Book 4: My Hands Are Tied (Axl Rose FanFic)

Ch. 6: Hell House

*****TRIGGER WARNING*****
sex, drugs, alcohol, implications of rape, and Axl being Axl

"He's insane-that's it. The bottom line: the fucker's insane. I said it. OK, fine, fuck me." -Steven

The alleyway had a feverish air to it, a mixture of what was left of the California sunset as well as the natural heat emanating from the salted, sweaty bodies that had packed into the tight space there. Strippers kept passing through, either on their way to a shift or leaving from one, almost always with a gaggle of men following close at their high heels. Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love was blasting from a boombox someone was dumb enough to bring along. It would likely be ours by the end of the night, and pawned off for extra cash by morning.

Izzy and other pushers were floating around from group to group with an aim to sell some of their stash. Steven was manning a makeshift beer station we'd put together against the back wall of the house, looking to make some money by astronomically marking up the prices. Thankfully, not many people here were sober enough to notice or care. Normally I wouldn't count solely on Steven for that role, but our friend Vicky Hamilton was hanging around with him and I trusted her to keep him somewhat in check. Duff and Slash were chatty drunks, good at keeping everyone jovial and entertained with their blasted antics. It made it easier for everyone to let their guard down around us. Big mistake, but they wouldn't know it until later.

And me? I was on a mission.

"Bigger fish to fry" she'd said. Well, I was never one to back down from a challenge. She thought Guns N'Roses weren't worthy of her time, eh? She thought I wasn't anything special. I wanted to make her eat those words. But also, more than anything, I just wanted a chance to see her again. Or rather, I wanted her to see me again. So, I set out on my self-inflicted abhorrent mission: to be as vile as I'd ever been. Not an easy feat by any stretch of the imagination.

With half a bottle of Night Train in hand, I skulked through the alley, raising Hell as I went.

First I started near Izzy, where I helped him to prey on the junkies as they were nodding off. We'd flank them on each side, Izzy looming above them pretending to be seriously focused on smoking his cigarette, and I'd be sitting next to them, feigning that I was keeping an eye on them and just trying to help. Then, soon as they were out, I'd start rifling through their pockets, purses, wallets, whatever I could get my hands on. Any time a bystander came close or looked our way, Izzy would start to hum Private Idaho loudly enough for me to hear. I'd abruptly stop what I was doing and act like I was simply helping the comatose fucker to not fall over.

After we'd gone through enough pockets that people were starting to wise up, we broke off and went our separate ways. I decided it was time to take it up a notch.

As I aimlessly passed through the crowd, if there was a girl nearby, I'd pinch her on the ass. Most of them were shocked at first but quick to welcome the flirting, and I ended up with a few phone numbers and some light groping myself. But a few others slapped my hand in annoyance, or full-on shoved me away from them. At one point, some blonde chick's boyfriend overheard the commotion and stepped up for a fight. My hand was still sore from punching the guy who'd tried to assault Cook the other night, so my next best option was to smash my bottle of Night Train against a wall and hold the jagged end up as a makeshift weapon. The boyfriend's eyes widened in horror, and he was quick to lower his fists in a show of surrender.

"Whoa, man. Chill the fuck out."

"Then get the fuck out," I snarled back.

The girl shot me a dirty look from under her teased bangs, hugged her boyfriend's arm and dragged him away. "Let's get out of here. This prick is crazy."