Update:

Rewriting this because I think it could have been clearer than what it was.

Fic is centric of the band just after SnB breaks up, before Dethklok is formed. I've gotten myself confused about a few of the facts but I'm sticking to the series as best I can. There are some faults that I acknowledge, so if you really care as much as I do you can take these into account;

Firstly, the series kind of implies that the boys, besides Pickles, haven't really been to Los Angeles before… For such a famous band, I think that's kind of hard to go along with, so for purposes of writing, it's a place that they will briefly visit.

Secondly, it's hard to tell when the band was formed, when Snakes N' Barrels broke up, etc, so I've again just made a choice there…

Okey, so, uhm.

Will be slash, I can't bring myself to write any OOC or not according to my head canon, so as of chapter 10 there is still no smut. I'm sorry. I have written some, but it's not in here yet. Chapter 11 might have some Skwisgaar stuff.

If I ever get to the point where the whole band is together then expect it!

All in all this is a before-the-band-was-a-band story, we open in 1999.


He could never sleep in a city. The traffic outside the motel window only slowed once the clock ticked past 3 am. That witching hour struck the streets silent. The wail of a siren in the distance was the only disturbance in the twilight of dawn besides the occasional scuttle of a lonely vehicle.

It stank. Cigarettes. Beer. Vomit. He hadn't left the room for a day, if not a few hours more. The Snakes N' Barrels gig had trailed into the night, he and his band members drank together as though nothing was wrong, though they'd just ended their final farewell tour performance. They had a penthouse suite at the Marriott. Pickles hadn't sobered up enough to recall why he wasn't staying with his bandmates. But he had his bag. A change of clothes and his arsenal of travel-booze was enough to keep him content in the isolation of his stagnant motel room.

Professionally, things weren't going badly for the frontman. He retained his manager, who had already set up auditions and interviews with a number of other musical projects. He was an amateur engineer, that skill alone would get him by if everything went to shit. His band was popular all over America, and it had spread in patches to the rest of the world.

Admittedly, the band had been on a downturn for a number of years. The best times were neighing on 8 years ago, at the end of the 80's. Since then they'd been living a fantasy, the size or nature of a gig didn't matter when they were always imagining it to be something better. Plus, residuals would continue to flow in. His skill as a frontman had not gone unenvied. He could even play the drums, though he had never done so on stage. This skill had only been utilized when he wrote material for his now deceased band.

Dawn was peeking. It was Sunday. He hadn't slept since Thursday, though his memories of the time he'd been awake tended to lapse as if he were indeed asleep. The singer was in his underwear. His long scarlet hair, beginning to thin at the front, was pulled back in a messy ponytail. He was sitting. Slouched, on the side of the bed closest to the window.

Only months ago the grey singlet he wore would have clung to the lean, sinewy muscle of his chest, now it hung loose, the fabric pooling a little in his lap as he sat forward, elbows resting on his skinny jean-clad thigh. He swung his leg clumsily, shuffling forward enough to permit him to stand, grabbing his cigarette pack. He stepped to the window, bare feet dragging on the liquor-stained carpet.

The window fogged against the palm of his hand as he pulled the frame upward. The fresh air against his face sharpened his headache. He would draw the blinds once the sun came up, but the redhead enjoyed the beginning of dawn. It was only towards the end, when he had to watch the world wake, that his distaste for daylight kicked in.

He lit the red bic in his hand, expertly coaxing the flame to his waiting parliament. Draping his hands over the window's ledge he exhaled. A siren moaned in the distance. He exhaled a mixture of smoke and heated breath. It dispersed into the dusky sunlight. He would have to pull himself together eventually. Taking a second drag on his stoag he cocked his hip, letting his head hang. Exhaling. His head pounded.

Whatever happened last night would have had to have been pretty fucked up for his brain to so steadfastly refuse to recall it. Lifting his head Pickles squinted out at the cold morning, his exposed skin turning to gooseflesh.

An argument. A bar fight. Twinskins had been way too fucked up. Or maybe he was to blame. Someone got arrested.

Pickles shook his head, coughing as his exhale smoldered in the slight wind. He was tired of it happening. That's why the band had to end. It wasn't that the drugs were bad, the drugs were fucking awesome. The chemistry between them fucked things up too often. He couldn't stand Tony. He and Sammy fought too. Snizzy Snazz would get too deep, there was nothing more annoying than fucking Bullets on a dope kick.

His stomach felt a little queasy. Sammy had hit on him last night. He hated the faggot touching him in public like that. He'd punched him in the nose. That was the only discernible, clear memory he could conjure.

A sharp pain in his wrist. Where he'd been unconsciously scratching, he'd knocked the scab off of a track wound. The blood started to swell into a ball, standing out from the orange freckles and dull pot marks on the underside of his wrist. His black leather watch told him it was edging on 6 am. He flicked his cigarette and turned away from the window, stretching his arms above his head. Fuck. He needed a shower. And a drink. He pulled at the elastic of his underwear with one hand and reached for the minibar with the other.

Cold beer, hot shower. A fucken' perfect combination.


Classical music was totally metal. Magnus Hammersmith's fingers glided lithely up and down the neck of his guitar in time to the tune of Clementi's Sonatina Op.36 No.6 (in D Major). Serial killers liked classical, he'd read that somewhere. And it was great for practicing guitar too. Before electric guitars existed, piano would have been the best music out there, he thought. And those were the days when people cut each other's heads off with swords and stuff, right? Fucking badass.

From the look of Magnus's house you probably couldn't tell much about him. The rooms were spotlessly clean, though the place was mostly empty except for essential furniture. The only personal effects Magnus kept around was his small guitar collection (plus accessories), the bonsai tree by his bed and an almost full bookcase, holding a few dusty photo albums alongside an array of novels.

He was reclined in his arm chair in front of a muted television. His feet rested on his coffee table, resting on it also was a mug, containing coffee, and the most recent issue of Rolling Stone magazine.

The coffee he'd made himself was getting cold. He forced himself to break the tune and set his guitar aside, leaning forward to grasp both mug and magazine. As he was sitting back, a familiar face flashed onto the screen of his television.

Skwigelf – the fastest guitarist in the world. He had been on the cover of Rolling Stone 3 times in a row now, and the magazine in Magus' lap confirmed a 4th appearance. Any musician worth his salt knew the Swede on appearance. He faltered for a moment, almost forgetting the mug of liquid he was holding, and reached then for the remote, unmuting the 40 inch screen.

"-released a demo with fresh faced death metal singer, Nathan Explosion. The song leaked early this morning from the guitarist's personal website. It has since been reportedly downloaded over 50 Million times!" The image of the pretty news reporter disappeared, being replaced by a spotty teenager, a microphone being shoved in his face.

"It's fucken awesome man! I mean… Skwisgaar hasn't fucken rocked this fucken hard since he was in fucken Sausage Assassin! SKWISGAAR RULES!" a second, fatter boy appeared the screen.

"Yah uhh, he's always just, like, uhh.. Wayyy too awesome for his shitty bands y'know? I like his solo stuff best, but uuh, this singer dude he's got now?.. They just sound, like, made for eachother." The man muttered "that sounds fucken' ga-" Static…

Back to the studio. "Skwigelf is a notorious band-hopper, but will the sudden popularity of his new front man cause the duo to stick together? Many fans hope so!"

She was silent again, Magnus' finger held the mute button. Nathan fucking Explosion. He looked down at Skwisgaar's face on the magazine. Nathan fucking Explosion recorded a song. With Skwisgaar Skwigelf?! The coffee mug fell from his lax hand to the floor, spilling on the creamy white carpet.

He looked different on the big screen. Standing next to Skwisgaar he was extremely intimidating, being an extra half as wide as the slender blonde. His hair was longer since high school, in fact it didn't look as though he had thought to cut it since then. He was fit, too. Superman muscle across his broad chest, his arms bulged out from his sleeveless tank top.

Once his best friend, Magnus imagined Nathan had ended their relationship out of jealousy. Not paying much attention to either school or music left him far behind Magnus once he started playing solo gigs at local clubs. Magnus moved into a nicer neighborhood, started buying nicer clothing, and Nathan's attitude towards him started to sour.

He'd tried to teach the man guitar, but his thick fingers and short temper ensured he never got very good at it. He hadn't thought Nathan had much of an ear for music, so how the fuck did he fall in with the likes of the best guitarist out there?

It wasn't going to matter. He got a lucky break, he wouldn't last. He couldn't handle it. But Magnus could. He forgot the spilt coffee altogether, rising from his chair. On the counter was his address book. His information had to be in there somewhere. As he flicked through the pages with one hand, his fingers dialed a number on his cellphone.

"Andrea, it's me. I need a flight… No, personal business. Yes. Yes. Well, cancel them, I'm having the week off. Yes. Okay. Los Angeles, please. Tomorrow. You'd better come too. Goodbye." Business could wait. What a perfect time it would be to catch up with an old friend.


"Fuck. How the fuck do you deal with that all the time." Nathan Explosion slapped a wet towel to his aching forehead. The last 24 hours had been a total blur. He never expected any of this. Interview after interview all day, cameras flashing in his face, it was hard work, it was embarrassing, it was fucking brutal.

"Ja, it is likes, you just lookingks at de attractive ladies alls day, instead of payings your attentions to the camaera mans… Or the mans with de questions abouts the… musics." Skwisgaar almost trailed off as he flicked his head, waving over his shoulder at the women standing in audience of the panel they had just attended, this gesture was received with high pitched screams that rattled the singers head.

"Uggghhhh it's just like.." he let out a heavy exhale. "That was only one fucken day you know, like, what if it was two fucken days. Just thinking about that makes me want to cut my ears off."

"If it's more thans a few days thens you's gets used to's it, ja?" The blonde had turned again, pushing open the backstage door. Outside it was mild and dusky, and the guitarist's chaperone had the headlights of the car running across the small parking lot.

"I gotta have a smoke man, my throat is killing me. Talkin' all day like that – it's bullshit that's what… That's what that is…" Nathan muttered, fumbling with his pack.

"You cans smoke in de car, you's knows. We woulds have to be gettings going or de fans will get around securities." Skwisgaar's voice dropped on the sour note of 'fans'. He was unenthused by them to no end. Nathan lit his cigarette and the pair walked to their waiting car. "Anyways, de day ams beingks overs now. What am you wanting to be doingks tonight, Nathan?"

"I just wanna fucken relax, take it easy, maybe have a bath, have a really hot bath."

"You wants to go to a bar?"

He paused. "Yes. – Wait. How can you go to a bar?"

"Dere is nots just one kinds of bars in this city." Skwisgaar plucked the cigarette from Nathan's hand and wound down his window, taking a couple of drags for himself before handing it back. The wind buffered their hair, creating a plume of black and yellow in the back seat of the hummer as they tore down the 405 highway.

They stopped by Nathan's hotel in Venice to drop off their gear, They'd been lugging around Skwisgaar's guitar and amp since early that morning. Nathan was amazed with the amount of creativity Skwisgaar harnessed in shaking his fans. The hummer left without them, and out of the window of the high-rise he could see a couple of cars start their engines and tail it away up Abbot Kinney.

They took a second car instead, non-descript, from the back of the hotel. The guitarist always had a driver, Nathan chalked that up to his success. They drove away from the beach towards Culver City, Skwisgaar was smoking now, his gossamer hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Traffic was easy and they turned onto Centinela Boulevard, and following that a short network of side streets that Nathan couldn't catch the name of. The driver needed no direction.

The bar was small, sandwiched between two greasy restaurants serving late night Mexican food. The bar contained few occupants, a group of men playing pool down the back, a couple of solitaries at the bar itself. No one in the place looked up, except for the bartender, who gave them an ignorant wave. No one could possibly know who Skwisgaar was. Not here, not this socioeconomic bunch.

"Fucken' smart. I bet no matter how famous you are you can always find somewhere where no one knows who you are." Skwisgaar ordered them both Coronas.

"Ja, sos far I am nots having a problems with dat." He swigged his drink.

"Dis is.. Too easy." He waved a hand at the bartender, who turned and plucked a brandy bottle from up high.

They sat in silence for a moment, Skwisgaar, upon receiving his drink, downed the whole thing in one shot. Nathan was a little uncomfortable. He hadn't had a chance to really speak to Skwisgaar about his sudden fame. The two were friends on chance, Skwisgaar happened upon him at a karaoke bar one night. Everyone was singing for fun, but Nathan's Sepultura rendition piqued the guitarist's interest. Nathan declined Skwisgaar's offer of a career, but the two had remained friends.

The viral song – Bleeder Problems, was never meant to BE released. The duo were messing around at a studio in Hollywood. Skwisgaar had taken him with him to record some demo, and a bottle Jager later Nathan submitted to the Swede's desire to record a song. They'd left the mixer on, the laptop on, everything. Having the song uploaded was possibly the best case scenario for the guitarist, but for Nathan, it was a little daunting. He was a music fan. He didn't do music.

"Skwisgaar I don't wanna be famous." He blurted. Staring ahead, brow furrowed, he grabbed his beer in his fist and drank.

"I thinks it ams a bit lates now, Nathans."

"I can't sing." He said in a quiet voice, second guessing both sides of his statement.

"It ams not singking you am doingks." This was a literal truth. There was little melody to be found in Nathan's deathgrowls.

"I thinks it wills be growingks on you. Just waits." A pregnant silence fell upon them, Skwisgaar ordered more drinks.

"Do-"
"I-"
They spoke together.

"I'm sorry, you-"
"Nos, yous, -"

"No I think... I think you should go first."

"Do you thinks you coulds be in a band?" Nathan didn't answer fast enough.

"I am goingks to be dones with this ones. You knows you can'ts stay with thems who is, flogging de, dead horses… I ams always knowingks more musicians. I wants you to sing, you ams… metal." Nathan was getting tipsy now. He had a lot to turn over. Although, in his drunken state, the facts were still easily discernible. He was currently unemployed, he couldn't hold down a retail job, he didn't really have any direction, and he once wished he could be in a band. Only his worries seemed to be keeping him at bay. Fuck it, he thought, he could change his mind later, blow out of there back to Florida.

"Yeah. I think I could be. It's a big jump though from nothing to being like… Singing with, Skwis- Skwisgaar Skwigelf."

"That ams nots mattering." The blonde let out a coy smile, twirling his long hair in his fingers. Behind him three white girls entered the bar, obviously intoxicated, giggling loudly as American girls did. The Swede didn't notice, but Nathan craned his neck to look at them.

"There's – uh.. Ther'es girls in here Skwisgaar."

"Oh, ja?" The Swede didn't turn his head, he pulled a face at Nathan as if he had said something stupid, so the larger man quickly changed the subject.

"What should I do now?..." The girls had walked by them now and the shortest of the three had her eyes fixed on the blonde. After staring a moment her eyes widened and she began tapping her friends rapidly on the shoulders, whispering frantically. How dumb, Nathan thought. Girls trying to be incognito by lowering their voices, when their natural state was a giggling, squealing hell.

"You ahh…" He was clearly distracted. "You cans ahh, gets back home when you likes… I'm glad we had this talk Nathans." He didn't even look at the singer as he patted him on the back, flinging a 50 onto the bar, before leaving his chair to saunter towards the wide-eyed women.

It ended as abruptly as that. Nathan finished his drink and nodded at the bartender, rising quickly to leave. By his logic, if these girls knew Skwisgaar, then they might well know of him now too. The last thing he wanted was more goddamn questions.

Outside he lit a cigarette and shut himself inside the nearest payphone, dialing a taxi. He'd have his bath now, if only. If only he could remember the address of his fucking hotel.