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Tell me again, why do I need one of these things?

Today's flavour of ice-cream... | HCL commentficlet

Today's flavour of ice-cream... | HCL commentficlet

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hcl: billy bent mirror
Good morning campers! Dosk is heading back to doskland uni, so I am here alone doing - uh - cool and wrong things like drinking Diet Coke before noon.

I know. Quite.

Why do I always have that "and what?" feeling when I just have this vista of time-space and not a lot of headache. I just feel so tired and sack out on the couch. Buzzy, she say "zzzzzZz".

Going through the squillion open tabs, I found some comment!fic I wrote for c_regalis back in November. Original post and Billy looking really good with that knife and smoke at the same time. With that shirt, it's a way to explode the brains of unwary fangirls!

Hard Core Logo inspired by Billy's wonderful acid trip outfit. Sadly, it's more about Bucky than it is about Billy and typically disturbed with extra -ed. I seem to have a thing for curses and the acid trip (it makes 15 look really interesting in a weird personal meta way)


Billy told me that the outfits, the ones they were wearing at Bucky's ranch when that prick Bruce said he wasn't going to film them, they were the remnants of Bucky Haight's secret career in glam rock. He never really got off the ground on his own and this band in England offered him a fair bit to tour with them while their guitarist dried out. The sound tore at Bucky, burnt him from the inside out, he had to get half a bottle of scotch down him before he could even go on stage. And the band's manager had billed him as some rock god from Canada. The kids loved him and wanted to get fucked wearing that jacket. The sequins were dulled with come as they rutted in hotel bedrooms. There were no bandhouses in this world, only appearances on Parkinson's along with that retard with the fucking bird.

Something vile and bitter welled up inside Bucky. It sat in his stomach and he grew thin, retching at the sight of the bacon butties nice motherly ladies served up to them at motorway cafes. Getting chased down the streets like he was a Beatle; as if Hard Day's Night really was a documentary. And then they'd offered him the job for real.

He just had to get out.

And after that, everything was about getting his poison load out, but everything, every four letter paean to ten buck whores, every curse, every lie, every single time he let some adoring brat suck him off... it was meant to get it out of his system. He liked the idea; ejaculating out bile into some kid's dirty adoring mouth.

He thought he was getting it out; instead it just festered until he was a broken down guy living on a broken down ranch and the reason nobody ever saw him was because there was nothing fucking left. His guitar, it sounded like tuneful exercises for little fingers. He wanted an exorcism, what he got was "Donkeys are in love with carrots".

And then Joe turned up and fucked up the great rock and roll swindle; Bucky was down to this, the moment when the boy with come staining his lips and erupting in angry white headed acne turned on him. Bucky's big gamble hadn't paid off, because suddenly he wasn't the important one anymore. Joe had learnt his scripture and taken what he needed.

And that was Billy Tallent dancing in sequins with fire leaping from his mouth. He licked knives with sensuous abandon and it made Bucky's wrists itch. It was true, you only get one chance and Bucky had blown it as sure as Joe had reverently blown him. That was the moment he realised it; the moment he chose to give Billy the Strat.

Billy didn't understand why until he was in air-conditioned oasis in the deserts of California and the fucker had got onto the line in his room. He poured it out like blood into the receiver and along a hundred miles of wire, his voice slowly getting fainter and fainter until the only thing Billy Tallent heard was the echo of his own breathing.
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