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

Ch. 8: Street Rat

"He was a sensitive, introspective person who endured serious mood swings, so I chose my words carefully and presented the issue in a very nonjudgemental, objective tone. Axl stared out the window as I spoke, then he started rocking back and forth in the passenger seat...when suddenly, he opened the car door and jumped out without a word." -Slash

We never really talked about what had happened that night at the Hell House. Slash was still pretty pissed at me but seemingly just wanted to forget about the whole thing, apparent from the dirty looks he kept giving me when he thought I wasn't looking, despite otherwise talking to me like normal. I was pretty sure Steven had already heard everything from Slash, so he was all up to speed on the situation but didn't really want to hear more. That, or he didn't feel up for another physical altercation with me. Whatever the case, he too seemed eager to just let it lie. Duff was mostly out of the loop, only knowing that something bad had happened, but that was the extent of it. Always the easygoing one, he didn't press it further. And, of course, Izzy knew everything. In fact, he was the only one who said anything to me about it at all, but even then, all he said was: "You are simultaneously the luckiest and unluckiest guy I know. Don't let it happen again."

"I already know that!" That's what I'd said at the time, but the truth was, there had been a sense of doubt there. Doubt that maybe it hadn't all been that bad, that maybe things had just been blown out of proportion. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Izzy was right.

Normally, I wasn't dished out orders from anyone in the band, except maybe Steven whenever he was feeling feisty enough. To hear something like that come out of Izzy's mouth was enough to illustrate to me the full severity of the situation. I wouldn't let it happen again, because I couldn't afford to. Prison time meant no more band, which meant no more future, which meant absolutely no chance of me building anything with Officer Cook.

Hell House pretty much started to die after that night. The rumor mill had started to churn out the stories; some of them true, some of them believable enough to be true, but all of them painting us in a terrible light. While that was great for PR and the growing interest in the whispers of our debut album, it wasn't great for our pockets. With no one coming by for us to steal from anymore, our wallets-and our waists-we're getting progressively thinner.

Maybe I'm only so angry all the time because I'm also so hungry all the time, I pondered as I strolled down Sunset Boulevard, scanning the sidewalk for any discarded cigarette butts that still had some life left in them.

And I'm only so hungry all of the time because I'm so goddamn broke. If I had money, I'd be able to eat, and then I'd finally be happy. Therefore, money does buy happiness, so suck on that Socrates or whoever the fuck made up that bullshit saying.

I was really starting to lose it. On top of my strange lines of thinking, I was beginning to feel lightheaded and weak walking around on an empty stomach under the ruthless Cali sun. I needed a break.

I resigned myself to the Tower Records parking lot, unconcerned with the staff possibly chasing me off or calling the cops for loitering or some dumb shit like that. They knew me here. And besides, even if some of the staff didn't, they certainly weren't paid enough to care. I plopped my ass down on one of those concrete bumpers at the end of an empty parking spot, under the merciful shade of a palm tree. I heaved a sigh.

I reckoned it was maybe only a quarter before noon, but already the day was threatening to be a scorching one, and being on the cement out in the open didn't help either. The chill of the shade was such a sweet relief, the spinning in my head began to slow for a moment and I blinked away the haze that had begun to impede on my eyesight, trying to stave off the hunger with sheer willpower.