Pickles had been with lots of people. Some girls some guys and mostly everybody in between, but something about doing it with a friend and bandmate had always felt inherently taboo. Nathan wasn't the first, Pickles had been with a certain member of Snakes and Barrels for a time. He knew how it could create tension and destruction, but he figured Nathan and him already emitted those auras. No, what Pickles was really surprised about was how nervous he felt around him or how hot he'd get since that night.

Weeks would go by before Pickles would crack and get hammered out of his mind, high as a fucking rocket and decide to confront Nathan. Every time he would end up halfway to Nathan's room before reality came crashing down. Whadif' he has some chick in there? Whatdif' he has a dood in there? How is that gonna' look?

It's gonna' look pathetic.

Pickles hadn't been with anyone. No groupies in his dressing room, no strippers in his lap, no hookers in his bed. No one. He simply didn't want them. What's even worse, he wasn't even jacking off (the norm being at least three times a day) and when he did he couldn't get Nathan out of his head. Pickles would start tugging thinking today he'd surely think about somebody, ANYBODY else, there's no way Nathan belongs in his fantasies…

Then Pickles would get the image of staring up at Nathan from the bed…looking hungrily at him, Nathan's hulking shadow enveloping him. Those fuckin' pecks, gad has 'e always had those? Then Pickles would remember Nathan talking…saying dirty downright slutty things.

And the cycle continued. Today, as Pickles wiped himself clean with a dirty t-shirt, he decided that he had had enough. This was fucking ridiculous, he was a multi-trillion dollar metal musician. Pickles could get anybody he wanted. There had to be someone out there that he wanted other than fucking Nathan.

A glance in the mirror at a sex-starved half-drunk slowly balding Pickles brought him back down to earth…for a second, but if Pickles was anything he was damn plucky. He was sure he still had moves and he was gonna' use them. Pickles couldn't settle for a money hungry hooker or a crazed freaky fan girl, he needed to find a challenge. Nathan was a challenge (is a challenge, obviously) he just needed a conquest.

A shower and some clean clothes wouldn't hurt his chances though. Pickles even used some hippy ass dread wax to straighten his look out, but something was missing. Whenever Pickles used to go out when he was younger he would go the whole nine yards; leather jacket, eyeliner a shit-ton of hair spray. But fashion had changed since those youth filled nights of boozing and sleazing. He knew better than to go around in those fucking red boots he used to wear (ever since Murderface started calling him Trailer trash Dorothy).

Throwing open his wardrobe Pickles was surprised to see a plethora of clothes he didn't even know he owned. They must have been things left over from music videos. He skimmed through a few pieces, mostly band t-shirts and a surprising amount of chain mail until he fell on a nicely worn jean jacket with various fraying patches on it. Pickles couldn't recall where it came from but it looked like something he would own. The band patches were all bands he liked, but the large back piece was something he had never seen before. Pickles examined the patch:

In the center was a figure in bright blood red, only it didn't have any defining features, as Pickles looked closely he noticed it was in the shape of a man and that it had a bright flame atop its head. The background was black but the border was a primitive slithering snake with lazy stars. In strange somewhat primitive cursive were the words "Damballah" under the figure in red.

Pickles didn't know what it meant, but he thought it was cool nonetheless. He threw the jacket over his shoulder and preceded to search for his typical jeans and tank. He decided to tie his dreads back in a half-assed attempt to disguise himself and a worn black beanie.

It was a rare night at Mordhaus, it was silent save for the dull buzz of electricity and the soft footsteps of gears walking fluidly through the tall dark corridors. Pickles knew Nathan was sequestered in the deep dungeons of the haus trying to come up with song ideas. He had been down there all week, Pickles knew better than to bother him. The rest of the band were out getting hookers and ice cream with Offdenson.

Pickles stepped out of his room, dressed in his new found vestments and brimming with purpose. A sideways glance into a hallway mirror elicited a smug smirk.

Still gat it. The sunglasses and the new get up even made him look a little less like Pickles the drummer more like some Hell's Angels member. Pickles had always liked biker bars, maybe he would find one.

Glancing down the hallways before rushing across he made his way down to their humongous garage. Sneaking around gave him a little thrill, it was like when he would sneak out of his parents' house back in Tomahawk. Although here he knew there would be no repercussions, the gears would only try to help him. Pickles didn't want them to escort him around, it would give himself away. For one night he wanted to try being a regular jack off just looking to get laid. Maybe it would work and someone out there might flip his switch, he had to try.

He settled on taking his souped' up Triumph motorcycle to stick to his storyline. He was going to be the basic motor-head looking for some cheap thrills on the open road, probably on the run from the law, chicks liked that.

It took Pickles at least an hour to get out of sight from Mordhaus. He drove till the dark, serpentine dragon and control towers were out of sight, wondering if Offdenson had planted a microchip in his head to track him at all times. The man had enough chances while Pickles had been dead drunk, it would've been easy.

Finally after passing hip yuppie clubs and shitty karaoke bars Pickles reached a real dive bar. There were cheap banners advertising cigarettes and piss beer, the door man was obscenely large, his eyes followed Pickles as he pulled in. First he feared the man recognized him, then he realized that the man wasn't looking at him, but at his bike.

"What's that? A new one? I aint' ever seen one like that." The man grunted as Pickles approached the entrance.

"Yea."

"What the hell is on the handles? Those custom?"

"Yea."

The door man grunted affirmation and shifted his fat thigh lazily from the door, allowing Pickles to pass.

The bar was smoky even though there had been a ban on smoking in bars for years in the area. The orange lights hanging from the ceiling were dusty, bathing everything in a dark orange luminescence. In a dark corner a half-lit jukebox played out some generic country rock band. Along the bar sat the few obvious bar flies staring forlornly into their glasses, a few older men were playing pool, Pickles noticed the group of people in the back surrounding the person playing pac-man.

Pickles ordered a whiskey from the overly-buxom bartender. He winked at her, but all he got in return was a dead stare. This woman was no nonsense, no time for entertaining random assholes. He glanced over at the men sitting around him, all typical bar flies drinking their own precious poison. The group playing pool were submerged in a thick smoke that mostly obscured their faces, Pickles swung around in his chair and watched them shoot. There was something peaceful about the scene, men drinking without speaking, the buzz of conversation from the group playing pac-man was more like background noise.

Pickles realized that this might not have been the best bar to pick up chicks. Aside from the two watching pac-man and the bartender the place was devoid of women. He didn't mind though, no one had given him a second look so far save the bouncer and he could blame his flashy bike on that. No one asking for autographs or throwing themselves at him, everyone was treating him like some miserable jack-off Like fucking normal.

He knocked back his drink, signaling for the bartender to pour him another Jack on ice.

Two more drinks within the span of fifteen minutes and Pickles was starting to like the place. Slayer was playing on the juke box (in fact the jukebox only offered metal and rock pre-2000) the drinks were stiff and no one had accosted him yet. The bar was filling with a thick smoke, Pickles assumed it was because almost everyone there was lighting up but the smell was different from your typical Marlborough or Camel. Pickles knew it wasn't cigarette smoke, he had had enough fancy cigars to know that's what he was smelling.

Pickles spun around, looking for the source of the cigar smoke, no one was smoking one.

"Hey, hey lady, you guys sell cigars?" Pickles asked, the bartender refilled his empty glass and rolled her eyes.

"Oh yeah, we got Cubans rolling them in the back. You want one?" She scoffed and sauntered off to do whatever bartenders do when they're not pouring drinks.

"Okey 'den…" Pickles mumbled and sipped his drink. Someone was smoking a cigar. He knew it. And it wasn't some cheap one you get behind a gas station counter either. He decided to go looking for the source, the smoke was coming in thicker, and his visibility was about five feet in front of him.

"Jeesus what da hell is this shit?" Pickles reached his arms out in front of him shuffling his feet toward the bathroom. Maybe someone was hot boxing it, with cigar smoke?

The smoke damaged bathroom door felt hot under Pickles' fingers, is this shit on fire?

He pushed it open and was instantly greeted with a billow of smoke, but it was not hot, and there were no flames greeting him on the other side. The only thing in the dirty little bathroom was a dark figure against the wall and the fat red cherry tip of the elusive cigar.

"Hey chief, wanna' share with the class?" Pickles laughed, walking towards the dark figure. The thick spicy aroma of the cigar engulfed him and all he could think of was taking a giant toke.

"Sure my friend. Come closer." A man with a Caribbean accent answered.

As Pickles got closer he could make out the man's face. He was black, darker than anyone Pickles had ever seen, actually. Pickles had traveled the whole world, he'd been to Africa and the Caribbean before, never had he ever seen someone with such a pitch-black complexion. The man was handsome, nicely formed cheekbones and cupid bow lips. His eyes were almost as striking as his complexion, very bright green. Greener than even Pickles' own eyes. They seemed to pulsate.

The man extended a brand new cigar toward Pickles. Pickles, in a very uncharacteristic way, gripped the cigar between his lips and allowed the strange man to light it for him. He inhaled deeply, the spices from the cigar tickling his tongue. He leaned on the tiled wall next to the mysterious man and allowed his eyes to close.

"Ya know, they don't make 'em like 'dis anymore."

"I have my own special supply, my friend. I am offered them all around de' world." The man laughed, his eyes watched Pickles smoke with intense interest.

"Well, you gatta' be someone then."

"Yes, I am someone indeed." The man smiled widely, revealing two gold teeth, one on bottom one on top, his second front tooth looked rotted. Pickles found it strange that a man could afford two gold teeth and not three. He ignored the oddity and continued to smoke his cigar, the strange dark man all the while staring at him with those glistening eyes.

After a few minutes of silence Pickles chose to speak up.

"So…who are ya'?"

"I have many names. Like you!" The strange man heartily laughed.

"You don't know my name." Pickles retorted, slightly worried he had blown his cover.

The strange man winked at him and pulled from somewhere unseen behind him a set of onyx colored drumsticks with small red inscribed lettering (or what looked like lettering, Pickles wasn't entirely sure).

"You are Pickles the Drummer, you are also Patrick O'Sullivan." The man smacked the sticks together playfully. "Doodily doodily doo! Ha-Ha!"

"How. Th'fuck. Do ya' know my name." Pickles cut the man off, squaring his shoulders and trying to look as intimidating as possible. How did this man know his real name? His own family didn't call him by his birth name, hell, Nathan was the only one in the band that even knew his first name…and last name?

"It is my business to know these 'tings, my friend." The man laughed again. He didn't like not being in the know, he especially didn't like people he didn't know knowing so much about him. Pickles took another drag of the cigar and dropped it to the floor, snuffing out its life with the heel of his shoe.

"Look you feckin' freak, I don't know how th'fuck you know my name, I don't know who told ya' or why. I'll give ya' one chance to explain, then I'm gonna' kick yer' ass."

The man nodded enthusiastically, but he didn't seem intimidated as much as eager. Pickles narrowed his eyes and took a mental note of the man's appearance in case he had to get a gear to make him disappear later. It was now that Pickles noticed the fine red velvet double breasted coat unbuttoned, revealing the bare chest of the man, a glittering golden necklace with a heavy pendant against his onyx skin. A top his head he wore a homely straw hat. He was still holding the drumsticks in his hand, shifting them between his fingers aimlessly.

"Fair enough. I am Atibon Legba, The Gatekeeper between dis' world and de' world of the spirits, I am Coyote, Crow and Raven, but many know me as Papa Legba. I know all tings', that is how I know your name, as well as many ting's about you, Pickles the Drummer."

Pickles had no idea why he believed this strange man, but something about his demeanor, and the way he read his names like a laundry list stroke a chord with him. A chill ran through his body, Pickles knew what he was looking at wasn't human, like something instinctual. But he'd be damned if he was going to let this guy off the hook.

"Okey…prove it den'."

The man named Papa Legba lifted a sculpted eyebrow and pursed his lips. Then, with the drumsticks in both his hands, he whacked them against each other, the red scroll like lettering glowed. Pickles felt icy cold fingers on his shoulder, tugging his jacket off him.

"What th'feck!" The jacket slid off him and it levitated off the ground, the sleeves filled out and it looked like an invisible force was living within the jacket. Pickles tried to grab at it but the jacket of its own omission dodged him and playfully spun across the bathroom till it rested against the bathroom door, the back patch facing toward them.

"'Dis is why I have come. You are wearin' my veve," Papa Legba walked toward the jacket, Pickles noticed now he used a beautifully lacquered cane and had a slight limp, "Someone made 'dis just for you, my friend. Someone who wants you very much."

"What th'hell is a "veve"? This some kinda' voodoo shit?" Pickles suddenly looked at the cigar crushed on the floor, was there something else in the cigar? It HAD to be laced.

"Veve is my…callin' card if you like. Voodoo? Not da' kind of voodoo you know… a witch uses it to call me, and, if the witch is strong enough, I come." Papa Legba stroked the jean jacket lovingly. "And a very powerful witch made 'dis for you…" He pointed toward the words "Damballah"

"Papa Damballah, he is the creator, or one of dem'. The one who made 'dis thought you would like him best. You are a lucky, lucky man, Pickles the Drummer, Papa Damballah does not work de' magic for anyone." Papa Legba smiled a toothy grin, with another flourish of his drumsticks the jacket fell limp and lifeless from the door into his hands. He limped over to Pickles and extended the jacket to him.

"Papa Damballah does not work the magic of love for many a mortal either."

Pickles took the jacket, for some reason, he felt naked without it on.

"Love magic?"

"Yes, love magic. You see the red figure is you, someone has put a spell on you."

"Who?" Pickles asked, now completely enthralled by this seemingly otherworldly man.

"Oh I cannot tell you that, Pickles the Drummer, besides, you already know who. Although, it is a funny 'ting…" Legba laughed again.

"What? What's so funny? Who da' feck are ya' talkin' bout?"

"Well…my friend, I'm not sure they needed the magic. I can see it writ all ova' your face!"

Like a vision slowly dissipating, Papa Legba's form began to disappear.

"Whoa whoa whoa where ya' goin!?" Pickles poked at the slowly disappearing form of Papa Legba.

"I have done my part, now it is up to you, depart from dis' sad and lowly place, Pickles the Drummer. The one you seek is in front of you, Damballah will guide you!"

Pickles stood alone in the grimy bathroom, staring at the spot where the strange man once stood. What da' feck just happened? The smoke had dissipated like it had never been there, the smell was completely gone, the only evidence that Pickles had of what happened was the snubbed cigar laying on the tile floor.

It was real…that guy was here…

This hadn't been the first time (obviously) that Pickles had seen something supernatural. Trolls, ghosts, drug-induced poltergeists, he had seen these things all before. Pickles had never seen anything quite like Papa Legba before, in fact, it was how solid and real he looked that made it all the more disturbing. Something like that could walk around in the open without anyone thinking he wasn't just a normal mortal.

But what about what he said about Pickles' jacket? Love spell or some shit? Witches? Was is some witch that planted the jacket in his room? He had an image of some busty Elvira like lady (probably some undercover gear or obsessed fan) somehow sneaking into his room (probably with witch magic or some shit).

Pickles tried to put it out of his mind as he cautiously walked out of the bathroom back to the bar.

Everyone was gone.

Like…everyone. The lights were out and the bartender had vacated the premises. But it was more than that.

The place was dusty, the various cheap bottles of liquor that once sat on the bar were gone, the jukebox was unplugged, the chairs were all put up on top of the tables. The place where the pac-man machine sat was empty.

"What…da' feck?" Pickles spun around looking toward the pool table only to see all the balls and sticks were missing and a dusting of ceiling plaster covered the once ivy green fabric. There was no way this was the same bar Pickles had drank in earlier. There was no fucking way.

He backed away slowly from the empty dilapidated bar, making his way toward the exit which was ominously wide open. It looked like someone had forced the lock and broken in…had he done that? Had he somehow in a drunken haze he didn't know he was in come all the way over here to break into a closed bar…?

His bike sat where he had left it, undisturbed. Only now all the other bikes that had once surrounded his was gone.

I'm feckin' nuts, that's it, finally lost it. Offdensons gonna' cart me off to some loony bin and that'll be it. Bang. Strait jacket. Padded room. Lobotomy. No more Pickles the drummer.

But the cigar!

Pickles shakily mounted his bike and kicked the starter, giving one last look at the bar. It sat quietly, as if it was saying Nope, not I, I'm not to blame for how fucking crazy you are.

With the taste of the cigar and phantom whiskey on his tongue he peeled out of the abandoned parking lot and sped down the deserted road toward Mordhaus.

AN: I used a couple sources for Papa Legba who is in no way an original character, here are some sources if this kinda' stuff interests you:

/wicca-witchcraft/papa-legba-for-witches

Reviews are love!