McPhisto's Advocate
The Fly
((I have thought about writing this for a while, and here it is. It's something of a departure from my usual style, and I hope it works.
LANGUAGE WARNING: There is a lot of "F-word" and other swearing in this fic. I apologise in advance, but the story seemed to need it. If the moderators deem the swearing to be excessive, I will understand.
And the disclaimer - this is all fiction. While this fic is based on a real event, I obviously have no idea of the details, no more than any other fan does. I intend no disrespect at all to the band.))
---------------------------------------------
26 November, 1993
Sydney, Australia
Aaaawwww, fuck.
I am so fucking wasted. Smashed off my face. Pissed as a fart. Legless.
Dunno where I am. Hotel? Must be. How? No fucking clue.
How much did I drink? Dunno. A lot. Where did I go? Dunno. What day is it? Dunno.
Don’t even know what bloody city I'm in. They all look the same. All the bars and clubs look the same. Whole damn world looks the same from the back of this monster. This fucking tour.
It's the tour that never ends, it just goes on and on and then... on and on some more...
Fuckfuckfuck. Room spinning, still drunk. Can't think. Can't see straight. Why'd I come back if I'm still drunk? The night is young... hell, it's not even dark yet.
Dunno if I even came back after last night. Not much bloody point, really. Coming back, or remembering. No point. To anything.
Pissed in the middle of the day. Ha ha. Not just that. Falling-down, amnesiac, paralytic pissed. Must've been out since the night before. Got a head start. Or just never stopped. Party all night, drink all day, sleep when I'm dead. Play another bloody show.
And I know what day it is. It's a gig day.
And I Don't. Fucking. Care.
I'm over it. Had enough. That's why I got wasted in the middle of the day. Dunno where, dunno who brought me back, but that's why.
And why the fuck did they have to bring me back? I don't wanna be here. I don’t wanna hafta see any of 'em.
Fuck 'em all. Fuck the show, fuck the whole bloody tour. I can't handle this.
**********************************
Oh god. Must've passed out. Dark now. Head pounding, or was that the door?
"Mr Clayton?"
"F'kawf."
"Sir?"
"FUCKAWF!"
Shouldn't've shouted. Head splitting. Gonna throw up. Can't fucking move. Gotta move. Roll over. Fucking king-sized bed. Roll again. Oh god....
Shit. It's dark. That means...
They would've cancelled it.
No, they can't. Big fucking broadcast tomorrow. Some bullshit about a rehearsal. Can't cancel. The show must go on.
They're playing the show. Right now. And I’m not.
Aaww fuck.
Gonna throw up again.
The band is playing without me. I'm not there. They're onstage, I'm in here. In a dark hotel room with vomit on the floor. My vomit.
What if it were one of the others?
But it's not. It's me. Fuck.
It's me. Famous, wealthy, glamorous rock star. Dating a supermodel. Too wasted to play. All I need are some hard drugs and the picture will be fucking perfect.
Naomi...
Oh god. Need water. Some thoughtful bastard left some. No aspirin.
Great, now the bed is soaked. Just water. Fucking hands shaking. Fucking all of me shaking. It's not cold. It's November, it should be cold, but this is another planet and it's not cold in November here.
God, why are we even here? It's too far away. It's been too fucking long. Enough, already. I want my life back.
They're playing without me.
How many times have I wanted to tell them all to fuck off? How many times have I wanted to fuck off myself? Just disappear. Let them figure it out. Well, they figured it out this time.
Stuart must have taken my place.
I'm sick of the tour. I'm sick of the televisions and the stage and the lights and the trabants and the whole damn thing. Media overload overload. I'm sick of the old songs. I'm sick of the new songs. I'm sick of those bloody ridiculous blue uniforms. With lemons on them! God. Zoo dollars. Sick of this bloody hairstyle. I'm sick of music. I'm sick of the lot of them. I'm sick of the judgement.
I could leave. I could get up, right now, and leave. Get a cab to the airport. Disappear into the bush. Fuck 'em. I could give it up.
Give up the band.
"They're playing, without me."
Sounds even worse out loud. More real.
If the band is playing without me, that means there is still a band, without me. If I quit, the band will go on.
If I am not with the band, I am not in the band.
I'm selfish. I want them to break up if I quit. All for one, one for all, and none without me.
But I've wanted a lot of things. I got most of them, too. Even Naomi. But not everything. Why can't I be happy with most? Most people don't get this much. Most people are happy with that. I have more, and I'm not happy.
I can't even remember why I joined. Hell, I can barely remember the last 24 hours.
What the fuck are they going to say?
They'll have to say something. I don't wanna hear it. I don't wanna see them.
I don't want them to see me.
I feel like shit. I sound like shit. I probably look like shit. Shaking like a leaf. I need a drink.
But that's the whole damn problem, isn't it.
What's the time? It'll be nearly over. Encore. Those fucking money cannons. Bloody Macphisto and his bloody phone call.
Will they come after the show? I could leave. Try to get up... bad idea. More throwing up. Head spinning, splitting, pounding. Guts heaving. Not moving. Can't move, can't leave. Trapped.
Dunno where my fucking passport is anyway. Crew's probably been told not to let me leave. Bloody fucking hell.
They're playing. Without me. I'm not there. I'm not with them.
It hurts.
Stadium's not that far away. I could probably see it if I went out to the balcony. Don't wanna. Can't bloody move, anyway.
My god, I am pathetic.
*********************************
What stage is self-pity?
I've done anger. I've done nausea. I've done cowardly-attempt-to-escape. I would kill for an aspirin. Or twenty.
Actually, I'm still in the nausea stage. It's concurrent with self-pity, however.
Show was over two hours ago. Still nothing, no visitors. Have managed to drink more water without spilling it. Still can't stand up without vomiting. Not that there's much to throw up, now.
Sprawled on a damp bed, covers on the floor. Disarray. Wrinkled clothes, a ragged miserable heap of humanity. The pillow is damp too, although the water didn't spill there. It stinks in here, vomit and sweat.
And shame.
What— no, I know what I've done.
Why— no, I know why, too.
The only question left is; What now?
It hurts. Oh god, it hurts.
The worst thing is, I don't know what will happen. I'm afraid. I don't know what they will say.
No, that's not quite true. What I don't know is how they will say it. And I don't know what I will say back.
What is there to say? I fucked up. I fucked me up, I fucked the band up. It wasn't a mistake. It didn't happen by accident. Part of me wants out, and this is the route it chose.
How big a part, though?
It can't get any worse. This is it, the bottom. I've hit rock bottom.
That's not true, either. I know it could have been worse. I know it could be worse, if something doesn't change.
What? Them? The band, the business? Or me?
Because I can get worse, if I don't change.
It won’t get worse, because they won’t let it. Something will change, either way. One way, I leave the band, and I can get worse without bringing them with me. I am not so full of myself as to imagine that I have destroyed the band. They won’t let that happen, not unless they all want to quit, too.
The other way, I stay in the band, and it is me that has to change.
I don't know what I want. I know what I don’t want.
I don't want to play another damn show on this tour.
I don't want to go through the sort of agony we went through in Berlin again.
I don't want to compromise.
I don't want to do another two-year tour.
I don't want what happened in London to happen again.
I don't want to argue about how we split the fucking money.
Right at this moment, I never want to pick up a bass again.
I don't want to give up alcohol.
But I don't want to feel like this again.
I don't want to be lying here, waiting.
I don't want the moment I am dreading to arrive.
I don't know if I want music any more.
I want to have fun, dammit. That's what this is supposed to be about, right? I like going out all night and drinking and dancing and having FUN. I've done the work. I want to live the life.
Uuhhggh. This has got to be a 9.5 on the hang-over scale.
Where the fuck are they, anyway? Busy preparing the mother of all lectures for me? Putting on their preaching hats and warming up their disapproving stares? They've been waiting for this. Now they've got an excuse to have a go at me…..
....... Come on. Pull your head out of your arse, Clayton.
Face it. They would be right. They might not even say it, but they would be right anyway.
That wasn't living the life. That was erasing the life because I wasn't happy. I'm not happy. That was the a step down the slippery slope. Not even the first step.
Self-destruction.
I don't want that.
Do I need the others to lecture me? I know I fucked up. Do I need them to give me an ultimatum? I know it's coming.
Do I need the band? I don't need the money. I don't need the stress. But do I need them?
Do I need them to help me?
I... I need help.
But that's not enough.
I want help. Because the only alternative is something I don't want. Something I won't allow to happen.
********************************
Awake again. I don't know the time. The clock is on the floor somewhere, for some reason, and I can't make myself move to find it. Still feel like death warmed up, and that not much. Movement is still dangerous. The room still stinks.
The sky outside is deep blue, and I think that dawn is not far away.
Had the strangest dream. Can't remember it now.
My stomach may still be churning, my hands shaking, but I feel better in some small way. The storm will come, and soon, but I know how I'm going to face it now.
We survived Berlin. We can survive this.
Not just I. We.
I want help, and I want them to help me. Because I don't want to lose the band. For better or worse, they are my friends, my family. I want to be with them. I know it's going to be hard, and it's not because I don't have anyone else. But I don't want to have to do this on my own, not if they will help me.
If...
There is a knock at the door, then the sound of a key. Three grim silhouettes appear against the hallway beyond.
My friends. The band.
This is it. Shit.
Not because I need it. Because I want it.
-----------------------------
Fin
LANGUAGE WARNING: There is a lot of "F-word" and other swearing in this fic. I apologise in advance, but the story seemed to need it. If the moderators deem the swearing to be excessive, I will understand.
And the disclaimer - this is all fiction. While this fic is based on a real event, I obviously have no idea of the details, no more than any other fan does. I intend no disrespect at all to the band.))
---------------------------------------------
26 November, 1993
Sydney, Australia
Aaaawwww, fuck.
I am so fucking wasted. Smashed off my face. Pissed as a fart. Legless.
Dunno where I am. Hotel? Must be. How? No fucking clue.
How much did I drink? Dunno. A lot. Where did I go? Dunno. What day is it? Dunno.
Don’t even know what bloody city I'm in. They all look the same. All the bars and clubs look the same. Whole damn world looks the same from the back of this monster. This fucking tour.
It's the tour that never ends, it just goes on and on and then... on and on some more...
Fuckfuckfuck. Room spinning, still drunk. Can't think. Can't see straight. Why'd I come back if I'm still drunk? The night is young... hell, it's not even dark yet.
Dunno if I even came back after last night. Not much bloody point, really. Coming back, or remembering. No point. To anything.
Pissed in the middle of the day. Ha ha. Not just that. Falling-down, amnesiac, paralytic pissed. Must've been out since the night before. Got a head start. Or just never stopped. Party all night, drink all day, sleep when I'm dead. Play another bloody show.
And I know what day it is. It's a gig day.
And I Don't. Fucking. Care.
I'm over it. Had enough. That's why I got wasted in the middle of the day. Dunno where, dunno who brought me back, but that's why.
And why the fuck did they have to bring me back? I don't wanna be here. I don’t wanna hafta see any of 'em.
Fuck 'em all. Fuck the show, fuck the whole bloody tour. I can't handle this.
**********************************
Oh god. Must've passed out. Dark now. Head pounding, or was that the door?
"Mr Clayton?"
"F'kawf."
"Sir?"
"FUCKAWF!"
Shouldn't've shouted. Head splitting. Gonna throw up. Can't fucking move. Gotta move. Roll over. Fucking king-sized bed. Roll again. Oh god....
Shit. It's dark. That means...
They would've cancelled it.
No, they can't. Big fucking broadcast tomorrow. Some bullshit about a rehearsal. Can't cancel. The show must go on.
They're playing the show. Right now. And I’m not.
Aaww fuck.
Gonna throw up again.
The band is playing without me. I'm not there. They're onstage, I'm in here. In a dark hotel room with vomit on the floor. My vomit.
What if it were one of the others?
But it's not. It's me. Fuck.
It's me. Famous, wealthy, glamorous rock star. Dating a supermodel. Too wasted to play. All I need are some hard drugs and the picture will be fucking perfect.
Naomi...
Oh god. Need water. Some thoughtful bastard left some. No aspirin.
Great, now the bed is soaked. Just water. Fucking hands shaking. Fucking all of me shaking. It's not cold. It's November, it should be cold, but this is another planet and it's not cold in November here.
God, why are we even here? It's too far away. It's been too fucking long. Enough, already. I want my life back.
They're playing without me.
How many times have I wanted to tell them all to fuck off? How many times have I wanted to fuck off myself? Just disappear. Let them figure it out. Well, they figured it out this time.
Stuart must have taken my place.
I'm sick of the tour. I'm sick of the televisions and the stage and the lights and the trabants and the whole damn thing. Media overload overload. I'm sick of the old songs. I'm sick of the new songs. I'm sick of those bloody ridiculous blue uniforms. With lemons on them! God. Zoo dollars. Sick of this bloody hairstyle. I'm sick of music. I'm sick of the lot of them. I'm sick of the judgement.
I could leave. I could get up, right now, and leave. Get a cab to the airport. Disappear into the bush. Fuck 'em. I could give it up.
Give up the band.
"They're playing, without me."
Sounds even worse out loud. More real.
If the band is playing without me, that means there is still a band, without me. If I quit, the band will go on.
If I am not with the band, I am not in the band.
I'm selfish. I want them to break up if I quit. All for one, one for all, and none without me.
But I've wanted a lot of things. I got most of them, too. Even Naomi. But not everything. Why can't I be happy with most? Most people don't get this much. Most people are happy with that. I have more, and I'm not happy.
I can't even remember why I joined. Hell, I can barely remember the last 24 hours.
What the fuck are they going to say?
They'll have to say something. I don't wanna hear it. I don't wanna see them.
I don't want them to see me.
I feel like shit. I sound like shit. I probably look like shit. Shaking like a leaf. I need a drink.
But that's the whole damn problem, isn't it.
What's the time? It'll be nearly over. Encore. Those fucking money cannons. Bloody Macphisto and his bloody phone call.
Will they come after the show? I could leave. Try to get up... bad idea. More throwing up. Head spinning, splitting, pounding. Guts heaving. Not moving. Can't move, can't leave. Trapped.
Dunno where my fucking passport is anyway. Crew's probably been told not to let me leave. Bloody fucking hell.
They're playing. Without me. I'm not there. I'm not with them.
It hurts.
Stadium's not that far away. I could probably see it if I went out to the balcony. Don't wanna. Can't bloody move, anyway.
My god, I am pathetic.
*********************************
What stage is self-pity?
I've done anger. I've done nausea. I've done cowardly-attempt-to-escape. I would kill for an aspirin. Or twenty.
Actually, I'm still in the nausea stage. It's concurrent with self-pity, however.
Show was over two hours ago. Still nothing, no visitors. Have managed to drink more water without spilling it. Still can't stand up without vomiting. Not that there's much to throw up, now.
Sprawled on a damp bed, covers on the floor. Disarray. Wrinkled clothes, a ragged miserable heap of humanity. The pillow is damp too, although the water didn't spill there. It stinks in here, vomit and sweat.
And shame.
What— no, I know what I've done.
Why— no, I know why, too.
The only question left is; What now?
It hurts. Oh god, it hurts.
The worst thing is, I don't know what will happen. I'm afraid. I don't know what they will say.
No, that's not quite true. What I don't know is how they will say it. And I don't know what I will say back.
What is there to say? I fucked up. I fucked me up, I fucked the band up. It wasn't a mistake. It didn't happen by accident. Part of me wants out, and this is the route it chose.
How big a part, though?
It can't get any worse. This is it, the bottom. I've hit rock bottom.
That's not true, either. I know it could have been worse. I know it could be worse, if something doesn't change.
What? Them? The band, the business? Or me?
Because I can get worse, if I don't change.
It won’t get worse, because they won’t let it. Something will change, either way. One way, I leave the band, and I can get worse without bringing them with me. I am not so full of myself as to imagine that I have destroyed the band. They won’t let that happen, not unless they all want to quit, too.
The other way, I stay in the band, and it is me that has to change.
I don't know what I want. I know what I don’t want.
I don't want to play another damn show on this tour.
I don't want to go through the sort of agony we went through in Berlin again.
I don't want to compromise.
I don't want to do another two-year tour.
I don't want what happened in London to happen again.
I don't want to argue about how we split the fucking money.
Right at this moment, I never want to pick up a bass again.
I don't want to give up alcohol.
But I don't want to feel like this again.
I don't want to be lying here, waiting.
I don't want the moment I am dreading to arrive.
I don't know if I want music any more.
I want to have fun, dammit. That's what this is supposed to be about, right? I like going out all night and drinking and dancing and having FUN. I've done the work. I want to live the life.
Uuhhggh. This has got to be a 9.5 on the hang-over scale.
Where the fuck are they, anyway? Busy preparing the mother of all lectures for me? Putting on their preaching hats and warming up their disapproving stares? They've been waiting for this. Now they've got an excuse to have a go at me…..
....... Come on. Pull your head out of your arse, Clayton.
Face it. They would be right. They might not even say it, but they would be right anyway.
That wasn't living the life. That was erasing the life because I wasn't happy. I'm not happy. That was the a step down the slippery slope. Not even the first step.
Self-destruction.
I don't want that.
Do I need the others to lecture me? I know I fucked up. Do I need them to give me an ultimatum? I know it's coming.
Do I need the band? I don't need the money. I don't need the stress. But do I need them?
Do I need them to help me?
I... I need help.
But that's not enough.
I want help. Because the only alternative is something I don't want. Something I won't allow to happen.
********************************
Awake again. I don't know the time. The clock is on the floor somewhere, for some reason, and I can't make myself move to find it. Still feel like death warmed up, and that not much. Movement is still dangerous. The room still stinks.
The sky outside is deep blue, and I think that dawn is not far away.
Had the strangest dream. Can't remember it now.
My stomach may still be churning, my hands shaking, but I feel better in some small way. The storm will come, and soon, but I know how I'm going to face it now.
We survived Berlin. We can survive this.
Not just I. We.
I want help, and I want them to help me. Because I don't want to lose the band. For better or worse, they are my friends, my family. I want to be with them. I know it's going to be hard, and it's not because I don't have anyone else. But I don't want to have to do this on my own, not if they will help me.
If...
There is a knock at the door, then the sound of a key. Three grim silhouettes appear against the hallway beyond.
My friends. The band.
This is it. Shit.
Not because I need it. Because I want it.
-----------------------------
Fin
Last edited:
that was dark and reallllly goood !!!!! 
hangovers...
