Thread: Rocker Versus Writer (Cherry Shithead x AeonTralion)

Tonight, he was a corpse. His dead eyes stared out from listless sockets at his cluttered work desk. He lay sprawled out in his chair, arms hanging over its arms lazily. His left hand held a tumbler that was heavy on the ice and too long void of whiskey. His right hand held his smartphone, his editor shouting tinnily at the other end. His dark grey eyes narrowed at his tormentor. It sat there, right in the middle of his desk, staring at him blankly. The bright white, empty page greeted him a mocking promise of perfect prose. Just like the last three hundred had, and now they were balled up and strewn about the room. Lazily, he turned his heavy gaze towards the phone that dangled from his fingers. His editor, Fia Thurmond, sounded pissed. She was always pissed when he missed a deadline. Or four deadlines in a row. What was one more? He raised his left hand, depositing the worthless class onto a stack of his previous books. His empty fingers plucked the cigarette from his mouth, too heavy with ash, and dropped the whole thing into the ashtray, pressing it out with his wet thumb. He slowly raised the thin black phone to his ear, convinced that she'd have to shut up soon. He was disappointed. -nd you're not just going to print money forever, Lucas! Are you listening to me?! You promised me a chapter more than a month ago, and you raised the bet again every time I've called, what're you even doing?! Listen... You know I've got every faith in you, you're a prolific talent, I know that... but we both know that if you don't do somet- His arm fell to his side again as he stood. He sighed deeply, wandering to the bathroom as he lit another cigarette. The smoke followed him like a somber tail, wreathing him in a familiar haze. He looked in the mirror, and found himself even more a mess than usual. His thick brown locks were down past his eyes now, his shock of brilliant red dye now showed its roots and then some. He grabbed the red-rimmed, rectangular eyeglasses from the sink, running a brush through his hair once. Not enough. He dunked his head in the sink, shook his hair, and brushed it again. Better. He went to his laundry basket, plucking out a set of skinny black slacks and pulled them on, adding a gray belt. He pulled on a red button up, a loose tie, a thick jacket. He raised the phone once more. -ow it hasn't been easy Lucas... but sweety, if they don't get some proof of product soon, they're going to find someone bett- uh- not better, I didn't mean that, but more... more dependab- He glared at the phone, taking another long drag from his cigarette. He grabbed a hunk of cold chicken, a thick roll, stuffed it togehter with a quick slathering of toppings, and headed for the door. He snatched up his keys from the coffee table as he went. As he reached the thick oak door of his split-level flat, he sighed once more, raising the phone to his ear once more. -is isn't about you and me anymore, Luke... Lucas...? Lucas Fyll, say something right now or I'm calling the cops on y- Fuck it, Fia. You're right. I shouldn't be moping around here. This band, you say they're good, right? Then they're good. I'll go tonight, whip out a quick article, and who knows? This might be just the kick I needed. Well, that and having someone like you to fight for me. Thanks, Fia. You're sweet to worry. Her soft voice almost shook with tenderness. Luke... of course, Lucas, babe- I-I'm always here for you. I mean, well you know. Here for you like this , as your editor... and friend, too. He took a long drag on his cigarette, rolling his eyes. He locked his door behind him, heading for his Impala, keys spinning on his finger. I know, Fia, and I couldn't be happier. Now... where was this show again? His car roared to life. He groaned as he drove, hoping adn praying that this band wouldn't be as bad as he feared.