Colors of Love

Three

August, 1987

        Los Angeles, Cali

The last four, almost four and a-half Years certainly hadn't been easy for Bobby, but he felt they'd been a lot worse than they'd needed to be. He was almost at his wit's End with his biggest source of contention, but that mating pull–which was simultaneously a Blessing and a Curse–wouldn't let him just throw in the towel and save his own Sanity. Naturally, that led to an increase in his already heavy drinking, and even though he was only pushing twenty-three now, he could damn near drink his mate under both their buses.

        Not long after he and said mate'd met–maybe three months, tops–Nikki'd gone to some party after a long Day in the studio to work on his band's sophomore album. By that point, the younger bassist couldn't say he didn't know most of the shit said mate got up to, especially when his back was turned. There just wasn't anything he could do to stop him, so he didn't bother wasting his Time and breath trying most of the Time.

        Apparently missing him and wanting another fix, the older bassist'd managed to leave said party–even though the homeowner'd a literal lock down system in place to prevent that very thing. Nekkid, bruised, and scraped up from dropping down a Stone wall, he'd managed to get to his car out near the road, which was when everything went to Hell in a hand basket. There were a pair of chicks who'd been trying to get into the party that were waiting outside, thinking maybe they'd manage to sneak in eventually, anywhore. One thing led to another, and the Neko'd soon found his Porsche wrapped around a telephone pole at the bottom of the Hill, neither of the girls in sight.

        Upon finally managing to make it to the hospital, he was diagnosed with a dislocated shoulder, which'd hurt like hell to get popped back in. When he'd finally managed to call Bobby to come get him, he was stoned outta his mind on fuck-only-knew what, not that he'd a car to drive home in anymore. A groan ripped through the receiver, but he'd agreed to come get him instead of making him try to walk home high, but he obviously wasn't happy about it. Once he was finally home in the house they'd long since moved into so as to have privacy from Vince and Tommy, he spent a week whacked outta his head.

        It wasn't long after the Percocet scrip he'd been given in the ER ran out that he started up with more nefarious shit than that. Nikki swore he was still in a lotta pain and needed something to get rid of it, but no doctor'd write him anymore scrips for anything. Being the devious and resourceful Cat that he was–not to mention all the connections he'd made with various dealers–that landed him with what they called brown sugar. Obviously not the stuff used for baking, it was actually brown-powder heroin, and it certainly wasn't a cheap thing to get from much of anywhere. More of his money started going on that shit, especially once Mötley's sophomore album was released in September of '83, than anything else. In fact, it was actually Bobby's meager funds from busting his ass in local bars that paid their rent and utilities every month.

        By the Time they'd even started working on their third album, shit'd already spiraled so far outta Control, it wasn't even funny. Let another two Years pass and work Begin on their fourth album, and it was a Wonder that any of these idiots were still alive. All the younger bassist–who'd just gotten off his first serious tour in support of his own debut album–wanted to do was leave his mate, but the pull was too strong.

        "I just dunno what I'ma do when he gets back home," Bobby sighed, a smoke in one hand and a beer in the other. He and band mate Bret were sprawled out in his and his mate's living room, just chilling without the notion of being any amount of Creative looming over their heads.

        "Yeah, he's really gotten outta Control, hasn't he?" the vocalist agreed sadly. "I mean, for all that he was a heavy drinker and coked outta his skull more often than not, he seemed pretty decent when ya first introduced him to us."