managed to write a great song, everything began falling into place. They performed small club gigs mostly, but they did catch the attention of several interested influential types.
They spent that Wednesday as they spent every other day they weren't performing – laying around the apartment drinking and taking whatever substance they could find. It worked for them.
Canynose was practising his drums while high on cocaine. Snizzy was trying to draw a demon from his Ramen Noodles. Pickles and Tony were lying in Tony's bed.
Pickles had never moved from Tony's bed after that first night. He could have taken the other room, but he turned it into a band room they could practise in. Tony didn't mind sharing a bed with Pickles anyway.
A knock sounded at the door, and luckily Pickles got there before Snizzy did. A man in a fairly well kept suit was standing in the door way.
"Dood, the fancy apartments 'r upstairs." Pickles informed him. The man laughed and shook his head.
"No, you misunderstand me sir. I represent Glamrock records, and we are interested in the signing 'Snakes N' Barrels' a record deal." The man explained.
Pickles was stunned for a moment. "Uh, maybe you should come inside." He said. The man stepped in, clearly unabashed by the smell, which Pickles thought was strange for a man of such obvious superitority.
"Hey Tony, get out here." Pickles called down the hall. "No, I'm lonely, come back to bed." Tony replied. Pickles blushed and gave the man an apologetic smile.
"I'm serious Tony!" He called back. He eard a sigh, and Tony shuffled down the hall. He appeared wearing only boxers and his hat.
"Christ dood put some pants on." Pickles muttered. "Fine.' Tony sighed, noting the suited man in the apartment. He selected a pair of used jeans from the couch and pulled them on.
"This guy wants to give us a record deal, or somethin'." Pickles muttered, still embarrassed from Tony's comment earlier.
"You serious man?" Tony asked the suited representative. The suited man beamed and nodded. "Snakes N' Barrels is exactly what Glamrock records is looking for."
"Well… cool, I guess." Pickles shrugged. "I had a feeling that you wouldn't want to come in and sign anything, so I've drawn up a document." The man said, giving them a piece of paper.
Tony accepted it, then looked a little awkward. "Gimme a look at that." Pickles snapped, snatching it from him and reading over it.
Ordinarily he would not have been so harsh, but he knew Tony couldn't read, and he was quite sensitive about the subject. He probably didn't want this stranger knowing something so personal, so Pickles had covered for him.
"Yeah, this is pretty straight forward." Pickles nodded, reading over the document and nodding. He went over to the table and fetched a pen.
Pickles signed the paper, then handed it to Tony, who wrote his name slowly. "The other don't need to sign. Here ya go." Pickles said, handing the document back to the man.
"Thank you very much. That should be everything in order, except… erm." The man cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Are you two men… homosexual?" He asked slowly. "No, we're not." Pickles replied. The man beamed again "Good. I'll be off then." He said, leaving the apartment and closing the door behind him.
"Thanks Pickles." Tony said with a small smile. Pickles waved his gratitude away. "Nah, it was nothin'. Come on, it's cold out here." Pickles said, dragging Tony back to the bedroom.
There were two reasons why Pickles liked sleeping with Tony. The first, he didn't have to supply his own mattress. The second was the warmth.
The emotional warmth. Seth had never been a brother to him, and when he fell asleep next to Tony, he felt like Tony was the brother that he had wanted as a child. A brother that cared about him. Even though Pickles was two years older.
The recording contract was legit. Over the next three months, Snakes N' Barrels recorded an eight track album.
The album was released with one of the worst advances the company had ever seen. That was until the girls got a load of what the band looked like.
People went nuts for Snakes N' Barrels. Pickles felt a little awkward, not being able to go anywhere without fans approaching him. But at same time, he felt fulfilled as a musician. And that was worth something.
When Snakes N' Barrels were blowing up, Pickles began having thoughts about his old life, wen his parents had ignored him and Seth had tormented him.
He would smile as he thought of what they would look like now. He wondered if they would regret the way they had treated him. He wondered if Seth was jealous.
But whenever he thought like this, he would get sad. His parents had never cared about him, and they probably still didn't care. The pain of those thoughts were too much sometimes.
The door of the bathroom was locked. There were a few inches of water in the bath, as well as a dishevelled drummer turned vocalist. He hadn't bothered to remove his clothes or booths.
He held a razor blade in his fingers. He looked at it with a dull expression, and pressed into the soft flesh of his forearm. He watched as the little beads of blood dripped steadily into the water.
Someone knocked at the door. "Pickles? You in there?" Candynose asked. Pickles didn't respond. He simply continued to cut his flesh.
Candynose was silent for a moment, then the lock clicked open. It could easily be jacked with a knife. Pickles had forgotten that.
Candynose saw the blood and the razor, and immediately rushed over and grabbed the razor blade. It slashed his fingers, but he didn't care. "Tony!" He shouted, as he shook the semi-conscious red head in front of him.
Tony entered the room, saw his best friend comatose in a pool of his own blood, and almost lost it. He helped Candynose pull Pickles out, then he attacked the medicine cabinet for something to stem the bleeding.
Candynose pulled off the bandage that he had wrapped around his arm for shooting off, and put a tourniquet around the worst of the bleeding.
Tony found a box of rags and began wiping the blood away, and tying bandages here and there. Pickles was somewhat conscious by now.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Tony demanded as he worked over Pickles' left arm. Pickles shook his head and shrugged.
"You weren't, were you?" Candynose muttered, fumbling with a bandage on the right arm. It was less damaged.
Pickles moaned, but said nothing. Once the two men had finished cleaning him up, they dragged him back to Tony's room. Candynose sighed once they had him in the blankets. "I need a hit." He said simply, and he left the room.
Tony sighed and sat down next to Pickles. "How come?" He asked. Pickles shrugged for the second time.
"I don't know. I wanted to die, I guess." He said. Tony sighed. "I had no idea." He said. It was clear that he blamed himself for not keeping a better eye on his fellow band mate.
"Why would ya?" Pickles laughed softly. "You're my best friend man. I should have known that." Tony said sadly.
Pickles lifted his arm and patted his friend's back. "We'll be ok." Pickles said. Tony nodded and fell back on to the bed.
"Pickles?" He asked softly. "Wha?" He asked. "Can I… give you a hug?" Tony asked. Pickles laughed again.
"Dood, that'd be gay." He said. Tony remained silent. "But okay." Pickles shrugged, and he let Tony snuggle up to him like a small child.
Pickles soon got over his self-harming phase. But the drug problem was still at large. The members were taking more and more drugs to deal with the fame. They had basically lost Snizzy, and Candynose was always muttering about something or other.
Tony was drunk all the time. Pickles felt his brother was slipping away from him. So Pickles turned to drugs himself. And it felt good.
They found themselves passed out in hotels with random whores more often than they found themselves at home. They were spiralling, ever so slowly.
Pickles found he was losing his passion for glam rock, and was starting to crave something heavier. He would linger at rock stores if they were playing heavy metal music, and he began purchasing metal CDs.
Since his interest in the music was declining, Snakes N' Barrels themselves were suffering musically. They weren't writing songs, and they were performing less.
One afternoon, when Pickles was twenty five and struggling for his musical integrity, he came home to find Tony passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
This was not an unusual sight, but it had been less welcome lately. This was the final straw. Pickles fixed him up like he always did, and then sat down to write a note. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do.
It outlined that he was looking for something else, and that they were kidding themselves when they thought they could be serious musicians.
He looked at Tony one last time before he left. Little Tony DiMarco, Pickles' little brother. He would never see him again, probably. Unless Snakes N' Barrels did a reunion tour. He chuckled at the thought.
"See ya later, Tony." He whispered, hugging his best friend briefly. He was about to release him when the bass player threw his arms around him tightly.
"See ya Pickles." He whispered. Tony knew Pickles was leaving for good, and suddenly it was a lot harder to leave for Pickles. But he had vowed to go.
He hugged his friend back, then turned and left the apartment with his things, which sat in a small pile next to the front door.
For the next six months, Pickles lived off the small amount of money he had taken from the earnings of Snakes N' Barrels. He realised he needed a job when he was stealing from Seven Eleven.
But he wasn't about to get a real job. He still loved music too much to let it go for good. So he did what he always did when he was faced with losing all he had – he went to the bar to get blind drunk.
He was on a bender, slumped over the bar, in a fit of giggles for absolutely no reason. His dreadlocks were tied together in a sort of rough ponytail.
Pickles had gotten dreadlocks because his long, voluminous hair had become too much to handle.
He was on his eighteenth shot of Vodka when he was approached by a young, serious man with black hair that hung in his face. The man didn't say a word, and the bar tender put a beer in front of him.
"Hey dood, yer lookin' too serious fer a place like this." Pickles laughed. "Who the hell are you?" The man asked.
He spoke in a death growl, the type Pickles liked to listen to. Pickles cackled like a hyena. "You talk like people sing." He pointed out.
The man ignored him. "I think I'm gonna throw up." Pickles laughed. The man sighed and grabbed Pickles' thin frame, hauling him out of the bar and into the alley, where he threw up.
"Hey… we should… we should start a band!" Pickles suggested, before throwing up again. The man said nothing.
"You… could be the singer this time…. And I could play the drums!" He continued before vomiting once more. "Sorry man, I'm usually better at holding my liquor." Pickles apologised.
"Nah, it's fine." The man responded. "I'm Pickles!" Pickles announced, holding back bile. "I'm Nathan Explosion." The man said.
"That is an awesome name. We should definitely start a band. And call it… Dethklok!" Pickles suggested.
"Fine, if you wake up sober enough to find me at this address, I'll be in a band with you." Nathan said, scribbling down his address and putting it in Pickles' pocket.
"Sure, just don't expect me before noon." Pickles said, before subsiding into laughter and vomit again.
The next day, sure enough, Nathan Explosion was woken himself at two in the afternoon in his apartment by an enthusiastic yet slightly hung-over Pickles the drummer.
Within a few months, they had found a bass player, a lead guitarist and had gone through one rhythm guitarist. They had found another though, and were going well.
"Hey, Nathan!" Pickles shouted through the apartment. "What?" A heavy death growl replied. "I need you in the living room for a sec." Pickles said.
Nathan trudged through the apartment, then sat at the living room table, where Pickles was doing some maths. "Don't shout, I don't want to wake up Murderface." Nathan said. No one ever wanted to wake up Murderface.
"I've been going through the numbers all afternoon. I can't work out all these expenses, we need a manager or something." Pickles announced.
"I've never had a manager before, where do we get one?" Nathan asked. Everything band related was diverted to Pickles, since he had been the front man of one himself before.
"Well, Snakes ' Barrels was given one. I guess we just find someone who can do math er somethin'." Pickles shrugged.
"Where do managers come from, manager school?" Nathan asked, laughing in guttural tones. Pickles' eyes widened with an idea.
"Dude, business school! We just go to one and wait for a smart lookin' guy to come out." Pickles said. "That's a good idea." Nathan nodded.
Skwisgaar Skwigelf, decked in white, shuffled into the living room, with young Toki Wartooth clutching at the hem of his shirt.
"Nat'ans, Pickle, Toki ams doings it again." He complained, pointing at Toki holding on to him. Pickles laughed quietly.
"Aw, leave him alone Skwisgaar. He ain't hurtin' anyone." Pickles said, smiling at Toki, who looked tired. Skwisgaar was at his wits end with sharing a room with the rhythm guitarist.
"Hey, we're going to get a, uh, manager. You guys wanna come?" Nathan asked. Toki nodded excitedly, whereas Skwisgaar merely shrugged.
They found their way to a prestigious business school, and milled about the grounds, waiting for someone to come by.
"Hey, he looks pretty smart." Nathan said, pointing at a young man that was passing them. "Yeah, he ams got a briefs case, and glasses too!" Toki pointed out.
"You guys stay here, me and Nathan'll go and talk to 'im." Pickles said. Toki immediately ran off to climb a tree, and Skwisgaar trudged after him to make sure he didn't go hurting himself. "Stupid dildoes." He mumbled.
Nathan and Pickles went over to the man, who had stopped to tie his shoe. When the man straightened again, he was face with the overly serious expression Nathan always had, and the slightly dozy expression that Pickles always had.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" The man asked. That surprised Pickles a little – usually anyone with class dismissed both he and Nathan immediately as 'beatnicks'.
"Yeah, can you count to a billion?" Nathan asked. The man blinked. "Yes, I expect I could with enough time." He replied.
"Cool, you wanna be our manager?" Pickles asked. The man thought for a moment. "Manager of what, exactly?" He asked.
"Dethklok, our band. You wanna be our manager?" Nathan asked. "Well I'm supposed to give a lecture in ten minutes on property law, but I can convene with you this afternoon I suppose." He said.
"Cool, meet us here." Nathan said, giving the man a piece of paper with their address on it, much like he had given Pickles the first time they had met.
"Alright, I will see you two gentlemen later. And if you're here with those two men over there, the younger one is about to fall out of that tree." The man said, pointing in the direction in which Skwisgaar and Toki had departed earlier.
Nathan chuckled. "I wonder if Skwisgaar'll catch him." He thought aloud. Toki did fall, on top of Skwisgaar, landing safely. Skwisgaar cursed loudly in Swedish.
"We should go check that out. I'm Pickles by the way." Pickles said to the man, before running with Nathan to assess any damage and laugh at Skwisgaar.
"I'm Charles Ofdensen." The man called after them. Nathan nodded, committing the name to memory.
As Nathan and Pickles approached Toki and Skwisgaar, they had to laugh. Skwisgaar was still pinned under the stronger Norwegian, who was laughing at his own fall from the tree while Skwisgaar scowled.
Pickles was reminded of himself and Tony DiMarco, of an earlier time. He felt a brief pang of longing for those times, and for his old friend.
But he had new friends now. Ones that were not addicted to drugs. Well, they drank a lot, but they kept in control. This was the better alternative.
Charles Foster Ofdensen managed their band from that afternoon onwards, getting them signed to a record label within two weeks, and playing gigs days after that. He was able to keep their affairs in order, and respected them.
Pickles had been through the motions before, but this time was different. He felt as if they were going somewhere.
As they played concert after concert, all six of them realised this was bigger than they could have ever imagined. People were going insane waiting to see them.
Of course the time came when they felt it was time to update their security – therefore Mordhaus and the Klokateers came to be.
And five years on, a thirty-one year old Pickles sits in his room within the fortress of Mordhaus, and he wonders. What would have happened if he had never been found by Nathan? What would have happened if he had stayed with Snakes N' Barrels? What would have happened if he had never left his family?
He would never know, and he didn't really want to know. He liked where he was, with his band like a family for him.
Through Pickles, Tommy Reed was still thinking and breathing. He had his own views. He missed Seth as his brother, and he missed Tony as his best friend. No amount of alcohol or drugs could kill Tommy.
And although his past sometimes made freak appearances, Pickles had seen enough of life to know that things would change. Things were constantly changing. Seth, to Tony, to Nathan. All had brought about change in his life. And for that, he could never repay them.
Except for Seth, to whom he paid five million dollars. Fuck you Seth.
Well, wasn't that delightful? If you enjoyed that, I will be posting history fics featuring the four outher members of Dethklok, and possibly their mysterious CFO, Charles Ofdensen. Comment if you have suggestions for those...
Lots of Love, Rattie!