((Blah blah intro. I recently remembered Metalocalypse again and have become re-obsessed with it. Lately I have been interested in Pickles' character, since he seems like a pretty decent guy who knows no other way to cope with things than to be drunk and high out of his mind all the time. It made me wonder what sort of stuff he needed to forget, besides his generally shitty homelife. Then I saw this headcanon on the metalocalypseheadcanons blog about how Seth might be manipulating him, and someone wanted a fic written about it. I sort of am going overboard because I like Pickles a lot, and it is gives me a chance to write about him in Snakes n' Barrels. The song he is singing is "Kill You", one of two "canon" Snakes n' Barrels songs. (Look it up it's good, ahem.) Rated T for profanity and non-explicit mentions of drugs, sex and violence. If you have something to say, please review! I plan to write a couple more chapters and I want to make them good. Enjoy!))

They had left and the stage had grown dark, but the crowd had cheered, sobbed, begged for more. "Encore, encore!" they had screamed, the French word spilling from the mouths of these druggies and freaks, these ne'er-do-wells looking for hard-edged rebellion against their flower power parents, because they knew what they wanted- more. "One more song!" they had cried, just like the band knew they would. The music was as addictive as the crack, the smack and the blow, maybe even more so. Even as it got the crowd high, they wanted more, come on, just a little taste, until they ODed on the drums and the strums and the thrumming of the bass, and his voice, and his body, and his face.

Pickles began tapping the heel of his boot against the stage, microphone in hand, as the band stood onstage in the dark. Click, click, click, click, went his heel against the floorboards, the barest of percussion. A slow-burning cry of excitement began to spread through the crowd as they realized what was coming, just from the beat. They were hot for this, burning up, as feverish as drug-itch and lust combined, and Snakes n' Barrels was going to give them everything they wanted.

All at once, the dark stage exploded in light and color, flooding the venue with all the hues of the acid-washed rainbow as Candy's frenzied drum opening joined with the tapping of Pickles' heel. The crowd shrieked, it roared as Snazz's guitar and Tony's bass joined in. And once Pickles flashed them all his trademark smirk and began to sing, the entire crowd lost its mind.

I don't want to have to kill you,
They'll find out and I will feel blue.

He held the microphone close as he sang, each word enunciated deliberately, eyes smoldering into every single one of these fuckers. He ran his fingers down the microphone with the sort of caress that could so easily become a chokehold, equal parts sex and psycho, equal parts love and death. He continued the song, his high voice lilting over torture, his lithe body gyrating for murder.

Ah, ah, ah, ah.
He gasped and growled. He played his guitar as he sang, slim fingers sliding along the frets.

Na na na na, na na na na. Na na na na, na na na na na.
He purred and prowled. He moved around the stage as he played, shameless, resplendent. He came back to the center, posing, pausing for effect before the band carried him to the next verse.

I don't want to have to eat you.
He ran his tongue across his lips, slowly and deliberately, and he swore he could hear women having heart attacks for him.

I won't fit into my swimsuit.
He trailed a hand along his body, showing them what a hot little body would be lost for this cannibalistic endeavor. He smiled widely, animalistic, showing too much teeth. He sang sensually about tearing them open, about crimson and bone. He was their wet dreams and their nightmares, and he would be haunting their sleep tonight.

I don't want to have to,
I don't want to have to,
I don't want to have to,
I don't want to have to!

He froze in place for the last riff, the center of a perfect tableau.

He was a god.

The crowd was silent for the length of a heartbeat after the song ended. Then, they exploded into cheering and applause. Pickles grinned as he brought the mike to his mouth and spoke, his Wisconsin accent present as it never was in his singing. "When they ask ya who rawked yer world, tell 'em it was SNAKES N' BARRELS!" he shouted, and the crowd screamed back the ecstasy of its assent. "Thank you, g'night!" he said, and the band left the crowd to the high of its glam metal overdose.

Once they were safely backstage, the roadies packing away their instruments as the dazed crowd began to pour out, Pickles broke into a giddy laughter. "Doods, we fuckin' rawked thet!" he exclaimed, beaming at the other band members. "I mean, did you see 'em oot there? They were fuckin' dyin' fer us!"

Despite the fact that he was well-initiated into this world of drugs and sex, Pickles was still a kid, a nineteen-year-old runaway with dreams as puffed up as his hair. Rock and roll was still a fantasy world to him, only ugly in the fun, glitzed out way. Even after the band's tough start, the fights, and the shitty gigs, he was still pure of showbiz cynicism. Something about his wide-eyed enthusiasm was contagious, and it spread through the rest of the band like wildfire. "He's right," Tony agreed, grinning, his voice still slurring a little. "We've fucking made it, boys!"

"To Snakes n' Barrels!" Candy said, his chest glistening with sweat after the final drum solo, high on more than just adrenaline. They all repeated his cry, all feeling untouchable.

"Now what do you say we all celebrate?" Snazz said, wiping his brow and running a hand through his blown-out hair.

"Fuck yeh, dood!" Pickles' eyes lit up at the prospect. "Let's get us some booze, blow, n' bitches!" The whole band seemed to approve of this plan. They were all still pretty high from the pre-show beer and smack, but they were starting to come down and ready for more. They headed to their dressing rooms to get some vodka and groupies before they really hit the scene. As they began to walk back, Pickles felt someone tap his arm with a rushed "Excuse me, sir."

He looked up to see one of the security guards. It was a new guy, a generic asshole with a black suit and a thick neck, one that had only started for this tour. He was looking down at Pickles. Even in his boots, Pickles was still short enough that he had to look up at most of these giants, and that alone made him irritable. The fact that this man was stopping him from his celebratory booze, blow, and bitches did not help matters. He looked to his bandmates, who had stopped with him but seemed just as anxious to start the festivities. "Go ahn wit'out me, I'll catch up soon," he said to them, and they shrugged and went ahead. Pickles turned his attention to the guard. "Whuduya want?"

The guard adjusted his sunglasses, which Pickles thought looked stupid as fuck. Who the fuck needed sunglasses at night? "Sir, I apologize for interrupting you, but there's someone backstage who's quite anxious to see you."

He grinned at that. "Lotsa girls are anxious ta see me. Tell 'er ta wait wit' the uh'ters, I'll get to 'er soon enough."

The guard shook his head. "It's, not a woman, sir. It's a man, and he says it's quite urgent."

The grin disappeared as quickly as it came. "Unless this dood's gaht some'tin that will blow my fuckin' mind, I'm naht interested," he said dismissively, turning to walk back.

"He says- it's regarding your mother, sir," the man said, shifting slightly.

Pickles stopped mid-step, a chill running through him. After a moment, he turned around. "My mahm?" he asked, voice steeped in shock and disbelief. His mother hadn't tried to contact him since he'd left home- none of his family had. Even his success and fame had done nothing to dissuade their stony silence. What could have happened, to make her want to contact him now? After a moment, his shoulders slumped in resignation, something human threatening to show through the glam. "Fine, whatever. Show me where dis guy is."

The guard nodded, leading the way as Pickles followed. He tried to gain back some of his swaying swagger, to feel like a glam god again. He had just rocked a crowd of ten thousand people! He had made it big, and he was living the dream. There was nothing that could take that away from him.

And he almost felt back to normal, until he looked up at where the guard was pointing. Before that moment, he was convinced that nothing could take away what he had made of himself. And there, slouching in a white leisure suit, was the reason why he was wrong. The reason why he would always be wrong.

"Ay, what's up, huh, my fuckin' little brother?" The man smirked at him, pulling him in for a hug that Pickles was too dumbstruck to avoid. "Been a long fucking time, huh, three years we haven't seen you, since you ran out on the family, huh? Saw your show, real cute, this little glitzed up shit you do, real cute."

Pickles didn't move. He just listened as his brother's voice took on that low, buzzing quality, an insidious murmur that hammered against Pickle's mind. He listened as it knocked on a door inside of him, a door leading to something filled with ugliness and hate. "But I got to interrupt your little, you know, singing dress up games, just to ask you a few things, you know, since everything's come real easy to you, out here in this fucking, big city. You're a big shot, big city guy now, huh, and I just think you should probably, you know, help out your brother, for once in your life, give back to the family, huh?"

The voice buzzed, rapping harder and harder on the door to his own personal hell. "Seth," he managed to say as his brother finally took his fucking hands off of him, staring Pickles down with that same smirk. He wanted to say more, but no words came. Nothing came, except the desire to let out something inside him, something that he had locked up with years of drug and alcohol abuse, something brutal and terrible. He had to stay silent.

Seth clapped a hand onto Pickles' shoulder, and he stiffened at the touch. "Come on, little bro," he said. "Let's go backstage or whatever. We got things to discuss, you and me, a real brother to brother talk, heart to fucking heart."

Pickles let himself be led towards his own dressing room. All he could feel was his brother's hand on his shoulder. It sucked all the color out of him, all the confidence. It left him feeling cold and dark, and it made him feel sick. He hated it, but he couldn't do anything about it, not yet. This is how it always was when he was with Seth. First he felt shock, then numbness, and then the anger came.

It was only a matter of time.