On With The Show

1

London had failed.

By extension, that meant Nikki had failed. He wasn't, however, going to focus on that right now. It wasn't important. He didn't need it, either. You could argue that he didn't need the hangover he was definitely going to have the next morning, but he played the Whiskey-a-go-go, you don't do that and leave sober.

Unless you have no reputation, of course. Or if you didn't want one.

Yes, Nikki had a problem. Not like he was going to admit it, least of all to himself. He wanted a band - not a bunch of guys who could hold instruments. In all honesty, he was surprised London didn't fail sooner. He didn't need t face that now, though. 

What he needed was a Jack and coke.

More than anything else, he needed inspiration. His dead-end job selling lightbulbs over the telephone wasn't helping him, and the only good songs he had so far were far too... Personal to perform yet.

Frankie died just the other night

He didn't die. Nikki killed him, burned the driver's license, the only identification the so-called 'Frankie' had. Franklin Carlton Feranna was dead.

Some say it was suicide

Nikki laughed as he remembered this; a dry, humorless laugh. It was, in a way, suicide. He was Frank, Frank was him, no matter how much he tried to deny it. There was no escaping the fact.

But we know how the story goes.

The most terrifying sentence Nikki wrote till then - it haunted him. Yes, he knew they were his lyrics, his emotions. He knew how the story went. Hell, it was his story. But Frank Feranna, the boy that came to the Sunset Strip after running away, was gone. He was Nikki Sixx now. 

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he left the back room of the Whiskey, putting his cigarette out in the door frame. Throwing it onto the ground, he crushed it with the back of his shoe, as if it were the reason his music failed.

As if that was why he was a failure.

He really needed that Jack and Coke right now.

At the back of his mind, the thoughts lingered. Nikki knew why nothing worked. He knew why nothing went the way he wanted it to go, and he knew why he would fail at the Rock 'n' Roll renaissance he was trying so desperately to start, that he was trying so desperately to bring about.

He slammed his fist on the table as soon as he sat down, earning the expected glare from people at the bar. He didn't care. Not about this, not about anything. Maybe, he thought, snarling, Frankie would have. If, of course, Frankie was still alive.

The bartenders knew him, what he had usually, what he ordered when he was in one of his moods. Soon enough, his drink was in front of him. Pouring it down his mouth, a wave of fury washed over him. He bit down - as hard as he could, shattering the glass, spitting the pieces everywhere, a furious look in his eye as he slammed the money for the drink on the counter ad stormed out.

Right now, Nikki knew exactly what he wanted.