For Your Flesh Do My Curtains Part.

Too Drive To Drunk

Author's Note: I hope you all like this! This pairing is so cool and so under appreciated. Without further adieu, I give you this really long first chapter!

Stanley Pines had been running for far too long. He had been travelling state to state, getting chased out of everywhere he went with his tail between his legs, feeling sorry for himself yet not once learning his lesson. His retreat, his only solace was this little area, a map of about four streets, cornered off from polite society, where the condemned and the criminals went to conspire and hide, and where a wallet chain was a necessity. Stanley Pines was well-known, a brute and not one to be messed with, a young man in his prime with broad shoulders and a reputation for his lack of mercy. But he was sentimental, and this night, as he walked along the grimy street, the putrid scent of urine and melancholy, broken dreams and desperation wafting in his nostrils, he saw something he just had to interfere with.

A skinny young man, his age or maybe a little younger, was hunched against a wall, his knees to his chest and his arms covering his face, shuddering like a junkie. He was surrounded by men, strong men, who kicked at him, grabbed his longish voluminous hair and making him hiss, spit and writhe in vain. The weak man - or boy, Stanley really couldn't tell - wasn't really making much noise; wasn't crying out for help. But he was bloody, the liquid glistening under florescent street lamps, falling form the man's mouth and dribbling onto his shirt. The man had bruises too, old ones and new ones, varying considerably, like being beaten up was a common enough occurrence for him. Stanley ran over, stopping about six feet from the scene.

"Hey assholes!" the men turned to look at him, stances dropping and eyes widening slightly as they saw the legend that was Stanley Pines. Not showing much weakness, but yielding to him anyway, the guys backed off, spitting on the skinny guy on the ground before walking, rather quickly, away. Once they were gone, Stanley sat down beside the spindly guy on the pavement, seeing that the extent of his injuries definitely included broken ribs, a fucked jaw, broken fingers, a bloody nose (broken a few years ago by the looks of it) and his eye socket had been apparently punched in. Stanley hissed.

"Geez stranger, what did you do to piss them off," he asked, but not really as a question. He stood, extending a hand out to help the other guy stand. "Come on man, let me help you up,"

The guy scornfully looked at Stanley's hand, then up at the man himself, eyes laced with venom and vitriol yet a lingering curiosity present that Stanley had only seen in his brother. Without warning, he spat blood into Stanley's hand. Stanley yelped, snorting in disgust and jumping back. "Ew!" he exclaimed, wiping it on a drainage pipe which just made his hand dirtier. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he asked, waving his hands in incessant rage.

By now the guy was standing up, staggering a little and leaning on the wall for support. From the waistband of his trousers he pulled a hip flask (which greatly amused Stanley, it made him look like an old man!) and took a long swig of something seemingly very strong. He then stared at Stanley, trying to keep the drink inside his rotting body and not embarrass himself by spewing it up. "I didn't ask f-for your help ja-UUUURRRRPPPP-ckass!" the guy snarled, turning to leave. "That was none-none-none of your goddamn b-business,"

"Well excuse me for saving your damn worthless life!" Stanley snarled back, wishing he had just left the guy to die but knowing he would save him again in a heartbeat.

"Yo-You are excused," the guy nodded, walking away and muttering something to himself in Spanish, the contents of the hip flask having apparently improved his short-term balance. Stanley huffed and talked away, deciding that since he had no more business there is was time to go back to his car.

The StanMobile, his baby, and old clunker of a car, red with the bonnet smashed up, the metal crinkled after he had crashed into a lamppost. The car sat snugly in a small alleyway, away from the prying eye of petty thieves and drunken vandals. Everybody knew it was Stanley's car, and everybody knew not to touch it. Except, it seemed, one person, who had placed a flyer under the windshield wiper, and had it not been flapping in the breeze Stanley wouldn't have noticed it there for a while. He clutched it, ready to throw it away until he eyed the contents, his disinterest becoming captivation. The flyer was for a band, namingly something called 'Flesh Curtains'. The lettering was blue and yellow, jagged like bolts of lightning shooting neon beams down from space. There was also some weird green swirling thing, which Stanley assumed was their logo. He checked the information, found that they played punk, rock and grunge and that they were playing at a little club not to far away with free entry. Deciding that it was too early to sleep in his car just yet, and that Stanley really couldn't pass up anything free, he headed off.