DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #43 - one for the road

'Why the fuck are you always so damn petty, brother ?' Cuntrell breaks the odd silence, yet Sean and him are still standing in the middle of the tour bus, exchanging heavy stares and all. This little taunt ain't enough to fire up my short tempered mr. Honda Four and get him in the mood for full range destruction ... as a matter of fact, he's still out there, doing his virtual best in order not to laugh too blatantly in the face of Cuntrell. I get it, I get it, he just wanted to clown, it wasn't really his intention to wreck some skull, when he stood up from his seat and he got a little bit too up, close, personal and intense with the pissy blondie.

And I sigh with relief. Because besides disrespecting me, a poor innocent girl who's got nothing to do with all of this shit, just in order to get a little bit under Sean's skin, Cuntrell hasn't done a bad thing to even begin with. I'm never benevolent to him, I would rather drink bleach than say a word in his favour, yet Gerry is in no wrong right now. Sean is. He started this shitshow, didn't he? By calling Gerry with names that ain't his own, teasing him over the Gossard incident of last night, and hinting to Bessie's trysts with Layne, knowing that it pisses him off like nothing else. He's been doing this since yesterday, when we bumped into Gerry in the backstage of the Oakland Coliseum, blondie asked me circa Bessie's whereabouts, and Sean told him she was shagging Layne in his dressing room. Since then, he has barely stopped harassing his bandmate. And it ain't Gerry's fault, if Sean's hellbent on pissing the living hell out of him just for fun.

I mean, Cuntrell has impaired my friend for life, she's probably gonna die with his crabs or have his son, but Sean started all of this fuss, and he's been teasing each and every one of Gerry's nerves for almost twenty four hours. For absolutely no fucking reason, besides satisfying his lust for drama.
Gerry's only got one nerve, hence it's extremely easy to get on it, but Sean is showing some real commitment to his cause... making him fume, explode and die. And I don't know why's that. I don't know a thing, besides that there's a lot of pent up anger between these two, for some reason I still ignore. Cuntrell is pissy and full of mood swings and temper tantrums. Sean is indeed a bit petty, short tempered, and a bit too belligerent. They give as good as they get, that's for sure. But judging from the stories I've heard... when a Cuntrell meets a Kinney in the battlefield, the Cuntrell is a dead man. Always.

'I'm a gentleman. I'll let you choose what limb I'm gonna break. You've got four... maybe five of 'em'. Sean answers, and when I can hear him mentioning Cuntrell's fifth limb, or third leg, however we want to call it... I just sigh with relief, because I realise that his intention has never been to punch Gerry in the face. Not even elbow him in the stomach. Not even kick him in the ass. Oddly enough, he just ate Cuntrell's inglorious pep talk to shut me up by sticking the damn hammer inside my mouth to prevent me from talking like the stoic gentleman that he is. He's clowning, definitely not ready to start world war three on the Phellus in Chains tour bus, and he's fucking laughing like the reckless idiot that he is. And man, now that I know this was just a plaything to him, not the battlefield, I can't help but let out that same laugh I've been holding inside since the moment Sean called Gerry 'Stone... Layne... mom'. Cause, like it or not, it was fucking hilarious.

Mom! Mom come here! Can I ask you something?
And in the end, he didn't even ask Gerry anything. Gotta love Sean. As a matter of fact, I think I bloody love him, and I can't help my feelings.

'Five, Kinney. He's got five'. Bessie specifies, and the fact that we're so candidly talking about Cuntrell's man sausage gives me the fucking hysterics. Everyone is laughing their lungs out, including the bus driver, and including Starr, who's taking a much deserved rest from shagging his pretty brunette. Cuntrell himself is laughing too, on top of the entitlement that comes with carrying a solid ten inches in his jeans. Ten, damn yeah, but infected as fuck. Every woman in Seattle has eaten from Cuntrell's buffet, at some point, except me ... and Chrissie, I think. And I've heard so many stories about his cock that for as much as I know, it could also be unicorn horn shaped. Or covered in glitters and gold... and crabs, perhaps.