A Nasty Habit Called Rock'N'Roll

[Cubanwhip]

 

A Nasty Habit Called Rock'N'Roll

 

Warning: Story contains overtly sexual themes, extreme drug usage, ultra-violence, and other such things that are prone to show up in my usual writings.

 

 

Prologue

 

I had told Pomona that morning that I only liked two spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee, not three, which is why I am on edge at this very moment. Either from that fact that Richard forgot to put in decaf and not regular or from the extra line of coke I did backstage, or maybe a deadly mixture of both. Caffeine and cocaine is a hell of a mixture my father always said.

 

The spot light is a tad too bright and I know for a fact they let one too many people here backstage because I refuse to deal with all these little asshole kids begging me for autographs, watching me from the side of the stage.

 

I miss when it was just the four of us in a school cafeteria playing pro-bono. Now we play for fans and for reputation, and what we once got into for fun and comradery, is now a thing of the past.

 

I miss the days when we would just write songs about the people we hate and how we would kill them. It just became so mainstream. We didn’t sell out, rock and roll did.

 

 

At nine o’ clock, I can remember distinctly waking up to that smell of a burnt goose because my brother had just gone for his early morning drive and always forgot to turn on his headlights. It always happens, yet he plays it off as if he ‘just forgot’.

 

I wasn’t in the mood and grabbed my gig-bag and headed out the door. Sure, some people might argue that five six seven in the morning is a bit early for band practice, but it was any sort of freedom I had from Hell and for sure, from my declining relationship.

 

She isn’t so much a bitch as you would say a whore in the sense that I caught her sleeping with the swimming coach and all she could muster up was a muffled “I’m sorry” with a mouthful of man sausage and a faceful of man spunk. I blamed myself.

 

What was worse was the fact that she was, indeed, pregnant with a soon to be ‘our’ child, but I guess mother knows best and what she thought was best was a split division of father and mother. f*ck it.

 

By the time I reached Ronny’s house the sun was starting to appear over the horizon and his garage was open and ready to go. The sun reflected off his high hat and nearly blinded me, and somewhere inside I wish it could’ve.

 

“What’s up man,” Ronny greeted me with his usual morning tone of grogginess and indifference.

 

“It was goose today.”

 

“Second time this week.”

 

I took out my violet satin Strat and threw it over my shoulder and I felt it’s weight pull down on my body. I pulled the pick out strings and played each string individually. Tuned.

 

“Forgot?”

 

“Like always,” I pull out my cable and attach it to the amp labeled ‘Cock’ with a giant rooster slapped on the front.

 

I could hear the car engine all the way from Los Angeles and then I look up to see Peter and Catherine bickering on their way out of the busted old Gremlin. How cliché.

 

“I already told you! That was my f*cking pop-tart, and you know it!”

 

“I told you that previous night it was my breakfast,” Cathy’s face was blaring red and I could tell she got up on the wrong side, so I made the decision then to avoid any topics involving Kelloggs and Cinnamon.

 

“Blah blah blah, you knew I wouldn’t remember. I was stoned off four bowls.”

 

Cathy stopped and turned to glare at Pete, “f*ck you! Always using your ‘I’m high’ excuses to get out of everything!”

 

Ronny rolled his eyes and I adjusted the volume on my guitar. Cathy stomped off and grabbed her Ibanez from the corner of the garage.

 

“Are we done here? I thought this time was to relieve stress, not f*cking fight about pop-tarts,” Ronny sat down behind his set and alternated glances between Pete and Cathy.

 

“Fine, truce. I’ll buy a new box of them later today and you get the first one tomorrow,” Pete sighed, defeat on each and every syllable.

 

I glanced over at Cathy and there was a sparkle in her eye and I could tell that she knew this was how it would ultimately end.

 

I stepped up to the microphone, Cathy tuned her guitar, Pete plucked his Bass a few times and I could hear Ronny rolling the snare.

 

In the end it always works out, because although we have our differences and problems, we’re all in this together. We’re all addicted to this crazy drug called rock and roll.

 

What does everyone think? Just something that I have been thinking about and what not. I made it so it's like a short story. Don't know if I should continue or not.

[Oblivionz]

f*cking awesome, Roberto.

The faceful of man spunk got me.

 

Write moreeeee.

[Oxidizer]

Mouthful of Man Sausage.

 

If you decide to continue this, I'll continue reading. Wicked job!

 

Also, it's good to have you back, bro.

[Lochie_old]

Holy shamooley, thats someeee good story. I'd like to see it continued, but I'm not sure how you could do so.

[Gabriel Constantin]

I like it. I would defiantly read more if you decided to write more.

[Cubanwhip]

Glad everyone likes it so far. It's just something that I've written and it turned out to be good. Now, it was originally just a short story, so It doesn't have a plot per say, just more of "the life of" I guess. Also, it's not going to be structured correctly, so just be aware that there will be jumping around in time.

 

Chapter 1

 

I can only see through a distorted mirror out to the outside world. The rain on the windshield forms and almost opaque glazing that nearly blinds me, but the wipers make quick and I can see again. The Pewter hood reflecting the dark storm clouds looming so high above. The rain collects on the hood, the windshield, my shirt.

 

The breeze is so much better than during a clear day. I can feel it circulating throughout my entire car and there’s vapor collecting all along my left arm. The bass grumbles every other second and my car makes a quick swerve. My right hand quickly grabs hold of the wheel and realigns the car. Damn hydroplane.

 

Once the car is moving in, what appears to be a straight direction, I loosen my grip and stick my left arm out the window. The rain is like a thousand needles piercing each and every pore on my arm. I welcome the pain and listen to the bass grumble louder, the riff pick up and the engine grow louder with each push on the acceleration. I turn up the volume, momentarily letting go of the steering wheel. The car swerves, the volume increases and the blood starts to flow.

 

 

I was waiting for Ronny to finish up his last bowl so we could head out to the mall. I needed to buy a EHX PolyPhase Pedal for a new song we were working on, but Ronny continually hassles me that the song doesn’t need anymore effects, it has enough.

 

“Man, just chill. I want a relaxing high, don’t hurry me up.”

 

I sighed and looked at my watch. Five thirty. It’s Sunday and the mall closes in fifteen minutes. Douchebag wants to take his f*cking time.

 

“It’s five thirty, hurry the f*ck up.”

 

“I already told you, don’t hurr-“

 

I grabbed his makeshift waterbottle bowl and chucked it out from behind the bush.

 

“What the f*ck! The weed’s still in there!”

 

I grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up close, staring him right in the eye, “I’ve been waiting here for the past hour, watching you smoke about half an ounce of weed, all alone, behind a f*cking bush. I don’t have time to watch you commit suicide.” I loosen my grip and throw him into the bush.

 

He straightens his polo, clears his throat, and runs his fingers through his hair. “What’s your problem? Something happen with Brittany?”

 

I stared off, past his broad shoulders, past the bushes, past the lines and lines of cars. It was Brittany.

 

“Well?”

 

“Nothing, let’s just go,” I made my way through and out of the bush, taking in a small breathe of the ‘clean’ air all around me.

 

“Did she do something to you, man?”

 

I started to make my way the five hundred or so feet to the mall. Ronny tried to keep up, but he was coughing and gagging the entire time. Bad idea to run after smoking seven bowls, one after another, alone.

 

“Dude, talk to me.”

 

I stopped at the sliding doors and stared at Ronny. He returned my glance.

 

“It’s seriously nothing, just leave it.”

 

But it wasn’t nothing, was it? I took one step into the freezing mall and Ronny’s hand grabbed hold of my shoulder.

 

“Not until you tell me, bro.”

 

“You want to know? Brittany f*cked Coach Brown. You happy? You made me f*cking say it! I walked into the locker room and saw that f*cking c*nt sucking off the coach! All nine inches stuffed right in her mouth, and then she looked up at me and tried to say something, but there was no room to move her tongue because of the f*cking cock!” I grabbed Ronny’s hand and threw it off my shoulder. “Are you f*cking happy? Are you f*cking jizzing your pants?”

 

He stood there, his eyes wide open. He was shaken, I was shaken. I had never really come to terms with it until now. It was repressed down into the darker sectors of my brain and I was in denile, right up to this point.

 

“Wow…was it really nine inches, dude?”

 

“Let’s just get my f*cking pedal.”

[Oxidizer]

Firstly, what a magnificent atmosphere you conjured up in the chapter's opening sequence. That was somewhat artistic in its brilliance.

 

Secondly, one of the names -particuarly that of the mysterious female we're yet to be introduced to- sounds familiar.

 

And thirdly, I'm very glad you're continuing with this! I look forward to moar.

 

Nice one.

[Oblivionz]

Hot sh*t, babe.

 

 

“Wow…was it really nine inches, dude?”

really made me laugh, which of course you know, I quoted it on MSN with a massive "LOL"

[Cubanwhip]

Chapter 2

 

It gave off a luminous glow that filled the room. He was in the back cowering and the look on the news reporter’s face was that of sheer terror. The blood was still soaking in my shirt and the bag sat at the side of the recliner. Ronny was quite the entire ride home.

 

“It’s a blood bath down here at the Bennet Mall…”

 

The dense smoke filled up room. I can see the streams of pixels from the television painting the floor and dancing with each movement of the microphone. I took a drag of the cigarette and let it fall on the floor, the ashes spreading on contact with the Berber carpet.

 

“Two were seen fleeing…”

 

I run my fingers through my sticky hair and watch the blood flicker on my fingertips. I examine the twinkling blood and am mesmerized by the hypnotic swirls.

 

“In a Pewter Camaro…”

 

I can hear Ronny whimpering in the corner. I flicked the blood off my fingers and my head rolled on my shoulders to look at him. His eyes were empty. Desolate.

 

“One was identified as Ronny Horowitz…”

 

It was over.

 

 

I wasn’t finished yet. She was huffing and moaning and screaming, telling me to go faster. Harder. Stronger. Deeper. She was crazy.

 

I put the knife to her throat and she growled. She pressed the knife right up under her chin.

 

“Cut me just a little…”

 

She was forcing it right up there and I didn’t really want to cut here.

 

“Don’t puss out.”

 

The blood trailed down her throat, down her exotic cleavage and collected in her naval. All of which was followed by moans of ecstasy.

 

I threw the knife aside and grabbed her sides. I grounded myself and spread her legs apart, preparing myself for the f*ck of my life.

 

Her c*nt was gripping the length of my cock and I tried to concentrate on the f*cking, but the blood was distracting; the small pool that overflows over her stomach and has started to collect on the soft, white linen sheets.

 

My head was spinning and my breathing was in short bursts, but she wasn’t paying attention. The sex was too good. I hadn’t even known I came until I was being shoved off and beaten with the handle of the knife.

 

“You f*cking idiot, you came inside me?!”

 

But I couldn’t hear her. The sound of nothing was all that filled my ears. I stared at her blankly and furrowed my eyebrows. I reached over and grabbed her by her wrists, I slammed her into the bed and pinned her.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m not f*cking done…”

 

I slapped her across the face and planted my face on hers, my tongue wrestling it’s way into her mouth. She struggled and fought, but I wouldn’t let her get an inch edgewise. All I could hear were muffled moans.

 

She stopped struggling after a bit a started to get into it. I had managed to get a major hard on and I was f*cking her within the second.

 

My vision was filled with red rage blood, pouring through every pore on my body. I was thrusting and splitting her apart with each ramming. Her moans grew to screams and she was screaming for more and more and more.

 

“f*ck me! f*ck me! You’re splitting me apart!”

 

I wiped the sweat off my brow, and right then, at our most perfect moment together; I pulled out and blew a load across the span of her stomach, the semen mixing with the blood, forming a lightish red, almost pink substance.

 

“f*ck you Brittany…”

 

“You have already…twice…”

 

I'm having this weird feeling of nostalgia. From when I wrote GTA TC and got no replies in the first few chapters, but after the fifth or six chapters people started to comment.

[Oblivionz]

What a twist at the end, having it turn out to be Brittany.

But I don't get what the f*ck happened at the mall?

[Oxidizer]

Sex, sex, sex and don't for-get tha violaaance.

 

Well, wasn't that just wrongly hot? And I like Brittany.

[Cubanwhip]

Holy shizzle, that ban threw off my entire writing schedule I had planned. Anyways, here is chapter three for my main fans, Luke and Andy, those sexy sons of bitches.

 

Chapter 3

 

She hadn’t called in days. I was waiting by the phone for one two three hours, and not once has it rang. I wasn’t worried; I knew she was sleeping behind my back. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that.

 

I was squeezing a stress ball, and the foam melted between my fingers with each squeeze, not really doing its job. My eyes were slammed shut and the television echoed throughout the house. The empty, forsaken house.

 

They were on holiday; my parents I mean. I had the house to myself and they gave me that knowing wink that I better not throw any parties while they were gone.

 

I wasn’t, I wouldn’t. I wasn’t that kind of kid. My brother egged me on, begging me, telling me throw a party. It had been so long since her scored any high school tail, and was desperate. He was, after all, a college dropout.

 

I told Brittany I had the house to myself, but she said she had plans, plans to f*ck another guy. Obviously, she didn’t say that second part, but I saw it in her darting eyes.

 

It was the eyes that told me, and that open Magnum Trojan condom. I’m not a magnum.

 

 

The bacon was f*cking delicious. Each bite made me explode in my pants. My mom was a professional at making bacon. The pancakes were good too.

 

“Honey,” my mom strolled over to the table and took the seat next to me, sliding more bacon onto me plate, “How much did you say that guitar was?”

 

I greedily slid the rest of the bacon onto my plate and took one massive chuck out of the thick, juicy bacon.

 

“It’s about three hundred, minus shipping.”

 

“That’s a bit much.”

 

I ignored the comment and continued to engorge myself on the fabulous buffet laid out across me. The glass full of orange juice, the pancakes drowned in syrup, and the strips of bacon; those crisp, tantalizing, honey-smoked strips.

 

“I would rather get you one of those Squire guitars. Those are like, a hundred?”

 

“Look, I don’t want some sh*t guitar. I want a quality Strat. This one is in decent condition and it’s affordable. I don’t see a problem!”

 

I finished the strips and started on the pancakes. The succulent, butter-milk pancakes that look like the perfect picture of heaven that everyone see when they pray to their God; the maple syrup overflowing and invading the eggs.

 

“Obviously, you think I’m made of money.”

 

“I already told you, I have two hundred. All you need to pay is one hundred. That’s it.”

 

“But you’ll just drop it. I know you. You’re not a dedicated person.”

 

The fork clangs on the glass plate. My head rolls to look at her and I gaze into her eyes. She returns the look; a hint of worry decorates her irises.

 

“Look mom, I know I’ve dropped some hobbies in the past. Hell, I dropped band in sixth grade, but this is different. I can feel it. I won’t drop it. I promise.”

 

A sigh escaped her mouth and she agreed to buy it. I happily turned back to my smorgasbord and ravaged the remaining pancakes and eggs; the syrup escaping out of my mouth, down my lips and dripping onto the plate off my chin. A feeling of pure ecstasy filled my body, but was quickly interrupted when my mom cleared her throat from the kitchen door.

 

“Honey, the school also called.”

 

The thought hadn’t entered my mind. I faked ignorance and turned to her, the syrup now dripping all over my brand new pair of denim jeans, which cost me some forty bucks.

 

“What?”

 

“The school called.”

 

I knew what it was. I didn’t want to face it. She was forcing me. I didn’t like it. I needed to get out of this quick.

 

“I just remembered, I have a ton of home-“

 

“Something about a fight?”

 

Evacuate, now. If I didn’t, this would be the end of that guitar.

 

“Said something about you witnessing a fight?”

 

If I didn’t get out now, she would find out. Abandon all hope.

[Oxidizer]

"Each bite made me explode in my pants," pretty much sums up me feelings for this. Hard ones too. Very hard.

 

Glad this is back. Now write us some moar!

[Lochie_old]

Eww, Squier. What a disgusting joke for a mother to say.