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Out of Order	By : RoseChampagne Category: +M through R > Metalocalypse > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1099 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own metalocalypse, any of it's characters, or anything related to the series whatsoever. I make no money or any type of profit from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Out of Order
- 1
"Out of Order"

---

Pickles is young, his hair is long, and everything is right with the world.
It is Snakes N’ Barrels’ first concert and the audience is an overflowing sea of screaming motivation.
Fans crowd in the doorways, pining for the sustenance that pours out of their amps and reverberates off the walls. It is a dingy, beat up stage bar, but it is the most fantastic place on earth right now.
It is a miracle, it is a success, it is freedom from everything he’s ever wished to escape.
After the show, the four boys shout and high-five and congratulate themselves as the owner of the bar leads them down the basement stairs backstage so that they are not swarmed by their admirers.
“Go, go, hurry,” the man says with a grin, motioning for them to climb up and out of the wine cellar they’re in. To show his gratitude for the rocketing liquor sales he’s made that night, he gives them a case of beer, “on the house!”
The boys laugh and thank him and climb up into the frigid air of the night, pushing their guitar cases out first. Smiles are plastered across their faces as they bolt down the alley and try to remember at which hotel they were staying.
Pickles can’t stop laughing even as he sprints in the cold. He howls into the night and he is untouchable.
---
Sammy and Bullets have hit the bars, but the lead and Antonio have found their way home. The six-pack has not even made it into the building as the two have split it on the way there.
In a drunken bliss they barely stumble up the stairwell, but Toni still has enough coordination to lift Pickles up under the thighs and press him against his bedroom wall.
Their mouths hungrily crush together and Pickles curls his fingers into the bassist’s hair. The sounds they make when they break for air are obnoxious, wet, and lovely.
The scent of alcohol is breathed hotly between them as they exhale in sighs and inhale in gasps. Inebriated from drink and on a personal high from the thrill of the concert, there is nothing in the world that Pickles would rather be doing.
Red hair fans out under his head like a fiery halo as Antonio lays him down on the mattress. Pickles’ black eye shadow is smudged down his cheek, his nose is pink, and his lips are puffy from such rough kissing but Toni has never been more turned on by anyone.
“Mmnh,” the singer moans when his shirt is pushed up over his nipples and Toni nips at them. No words are spoken because none are needed; there are only lusty, throaty sounds that are just as beautiful without a meaning. Everything is music now.
Pickles can’t even register who is undressing who, only that the rough friction of sticky clothing is becoming less and less until they are pressed together, smooth and soft.
The redhead throws his arms around Toni’s shoulders and whines into his neck, gripping and squirming and arching and begging. Despite the wordlessness, everything is understood. The rest of the night is a hazy mixture of heat, movement, and the sweet smell of melted Vaseline.
The next day, despite being bombarded by an aching hangover, a sore body, and two roommates who were highly irritated about locked out all night, Pickles can’t remember ever being so happy.
---
It is strange and wonderful going from a world where no one listens to you to a world where people pay and stand in line for hours to do just that. Such a world seems so impossible right now.
Pickles is sixteen and he is still living at home.
His parents always favor his brother, and his brother always favors abusing him. Any word Pickles speaks out against Seth is hushed; any talk of a musical career is silenced.
There are only so many times he can muffle his sobs into a pillow or nurse his bruises with a bag of frozen peas before he starts to feel claustrophobic in his own house. He’d go anywhere, it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than being caged up with them.
When that inevitable argument peaks, he never once looks over his shoulder after he bolts out the door. He supposes, if nothing else, he is grateful to them for pushing him to this point. Searing hatred coils in his stomach and it is exactly the extra bit of strength that he needs to get up the nerve to leave.
With nothing but a guitar and the change in his pocket, Pickles leans his head against the cool window of the public bus and watches the streetlights blur together.
---
Pickles sits on a park bench miles from home and fingers his guitar strings mindlessly. He is hungry and that instrument is the only thing keeping him going right now. He has put himself in such a trance that he jumps when a stranger sits next to him and quiets.
“Keep playing,” the stranger insists without even looking at him.
Pickles is a bit uncertain, but hesitantly begins strumming a song that he makes up on the spot. The melody is soft but deep, mournful yet certain, and ends beautifully with a loud, starving gurgle from Pickles’ empty stomach.
The stranger chuckles warmly, “Nice ending.”
“Sahrry,” Pickles mumbles, embarrassed.
Antonio buys him lunch that day and Snakes N’ Barrels begins to form.
---
The air conditioner in the apartment is broken as Toni tells him that he’s found two other guys for their band, a rhythm guitarist and a drummer. It has already been decided that the redhead will sing.
It’s terrifying and exhilarating, singing is. When he’d thought of a career in music, the last instrument Pickles expected to be playing was his voice. All the same, it is something new and something at which he is talented.
“Whet should we call ourseelves?” Pickles asks, fanning himself with a newspaper.
“Mm,” Toni muses, recumbent on the couch, “It’s not the name that I want people to know us by, it’s the music. A name is just something quick and easy to remember so people know who to buy tickets for.”
Hearing this makes Pickles smile and it reassures him that he’s definitely chosen the right type of band to play in.
“If only those big-headed rack star guys thought like that. You hear some of the creezy names they come up wit’? Like there’s a Swedish one called Sausage Assassin. And who’re the ones on that commercial—“
“Those guys are sell outs,” Toni huffs passionately, “They’ve become so infatuated with the idea of themselves that it’s all about their image no longer about their music. All those guys are as crooked as a barrel of snakes.”
Pickles snorts and holds in a laugh. Toni quirks and eyebrow and looks up, grinning,
“What, you’ve never heard that expression?”
---

None of the boys can believe it as they stand outside the building and see their “poster” taped in the window. It is nothing more than a hand-written sign that says the date and time that they will be playing there, accompanied by an amateur picture of the four of them in rock attire taken at one of their previous gigs.
It is simple and unassuming but it is beautiful. After months of playing for the thinner, week-day crowds, they’ve finally gained enough interest to be booked for a ten p.m. Saturday night slot, the best time a band could play.
It is the first time that they won’t just be taking what they can get, but are actually invited and penciled in as the main attraction. It isn’t even a music club, it’s a stage bar, but tonight it will be all theirs.
It is Snakes N’ Barrels' first concert.
---
Pickles is in his thirties when his hair is in dreadlocks and he no longer runs with his old band. Something about drugs had caused them to fall apart. It shouldn’t matter now that he’s a part of the world’s most powerful musical influence, Dethklok, but sometimes old memories surface. It’s nothing that couldn’t be drowned with alcohol, though.
He’s turned in the microphone for drumsticks and his eye shadow for eyebrow piercings. A lot has changed, but nothing that he really minds leaving behind. He’s done what he set out to do. He is a famous musician, now.
He likes his current bandmates well enough. Despite the fact that they get on each other’s nerves sometimes, they are still pretty close and function brilliantly on stage as one powerful, heavy unit.
Pickles can joke with these guys, drink with these guys, get high with these guys, tell them almost anything in a wasted stupor, but there are certain things that he can’t share with them.
He can’t share with them the feeling of what it is like to be hungry, or scared, or doubtful. Dethklok met Pickles after he had already become a success, once he already had the confidence to know he could succeed in a band.
They would never know him when he was starving on a park bench, or when he thought being a rock star was a fantasy.
Back when he thought wearing makeup looked good, back when Seth’s bruises were faded, but still there.
They would never finish a concert with him and be breathless and high without any drugs. They would never be brimming with the divine self-realization of “yes, I can.”
They would never meet up after the show, so exuberant, so exactly on the same page that they acted on desire before reason. They would never celebrate with physical pleasure.
They are close, but not that type of close. There are certain experiences that didn’t make any sense when they were told; they had to be lived through.
---
It is Seth’s wedding and Pickles is invited to play there. Against all his wishes, the band decides to attend.
His stomach churns as he reunites with his parents and all they have to tell him is how well his brother is doing. The worst part is they aren’t even trying to rub it in or punish him for running away; they honestly just love Seth more.
There will be no apology on their part for ever doubting his abilities. Pickles used to fantasize about they day when his mother would track down his number, call, and beg him to come home. To this, he would respond that he’d rather starve first.
Then, that fantasy was replaced by one where his father had seen his success in Snakes N’ Barrels and called to, in a quavering voice, wish him good luck on an upcoming concert. To this, he would respond by bragging about how great the band was going and it was the best decision he’d ever made to leave home.
At last, he fantasized that all his fame in Dethklok might stir up some pride in his parents’ crusty old hearts that their son was one of the richest individuals in the world. But those phone calls never came, and Pickles had stopped expecting any notion of concern for him on their part. Now, he listens to them gush about Seth and grows bitter.
Still, any hatred he holds for them is outmatched tenfold by his fear of his brother. Pickles is a grown man still trembling in Seth’s presence. In his mind, he's just as powerless against him as he was when he lived at home.
Finally it gets to a point where he can’t take it anymore and runs into the back alley of the diner at which they were eating, only to be cornered by the rest of Dethklok against a chain-link fence.
“Please, let’s jest leave,” he begs them.
But they insist on staying and tell him straightforward that they think it’s funny to watch him squirm.
Pickles’ heart sinks and his limbs are numb. They can’t understand, because Pickles will never tell them.
---
Pickles is seventeen and it’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. His brow furrows upwards and he waits for Antonio to tell him that he’s disgusting.
Instead, the bassist breathes, “It’s not your fault. He’s got a problem, not you.”
The elastic of Pickles’ boxers is pushed down only slightly to reveal the fingerprint bruises on his hips. They are old and yellow, in the last stage of healing, but they are still there.
Pickles is shocked and relieved that Toni can see them. His parents couldn’t see them, even when he showed them, which made him question his own sanity each time he looked down at himself in the shower and saw the blotches of purple and amber that painted his thighs.
Hot wetness rolls down his cheeks and Pickles can’t even remember starting to cry. His mouth is a square, black hole as his entire face crumples and he hiccups a distressed sob.
Toni pulls Pickles forward and cradles his head and back while he weeps violently. He holds their bodies together as they sink down to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.
When they finally exit the lavatory Pickles’ nose is red and his eyes are puffy while Sammy and Bullets politely pretend not to notice.
---
Pickles looks over as Toki sits next to him. All of Mordhaus knows that the Norwegian has been looking to settle down with a lady for some time now. Marriage, children, things like that. Pickles nurses his first beer of the night,
“Can I ask wheey? I mean, fer the type of life yer livin’, different women every night jest seems more, I denno, appropriate. I mean, it’s been werkin’ fer me.”
Toki hasn’t touched his drink and merely plays with the ring of water it leaves on the table. He says he thinks that it would be nice to have someone to wake up next to every morning, someone to share things with.
Pickles shrugs him off, “whet if you get tired of ‘em, though? Spend too much time around ‘em and realize there’s things you don’t like aboot each other?”
Even though he appears oblivious and naïve at times, Toki isn’t really given credit for being as emotionally wise as he is. He chuckles and tells Pickles that the woman he finds will probably learn things that she doesn’t like about him as well, but they can work through it and it’ll only make them closer.
The drummer makes a rude face, crinkling his nose and swigging down his beer. A little bit hurt, Toki knots his brow and tells Pickles that he wouldn’t understand.
Pickles waits for his buzz to kick in and swallows hard, “Yeeah, I guess nat.”
---
Pickles’ back is naked as he lays face down in the mattress, hugging the pillow to his face. Desperately, he tries to persuade a dream to stay as the light that pours through his window tries to kick it out.
He gives up when he hears his own song being played to him, which is odd because it is one that he'd just written last night before stuffing the sketchy loose-leaf paper in the garbage can.
Groggily, he looks over and sees Toni sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar in hand, who asks,
“Water Horsey Blues?”
“Yeeah, it’s jest sem trash I scrawled down last night,” Pickles mumbles, half-asleep.
“Stop throwing your stuff away. This is really good, I like it.”
“Mmm,” Pickles groans in a not-ready-to-wake-up sort of way. He turns his face back down into the pillow.
Toni smiles, kisses him between the shoulder blades, and lets him fall back to sleep.
---
“Hey, we were watching that!” Nathan complains as Pickles turns off the Snakes N’ Barrels documentary.
“Dude, right, so you can make fun of me, I know.”
Skwisgaar disagrees then makes a snide comment that does exactly that. It’s a sensitive topic but the drummer seems to pacify all their laughing by simply stating,
“Look, I don’t play in that band anymore. It's over.”
He knows the man on the television looks ridiculous with the mane of red hair, mid-drift shirt, and eye makeup but he can still remember dressing himself that way and feeling on top of the world. The picture of him the documentary had kept showing was actually taken right before their first big show.
He can’t even recall how long ago he’d thrown out those gaudy red cowboy boots, but he can remember putting them on before the show and, afterward, wrapping them around Toni’s waist as he was held up against the wall.
The man on the television looks silly now. He is childish and fashion-impaired, but he is Pickles, and the drummer doesn’t once regret being him.
---
“I don’t care if you facking do drugs! I facking do drugs! But when you fack up on stage then we have a preblem!”
“Don’t act so high and mighty,” Sammy growls, “You shot it too! Just because takes five times the normal dose of any drug to get you high on anything doesn’t give you the right to wail on us for not handling it like the pro you are! Not all of us have your stamina!”
Pickles’ shoulders stiffen, he is furious, “I shot it hours before show time! You don’t do heroin reet before you hafta play a concert! We looked like jackasses out there!”
“Well maybe we can’t all pick and choose the best times to get high! It’s not a concert date that we can fucking mark on a calendar. I need this stuff, Pickles!” This comes from Bullets, who sides with Sammy.
“Gad facking damnit. Nat in the middle of a tour you guys, don’t mess this up. I’m nat even tellin’ you to stop. Just do that shit after we play, okay? Nat before.”
The conclusion is that they all will “try,” but nobody promises anything. Pickles looks to Toni for backup but the bassist is silent. He knows his guitar playing wasn’t exactly up to par that night either.
---
The glass lamp shatters with a loud pop as it explodes on the wall next to Toni’s head,
“Canceled!” Pickles half screams, half sobs. He breathes heavily through clenched teeth and looks for something else to throw. The hotel phone is ripped out of the wall and makes a terrible sound as it dents the wallpaper.
“Guitarist so high he can’t even remember which way to hold the thing!” A flower vase is the next victim of Pickles' rage, “Drummer missing, found passed out in an alley with a nose full of cocaine!”
Toni watches him, silently, guiltily.
“And you!” Pickles’ finger is trembling as he points at the bassist, but neither of them needs to say it. The past five gigs Antonio’s brilliant guitar speed had slowed dramatically, becoming as slurred and lax as the alcohol made his brain.
Pickles inhales a shuddering breath and cries, “I needed this tour! This was supposedta be what made us! Without this—without Snakes N’ Barrels…” the singer grips his stomach, suddenly feeling sick as the room is spinning,
“I’m nat going back! I can’t go back there! I’m nat—I won’t!”
“Hey, hey, hey, no, easy,” Toni whispers, quickly crossing the debris of shattered hotel accessories to reach his bandmate. Pickles puts his arms up in defense but Toni grabs his wrists to stabilize him, “No one says you have to go back to your parents. Relax, okay, we’ll figure something out.”
“Figure what out?” The eyeliner runs down Pickles' face in horrible, black lines, "This was it, Toni. Who’s gonna give us another shot after this?”
When he doesn’t receive an answer Pickles groans in a defeated, tear-garbled voice, “You said you always wanted it to be about the music.”
“Pickles,”
“Snakes N’ Barrels is over.”
---
Pickles is ending his twenties when his hair starts to thin and he considers doing something new with it.
He’s been living by himself in the most beat up apartment imaginable, but at least he is states away from his family. He wonders if they are curious about the sudden cease of advertisements for his band, or if they ever noticed he was in a band at all.
The record store he works at doesn’t pay too much, but the tips he earns playing his Gibson Les Paul Goldtop at bars lends him enough for alcohol and pot. Still, he can’t help but feel that he’s back at square one before he even turned thirty.
“You have the crappiest metal selection I’ve ever seen,” a gravelly voice grumbles on the other side of the counter. Pickles looks up from his guitar catalogue to meet the green eyes of a rather stocky man. A curtain of raven hair frames the customer’s face.
“Tell me aboot it. No one distinguishes the heavy stuff from screamo nowadeeys. It all jest kinda runs together in a painful, angsty slurry.”
The customer is surprised by Pickles’ response. He seems the type that would normally stay tall, dark, and silent but he takes a chance on talking to the redheaded employee because he thinks he might be someone who would understand,
“Been thinking of starting my own band. You know. Show em’ how it should be done,” the man says, almost timidly. He’d come to the desk expecting to fight about the music selection and was now feeling rather shy that they were one the same page.
To recover from the awkwardness, his eyes flick over to the Gibson which Pickles brings in to pass the time when no customers are in the store.
“You play?” He rumbles.
“I’ve been known to.”
---
Dethklok is Pickles’ one, last shot. He’s been let down by high hopes for a band before, so he enters cautiously into this one. He holds no expectations and just wants to see where it goes. If it kicks off great, if it doesn’t, oh well, but at the very least it was a chance to perform seriously again and Pickles had missed that. He wasn’t too old for this yet, not by a long shot.
Perhaps the best part of this whole restarting process is that Dethklok is different from his other band entirely. New name, new people, new type of music, and a new instrument. From here on out, Pickles will play the drums. In this aspect, it doesn’t so much feel like he is starting over as much as he is “moving on.” That is comforting in itself.
Gigs will become unusually easy to book after they recruit the world’s fastest guitar player from Sweden, who has apparently seen potential in them. Despite how cocky the blonde is, Pickles feels a little bit of a relation to him after learning that Skwisgaar had been in hundreds of bands before this one. Maybe people fell off of their horses all the time and it was just up to them to get back on.
Next comes a bass player, and last, a rhythm guitarist. With a complete band, twenty solid songs, and a stage that was ready to book them, Dethklok has their first performance.
And even though this isn’t the first time Pickles has seen an audience flood the grounds to see him play, a sight like that never got old. It is breathtaking, reassuring, and healing. It is everything he needs to lift his spirits, smack him across the face, and wake him up to the fact that his talents are meant to be on stage.
No, it isn’t the same as his first concert with his old band--it is so much better. The stage opens up and the fans scream for him. There is no longer any doubt in Pickles' mind that Dethklok will be a success, he knows it will, right then and there.
The music is heavy, his percussion is strong, and Pickles feels as high as a first time user.
For the first time in a long time, he is happy.
---
The End
- 1
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Out of Order