Bad Habit - {Eddie Munson x y/n}

Into The Hellfire

The day has finally come. The sunshine is warm against the back of your flannel shirt, you hike your tote bag further up your shoulder as you place your hand against the cool glass, pushing the door open. It opens with the tinkle of a bell above your head, alerting the shopkeeper of your presence, but you doubt they'd be able to hear it over the hustle and bustle in the store already this morning.

"Form a line!" The man behind the counter instructs the gathering of bodies. You've been to the local record store, Ricky's Records, many times through the years with Eddie to pick up the latest Metallica or Iron Maiden or Dio album, sometimes even a Fleetwood Mac one if he was feeling particularly generous that day, in other words - if he'd sold enough weed that week. However, you've never seen it so mobbed.

You've came here for one thing and one thing only this morning, and this group of giddy kids is in your way. It's not until you begin to barge through the sea of squawking teens that it is revealed to you why they're all queuing, as soon as you push your way to the front, you see what they're all after. You can see clearly now that Ricky, owner of Ricky's Records and one of Corroded Coffins dedicated local fans, has set up a dedicated stall, right by the cashiers desk, proudly displaying Hawkins finest Corroded Coffins debut album, 'Into The Hellfire'.

You can't believe the kids are all queueing up for it, chatting excitedly with dollar bills folded in their hands, ready to make a purchase. A purchase of your boyfriends bands debut album. You can hardly believe your eyes, you admittedly feel slightly taken aback by the popularity it seems to have garnered judging by the queue that's now beginning to form out of the door, onto the street. It's not that you doubted the bands ability to sell records or hit high sales, but it does surprise you to see the youth of Hawkins, a town which has ridiculed and bullied, for lack of a better term, the lead singer of said band, lining up to buy his music.

Of course not everyone treated Eddie and the rest of the band so cruelly through the years, but nobody really stood up for them neither. And its not the fault of these youths that stand before you now, buzzing with anticipation to hear the songs Eddie has written, it's the fault of the small minded busybodies of this town. Nobody ever really believed in them or expected them to actually do well, apart from a select few that knew the boys well, knew the band and their talents.

'Eddie Munson and his band of freaks selling records and touring US States? Yeah, right,' you can hear the townies scoff in your head. Well, look at them now, putting money in the hands of their teenage sons and daughters to buy the album, to play it again and again and again in their bedrooms, singing the lyrics as they help mom to wash the dishes or drumming the beat against the dash as dad drives them to school.

You're maybe getting too far ahead of yourself, but it does put a big smile on your face to picture the scene. Dad asking son what song he is listening to and the stark realisation on his face when he learns it's 'that Munson boy' or 'y'know that kid with the hair' or 'that satanist, cult leader'.

You yourself have listened to the album repeatedly since the day you and Eddie lay in the sun listening to it from beginning to end. You've learned the lyrics, memorised Eddie's guitar solos and even the beat of Gareth's drums can't escape your mind. You could just continue listening to it on the tape that Eddie gifted to you of course, but you want to have the official thing, plastic packaging, price tag and all, in your arms.

You realise you've been paused, as still as a statue, for probably a beat too long when Ricky waves his hand at you, his mouth moves but you can barely make out the words over the buzz.
"Y/N," he smiles warmly, "I thought I might see you in here this morning, been a while!" Ricky says as you shuffle passed the bodies, making your way to the desk he now stands behind.