CUM AS YOU KILLED A MAN

MILK IT

1991, Nevermind just came out. It's already a hit. The lead singer of Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, is solidified as a hot bitch. Though even with the popularity boost and recognition, he's still smoking in his shitty apartment in Aberdeen.

The town has never been very exciting. It's boring as all hell, and the infrastructure is crumbling. There's literally nothing to do but fuck around. Literally.

Kurt Cobain had slept with half of Aberdeen at this point. He didn't particularly believe in saving yourself for marriage, if you can imagine.

The apartment was fairly bare. Magazines occasionally interrupted the dirty carpet. White stained cabinets and green kitchen countertops supported the chipped landline, which had now been ringing for a ridiculously long time before Kurt actually picked up.

He grabbed the phone and jumped up to sit on the counter.

"Hello?" he asked

"Is this Cobain? I would've paged, but, you know, nothing really matters. Oh- this is your manager, by the way."

"Cool."

Kurt immediately slammed back down the phone and went to the fridge to grab literally anything.

The phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing again and again, and Kurt, assuming it was his annoying manager, didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed an expired carton of oat milk and started chugging from the carton, laying on his ripped brown leather couch.

He did, eventually, answer, which was after like half an hour. The ringing hadn't annoyed him as much as it annoyed his neighbors, who banged on his walls until he picked up the damn phone.

"The fuck do you want, dude?"

"Come to the studio now, this is fucking insane."

"Dave? Huh? What's up?"

"Freddie fucking Mercury just called."

An extensive and unnecessary silence followed, interrupted by Kurt's fire alarm beeping. It had a plastic bowl duct taped around it (He doesn't know how to use a drill) and hadn't had new batteries the entire time he lived there.

"Huh??"