𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡 | 𝘞. 𝘈𝘹𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦

Ⅷ

𝟐𝟏.𝟎𝟔.𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

-Routine leads to sclerosis.-said Linda as Duff persistently tried to convince her to join him for another round of nightclub bashes.

    They strolled down the bustling Strip. The end of June was shrouded with a heavy layer like wet towels. The pencil-gray evening was broken only by flickering banners.

-Oh, come on, the night is young. Want me to send you a special invitation?

    Linda laughed and kicked a small stone.

-I want you to stop talking me into these sprees.

    Despite Linda's resistance, Duff continued his persuasive banter. They headed towards North Gardner Street. The landscape changed as they ventured further, the glitzy glamour of Sunset Strip gave way to run-down plots and orange-terracotta houses.

     Duff stopped in front of one of the dilapidated houses with a porch that seemed to have weathered more storms than time itself. The parcel looked as if a tornado had swept through just moments ago. Linda's brows furrowed in confusion as Duff, seemingly undeterred by the apparent decay, headed straight for the front door. He was about to turn the rusty knob when Linda's voice cut through the air, stopping him in his motions.

-What the fuck is this place?-her tone was full of incredulity.

He turned around to face her.

-Life of Riley, huh? Unfortunately, the old man didn't cop me a house in Santa Monica.-he teasingly quoted her earlier words.

    Linda couldn't help but shake her head, still trying to make sense of the unexpected stop.

-How did you get the insurance to sign off on this?-she inquired, her gaze sweeping over the shambles that surrounded them.

    Duff's eyes twinkled with amusement as he leaned against the doorframe.

-We didn't.

-You just decided to claim squatter's rights on this disaster?

-Relax, no one's been here for ages. Think of it as a little side project. A fixer-upper, if you will.

    Linda raised an eyebrow, her skepticism deepening.

-Fixer-upper? This place looks like it needs a miracle, not a fresh coat of paint.

-Call it what you want.-he shrugged, placing a palm on the doorknob.-Anyway, mi casa es su casa², and all that good shit. So, make yourself at home.- he pushed the door open with a loud creak. The musty scent of neglect wafted out as he gestured for Linda to enter.

    In the middle of the yellowed ceiling, a single lamp hung from a long cable, a hung flypaper dangled beneath it. Oddly enough, the lamp remained unlit, leaving the room illuminated by the muted, blue glow from an old box TV in the corner. The focal point of the room was a worn-out black couch positioned in the center, upon which two guys were sprawled out, their presence almost blending into the fabric. Linda associated one of the guys' storm of brown curls from somewhere. To the right of the couch, a makeshift kitchenette revealed itself. A wooden round table stood alone, devoid of chairs, surrounded by a faded countertop. The sparse kitchen area had a camping stove with a single burner, though Linda couldn't discern any cooking utensils. Instead, the surface was cluttered with half-empty bottles of Jack Daniels and some cheap wine. Next to the couch, a small enclave housed musical instruments; a compact drum set occupied one corner, surrounded by two guitars: a Honey Burst Gibson SG and an Epiphone. Izzy plucked the strings of the Epiphone with a cassette recorder on his knee. A bass guitar leaned against the wall, and a microphone perched on a make-do stand. They had no PA and played so loud Axl would have to scream lyrics and vocal melodies into guys' ears in order to get his ideas across.