Boredom. Infinite amounts of time wasted, wasting myself, making my fingers bleed for perfection. What did I earn? Nothing but money and contempt Slash thought, looking out of the 747 window.
He was glad they were back on tour, back on the road, he lived for this nomadic life, he was born to perform, had the soul of a gypsy. Or a circus performer.
He looked around. Circus yes. Guns and Roses were a circus act. 80 people running a freak show in which he was one of the stars. And each show he gave the people what they wanted. Dammit he gave them his very soul, pouring, bleeding out of his fingers, everything he couldn't say aloud flowing from them like fluid, life force.
He run his hand through his hair. He was still weak, slowly adjusting to the lack of heroin on his system, a slight shake betraying his need for a drink. All his bones felt mush, like they belonged to a body of a man many, many years older than his. Duff and their new drummer were already hammered and he missed Steven, the pang of guilt that always pushed it's way to the surface when he was sober now stronger than ever. Izzy wasn't even flying with them and Slash both hated and understood him. So much for brotherhood, so much for family. That night, as they waited for Axl to show, he could hear the crowd getting increasingly frustrated, chanting their names like a mantra.
Yeah keep chanting, and I will keep drinking. Maybe we can materialize a singer out of thin air. Hot and cold that's what he felt about Axl these days. Hot, because on stage, the chemistry was still mind blowing, despite his hate for the horn section, the back vocals choir, the fucking keyboard, despite Matt 's too quirurgical drumming, despite Duff's drunken slips and Izzy's moroseness, despite everything, when Axl would drape over his shoulders and wail, or breathe in his ear the next song, he was hotter than ever, and wished they could be together on a stage forever. His fingers could bleed then, he was hot, he was burning and it was all he wanted. To burn. To be consumed.
And cold, when Axl would make them wait 5 hours to go on stage. When he lost his temper and kicked the poor mike boy. When he would rant. When he dedicated this and that song to such and such motherfucker, when his whore would eat his face when the show was over, when he insisted on filming those ridiculous videos, waste of fucking money according to Izzy. And specially the way he would still defer to Izzy, treat him like some divinity, eyes aqueous and humble, asking for his approval, seeking his vision on this and vision on that, not wanting to acknowledge that Izzy was past the point of concern, he was out the door, he was jumping ship like the good coward he really was.
It occurred to him in Paris. He was reading some French magazine , more looking at it, when he had the idea. It took him best part of a week to set the deal, and best part of the weekend too, but in the end, between faxes, he found what he was looking for. The guy's agent on the end relented to the conditions Slash had in mind, because, off course, money was not a problem. It was a once of a lifetime deal, and he'd splurge, why not? As far as he was concerned he could die tomorrow, and coffins didn't carry safes under the ground. It still shocked him the amount of money asked, feeling slightly obscene to spend so much for one night, but in the end it was the fuck it mentality that pushed him over the brink.
He sat down on the four poster bed, still dazed, when he put the phone down. In two weeks, he would have the ultimate proof that money could indeed buy some happiness.
When the day finally came, he was so nervous he could barely stop running on the show. He was hyper than ever, yet relatively sober, he didn't want to be numb, not to the point of losing. Because he wanted to remember, even if to prevent such stupidity from happening again.
To make matters worst, Axl was hotter than ever on the show, the white spandex shorts clinging to his body like second skin and he draped himself over Slash's back and wailed, rubbed on him at any given opportunity, and if he didn't knew his front man better, he'd say he was teasing him, and he just wanted to rip those shorts off and bone him there and then, in front of the audience, in front of his band mates, in front of the camera, for the whole world to see how Axl screamed and wailed, like the bitchy little faggot he really was.
