It wasn't until they had walked together, past his confused bandmates and into Pickles' dressing room, that Pickles felt safe enough to speak. "Seth, whuduya doin' here?" he asked, irritation quickly settling into his tone. He remembered what the guard had said about his mother. "Did somethin' happen t' Mahm?"

"What?" Seth looked like he had no idea what Pickles was talking about, until a look of recognition and then dismissal crossed his face. "Oh, heh, yeah. No, she just, you know, fucking says hello, wants to know how her fuckup son is and all. Hey hey, her words, not mine," he said, holding up his hands when Pickles glared at him. Pickles very much doubted that those had been her exact words, but that wasn't why him angry. What made him angry was that Seth had used another bullshit lie to get his way, probably acted all grief-stricken to get the guard's attention. He always pulled this sort of manipulative, infuriating shit. "Anyway, whatever Mom thinks of you, that shit isn't what I came here to talk about, bro."

"Whuduya want, Seth?" he asked, already weary of this. Seth didn't call him "bro", or anything other than an insult, unless he wanted something. He just hoped that whatever it was, he could get it over with.

"Hey, hey, hey, what sort of fucking attitude is that to have, huh?" Seth spread his arms in a gesture of hurt helplessness, like he was enduring his brother's cruelty with the patience of a long-suffering saint. Pickles felt a small muscle under his eye begin to twitch. "Maybe I just want to check in on my baby bro, see how his little stint into entertainment is going, because I'm a caring fucking brother, huh?"

Pickles made a small noise in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a strangled scream. He reached for a pint bottle of beer from a small cooler, opened it with his teeth, and drank the whole bottle before he spoke. "You heven't said one word 't me in three fuckin' years. Naht you, an' naht oor parents, who are too busy t'inkin' thet I'm shit an' thet you're a gift from Gahd. Naht a letter or a call or anyt'ing since I left, an' when I was there, you either treated me like garbage or told me I fuckin' was garbage." He opened another bottle, holding it so tightly that he feared it would break, and took a long swig before continuing. "Naht once in yer life have you jest wanted t' 'check in ahn' me, Seth. Jest tell me what the fuck you want."

Seth shrugged, still not giving up on the whole "caring brother" act despite all that. He was committed if nothing else, a shameless liar to the last. "I mean, just because I wanna talk to my brother, doesn't mean I can't also, y'know, be asking a little help. Seein' as how you're out here living large, how fucking Hollywood you've gotten with your, y'know, your little songs and your fucking faggy getup-"

Pickles was finishing his second pint bottle at that point, and that made him nearly choke on the liquid. His eyes burned as he threw the empty bottle against the wall, where it shattered loudly. "My fuckin' WHAT?" he yelled.

"Hey, hey, c'mon, I'm just kidding with you, Pickles," Seth pressed on, seemingly unaffected by the shattered bottle. "Just because you're wearing, fucking eyeliner and women's jeans, who the fuck am I to judge? What does that shit matter between brothers? We're not here to judge, we're here to be fucking supportive, huh? To help each other out. Which is why I'm all fucking out here, supporting you and shit, and waiting to see if you have, even a fucking little interest in what I've been doing."

Pickles clenched and unclenched his fists, his breathing becoming harsh and ragged. He desperately hoped that this wasn't his asthma flaring up. He had gone almost two years without an attack, but he started to fall apart in his Seth's presence, like his brother was his own personal disease. He tried to take a deep breath and compose himself, giving Seth a strange grin, more a bearing of teeth than of mirth. "What have ya been doin', Seth?" he asked, his voice saturated with false cheer and false involvement. His frustration was nearly palpable beneath the sweet, paper-thin tone, but Seth launched into his schpeel all the same.

"Glad you fucking asked! Let me tell you about this idea I had, it's gonna blow your fucking mind." He tilted his head to one side, then the other, putting on his salesman voice. "So I've been studying like, pharmacology while you been away, pharmaceuticals and shit, and it's going so, so fuckin' well. So I was thinkin', out in the boonies and shit, those poor douchebags have to go, fuckin' miles to get their pills and shit? My buddies have this, this real nice van, you know, and I was thinking, people would pay would pay for the fuckin' convenience of not having to even leave their neighborhoods to get their shit. So we got this whole plan, this whole fuckin' thing worked out, and the three of us, we're starting a real business, the real fuckin' deal. We're going to be a fucking traveling pharmacy, how about that? We drive to your fuckin' house, or to your piece of shit town, you give us the doctor's note, we give you your fuckin' drugs! How about that, huh?"

Pickles was well into his third beer by the time Seth finished talking. He drank deeply while he listened, and the beginning of tipsiness helped him get a handle on his rage. As far as his brother's little business schemes went, this wasn't the worst one. Sure, the whole "traveling pharmacist" angle, given the histories of Seth's friends, could slide into crystal meth dealing really quickly. But at least this one had the potential of looking legal, if nothing else. And at least now he knew what his brother was here for. He put down his beer for a moment and tried to answer. "Yeh, sure, sounds great," he said, already sounding tired. The sooner he gave this asshole what he wanted, the sooner he would go and leave Pickles alone. He picked up his beer again. "So what, y' want money t' get started? Like three hundred, five hundred?"

Seth grabbed his own beer from the cooler, opening it coolly and taking a slow, measured sip. "Five thousand."

Pickles did an honest-to-God spit-take. The beer he had been drinking flew from his mouth, the outer spray hitting Seth in the face. Seth didn't even flinch, just closed his eyes and wiped the beer spittle off. "Why don't you watch what the fuck you're doing, huh?"

"Five thoosand?!" Pickles shouted back, his pupils pinpricks as he gesticulated with the beer bottle. "Y' have the fuckin' nerve t' ask me to drop five grand ahn this shit?"

"Fuck Pickles, quit it with your fucking, childish theatrics, honestly," Seth said, rolling his eyes. "Do you not get that you have to spend money to make money? Five thousand would get the fucking van in shape, get us licenses, the medicines, gas, the whole fucking deal. You'd be a fucking shareholder and everything, start making money off drugs, instead of just blowing your cash on 'em like a chump."

"Don't you dare fuckin' tell me what t'do wit' my life. If I'm such a fuckin' screwup, why are you here askin' me for money? Why don't you pay fer yer own shit?"

Seth shrugged, looking away briefly. "I don't exactly, have the assets right now, to put up the capital, y'know, gotta be a smart spender and shit."

"An' you do that by spendin' your money to come here an' ask me fer five Gs fer anot'er one of yer stupid plans? Y' think y' can still bully little Pickles outta his lunch money an' shit? Fuck you!" His voice got loud and sounded almost hysterical, but he couldn't seem to stop it. "I'm the real fuckin' deal now! I'm naht some stupid little kid you can push around anymore, y' fuckin' douchebeag, n' I'm naht givin' you any more fuckin' money!"

Seth narrowed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, calm and collected, everything that Pickles was not. "Listen here, you little shit. You seriously think that you're anything without me? You think you're big time now? What a fucking joke." Seth took another slow, measured drink, before his voice continued its quiet assault on Pickles' sanity. "Let me make this real clear for you, fag. Nothing you do here means shit. Mom isn't proud of you. No one outside of this retarded city is proud of you. They're all just laughing at what a little fucking faggot you are. Congratulations on being even more of a fucking joke than you already were. The only thing you've managed, is to get is boatloads of cash from all the dumbass pussies that like your shitty music. You give me some of the money you would have blown on coke and body glitter, I can fucking invest it in a fucking business venture, something to be proud of. Then maybe Mom will have a reason to actually care about you, and not pretend to act surprised when people say that that little red-haired homo all dolled up in L.A. looks a lot like the retard son she used to have, pretend she's never met that fucking pathetic queer, gyrating onstage like a cheap tranny whore, and sucking on whiskey bottles like he wishes they were cock-"

Seth was abruptly cut off as Pickles punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. Seth tried to hit back as Pickles knelt over him, but he was fast, and stronger than Seth probably remembered. "Shut up!" Pickles screamed as he punched him in the stomach once, then again in the face, then he found his hands wrapped around Seth's thin freckled neck. "Shut up," he found himself repeating quietly as Seth struggled for breath. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up…"

Pickles, stop it! You're killing him!

He stopped muttering as he heard his mother's voice ring through his head, just like it had the first time. And just like the first time, he obediently let go of his brother's throat, hands at his sides, because he just wanted to be a good boy, a good son. He shook himself clear of the memory, staring down blankly at his brother. A trickle of blood moved from Seth nose and down his slightly purple face as he gasped for breath, but he still somehow looked unfazed. Maybe it was because he had known that he would be fine. That Pickles would never be able to hurt him enough to make him stop.

Pickles mechanically got off of him, taking long, wheezing breaths. He fumbled around in some drawers, withdrew his inhaler, and used to get his breathing back to normal. Then he brushed himself off, stared at the floor. "Get out."

Pickles' bandmates saw Seth leave about thirty seconds later, dabbing at his bloody nose with a tissue but otherwise unbothered. Pickles came out a few minutes later, with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bag of coke in the other. The rest of the band all watched him with something like concern, but he didn't even seem to notice them. Without saying a word, Pickles poured some coke out of the bag, grabbed a straight razor and started making lines. After about twenty seconds of awkward silence, Tony spoke up. "Hey Pickles, you OK?"

"Fine! Jest fuckin' fine." Pickles snorted the first line. "Least, I will be soon." Then the second line. "I jest gotta get fucked up first." Then the third, the fourth, the fifth. As Pickles checked to make sure his nose wasn't bleeding, Tony came up to him, put a hand on his shoulder. Pickles whirled around, shoved him off. "Don't fuckin' touch me, dood!" he shouted, looking almost scared.

Tony let go and backed off, but his eyes didn't leave Pickles. "Look man, maybe we should just stay in tonight. Just a few drinks, maybe a groupie or two, and tomorrow we can get properly fucked up, OK?"

Candynose and Snazz looked a little let down, but nodded, and for a moment Pickles considered this offer. But then he shook his head, grabbed his vodka and blow. "I gotta be on my own right now, guys," he said, and he hurried out before they could say anything else.

On the way out of the stadium, he ran into the security guard again. "Y' fuckin' douchebeag!" he yelled at him, catching him a little by surprise. "Y' couldn't a fuckin' told me it was my brother waitin' fer me?"

The guard turned to speak to him. "Sir, I apologize. I had no idea that he was your brother. He told me he was a friend with news about your mother, that it was urgent…"

"Y' couldn't a checked his ID or somethin'? We have the same fuckin' last name, y' moron!"

Pickles poked the guard in the chest, who remained stock still but began to frown noticeably. "Sir, I don't even know what your last name is. You're very guarded about it being known-"

"Shuddup!" Pickles cut him off, glaring up at this man a good eight inches taller than him. "The point is that you can't do yer fuckin' job. Yer off as soon as the tour is over." And with that, he pushed past him and stumbled into the street, no idea where he was going, his bottle of vodka sloshing as he walked.