Duuuuude more Pickles he's the best!
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The drum kit sat menacingly behind the glass wall of the recording booth. Staring death glares into the green gems of the man who played them. His eyes rolled back in his head and the ginger let out the loudest of sighs. Writing music usually came naturally to the drummer in dreads. Why now, did he dread it so? Was it that his two writing buddies had left him out to dry on the last songs for the album? Was it that he simply had run out of things to say? No… None of those sounded right.
“Maybe you should take a break today, babes,” called in Dick who was trying his best along with Amanda to get this album produced in time. “You’re looking kind of pasty and sweaty.”
“Screw you, ya douchebag,” shouted back said musician as he flipped a bird towards the two-person audience. He paused for a moment, thinking, then continued. “You know, you’re probably right… A break sounds nice.”
He slammed the door to the damned booth on his way out. It impacted with enough force to make the glass rattle and shake a bit. Once away from the eyes of anyone else, the man lit a joint and slid down the wall to the floor. His head rested in his hand for a moment. What the hell was wrong with him? Music was his life. Why was this so damn hard? He shook his head. It was only as hard as he made it. Right?
A night passed by like a blip on the timeline. Nathan and the guys were getting anxious, ready for that damn new album to be completed. Pickles had been in charge of a measly three songs on the end and had only come up with half of a solo. The beautiful blonde swede sighed then rolled his eyes as the short midwesterner strolled in looking like a dried up water sac. Writers block had been taking heavy toll on the man. Someone had to speak up, whoever grew the balls to do it first.
“Pickles,” the tower-some noire haired gent spoke up. “We need to talk about your songs.”
“Back off, I don’t wanna talk about it.” He verbally pushed back his friends. “Let’s just put some crap that didn’t fit on the last album.”
“Screw that, we’re going to talk about this,” it was exceedingly noticeable that Mr. Explosion was having none of it. “Either you admit you need help writing or we’re gonna be stuck here forever.”
“Well I ain’t saying shit,” snapped the shorter man. “Why the hell do you even care? Its just writer’s block.”
“Our money is on the line,” they were now face to face, the taller of the two leant down to eye level as if it was threatening. “Not to mention the gigs we could be doing over this new music.”
The air in the room grew still, suffocating to those not in heated debate. One by one the other members scooted away, out of eye and earshot of the argument. Words were flung like weapons until finally, the two locked lips. It wasn’t what needed to happen, but it did. Like most spontaneous moments, this left both parties in a bit of shock. What started as a peck turned into a heated makeout session and finally. Finally the man in charge of the last three songs knew what he’d write about.
