Karma's Happenstance (Guns n Roses - Izzy Stradlin/OC/Nikki Sixx - Mötley Crüe)

The strangely odd plight of Nikki Sixx

Nikki's POV

I hang up the phone wondering who was just on the line in the first place. The smoking barrel of my gun is in my right hand. The smell of gun powder fills my nose. I strain my ears to listen in the darkness. I fucking shot that Mexican fuck...didn't I? Where's his fucking death gurgle? Did I fucking hit him? I drop to my stomach in case the fuck has me in his sights. I slither across the carpet as I listen for that bastard. Though I don't hear a thing.

I reach the door and pull myself up. I listen closely. Listening for those sneaking fucking Mexicans that could simply vaporize and re-materialize. I know they're around here still.

"Hola Amigo," I hear the voice behind me. Shit. I spin around and press my back to the door with a gasp. Where the fuck did my gun go?

"Sixx!!! You open this goddamn door right fucking now!!!" Wait. Is that our fearless manager Doc?

"Hey Gringo..."

I gasp. Where the fuck is that motherfucker?

"Nikki! Man please don't tell me you fucking shot yourself!!!" I hear Tommy pounding on my door.

"PLEASE DUDE!!! OPEN UP!!!"

I pant as I try to listen for that Mexican fuck. He's in here somewhere. It's too dark, I can't fucking see. But if I turn on the lights then he will see me. Fuck. Where did I lose the fucking gun? Shit I bet that fucker found it. Shit is this the same fuck? Were there more than one that slipped under my fucking door? What the fuck do they fucking want from me? Fuck I need to be in my house, in my closet. It's the only place I feel fucking safe.

I fiddle with the locks and turn the knob. I bolt from the dark into the bright hallway. I think I'm screaming. Fuck I gotta get out of here.

"Nikki man wait!!!" I hear Tommy calling out to me. Fuck T-Bone, run man!

I take the stairs because they're probably thinking I'll take the elevator and are waiting in the shaft to come through the roof and get me. I run from the hotel and out into the street. I almost get clipped by a car that swerves to miss me.

I see a Silver limo parked at the curb across the street. I weave through the intersection to get to it as cars pass me honking. I quickly open the door and slide in and lock the doors.

"Sir?" Says the chauffeur.

"Airport!" I yell.

"But sir...this limo belongs to..."

"Fuck them! I have cash!!" I quickly shove my hand in my pocket and pull my wallet out. I pull out everything I have and throw it into the front seat. Then I hear fists pounding on the fucking windows. I can't see outside, but I'm sure that's a fucking Mexican knock. "Fucking go!" I scream at the driver. The limo skids off and the knocking stops.

My chest is pounding. Liquor. I quickly check the consoles for booze. Nothing. Where's all the fucking booze? Smack. I need smack. There's some in my closet. Yeah. I just have to go home. When I get to the airport the limo drops me off on the tarmac by the Motley jet. I find our pilot and tell him to take me to L.A.

"Where's everyone else?" He questions.

"It's just me."

"But we're not prepared for take off. We haven't re-stocked supplies." He explains.

"Supplies? Like toilet paper, peanuts and shit?! Does this motherfucker have gas in it?!" I yell.

"Well...yes, but..."

"Fuck supplies! Get this fucker in the air right goddamn now!"

"Yes sir," he sighs and walks away.

I guess about half an hour later I start to feel more relaxed. Now the whole conspiracy of Mexican's being after me seems a little far fetched. I can see I fell victim to a little mild case of cocaine induced psychosis. I can't help but laugh because I've high jacked the bands plane. I bet those motherfuckers are going nuts looking for me. But my fucking skin is crawling for a fix.