Axl's pretty sick and tired of working at Mckagan's Diner. And Izzy was starting to get on his last nerve. So, when a man with a Top Hat and attitude who is 33 years his senior waltzes in and is way too amused when Axl blushes...well He's pretty much screwed isn't he?

Slaxl feels to come probably Disclaimer: I don't own the characters used in this work of fiction. I do own, however, my plot and the way I portray said characters. Warning: contains mature content! (Started July 7th, completed July 28th 2017)

Exactly what it says. A collection of exploits as told by the characters themselves; a tale of curiosity and desire that grew into something more.

Part two picks up in Slash's perspective, in 1994 during Duff's hospitalization. So if you haven't read The Fuck Journal yet, best get readin' that monster and get the background story and your fix of warm and fluffy, 'cause there ain't gonna be much here. Enjoy!

The fourth and final part of The Journal Series.

Jason Newsted lives in a small town where the people aren't as nice to him as they are to everyone else. They tend to push poor Jason around for being superstitious, believing in witchcraft and sorcerey as well as mythical and mystical creatures. His favorite pass time is walking down a path in the wooded area behind his house. But this time, as this walk seems more lonelier than it normally has, he comes across a fight in nature between a bear and an extremely abnormally large wolf. The bear leaves the wolf and Jason rushes to help, but he doesn't know that his life is about to change, as well as the lives of the townspeople.

Even now as I walk these streets alone I can sense the fear of many people. But it's not fear of me. Many I can see are paranoid. They've heard of what I do. What I've done. It's not a fear of me exactly. I can see some of them frantically look around. I can feel their hearts beat as I move. I sense it. Even when I am something of the dark, I move in broad daylight. But if I didn't have the pendant of light around my neck and hidden under my shirt, I'd burn and become ash as if any other of my kind would. It's just another day. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Or so it would seem. As I walk, I'm suddenly grabbed by the hood of my black sweatshirt and yanked backwards off of my feet. The force of is a dead giveaway of who's grabbed me. The name rolls into mind and I immediately seeth with rage. James Alan Hetfield. The werewolf. Mangy fucking mutt.

Being a poor child in Victorian England was simply a case of being in the wrong place, at the wrong age, at the wrong time.