Too Fast For Love

Chapter 8 - Nobody Knows What It's Like To Be Lonely

**This is just a one shot, not connected to the prior chapters. This scenario just came to me one night, while I was in the middle of writing the prior story. I put that on hold, and just wrote this out before I lost the vibe.**

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“Hey, Sixx? You ever been in love?” Tommy asks

“Nope,” Nikki replies, not even bothering to look at this friend.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I have no use for that emotion.”

Tommy sighs, sitting on the couch in his house with Nikki, mindlessly watching videos. Tommy recently divorced his first wife, whom he never should have married in the first place. The entire thing was a shit show. Before the divorce was finalized, the drummer developed a new interest in someone, and that someone is sitting on the couch next to him.

Tommy has been close to Nikki, pretty much since day one. Best friends within a matter of days. The days turned into months, then months in years… a few of them. Then it happened. It wasn’t planned. 

The band was in the UK for the Donington Festival, their nightly accommodations were humble, tight quarters. Nikki and Tommy ended up in a room together with just one full sized bed. It was kind of an oversight on the part of the booking agent, but not an unusual thing for a stay in the UK. The agent promised to fix it by the next day, but well, for the first night, there was nothing that they could do to properly board this rowdy American band. And even this booking wasn’t exactly easy, the news of their bad reputation made its way across the ocean. The four band members were told to work it out among themselves. The other room had two single beds. The Terror Twin shrugged. Wasn’t a big deal or anything to argue about. They took the room with the one bed without hesitation. Most likely they weren’t going to be sleeping much anyway, if at all. I mean, there was a ton of drugs to pack up their noses and singe their fingertips on, as well as fine bottles of spirits just waiting to be soaked into their veins.

That night, feeling high and mighty, the duo laughed and talked, and tried their damnedest to get the telly to tune in. Tommy, feeling dizzy from the scrolling screen, working hard to adjust the vertical hold and those rabbit ears for reception. 

“There! There! Got it!” Tommy squeals, letting go of the antenna. It flops about 5 seconds after he lets go, and the screen starts scrolling again. “Fuck it,” Tommy finally says, snapping them off, the TV picture immediately turning to fuzzy snow. 

Once they stop laughing, the drummer tosses one of the antennas to Nikki. “Here, since that motherfucker from Iron Maiden keeps talking about fencing with you, let’s practice in case he challenges you to a duel, my good man.”

“Good thinking, chap,” Nikki says, stumbling to his feet. The pair clack their makeshift epees together, trying to take jabs at one another. Tommy goes in for a stab. Nikki is swift to step back, but is met by the bed behind him. He’s trapped. He takes a second to weigh his options, but…. too late, Tommy goes in for the kill, ‘stabbing’ Nikki in the heart. The bassist feigns his death in melodramatic fashion, falling onto the bed, body convulsing, as he gasps some final words about this cruel world. Then he falls still, eyes shut, one hand over his heart, and a smirk on his face.

“Bloody hell! I’ve killed the young wanker. Whatever shall I do?” Tommy yelps out, in his finest British accent. 

Nikki picks his head up, “I hear that Irish whiskey down the throat works miracles in these British Isles.” He goes back to being dead.

Tommy giggles to himself, with an idea. He grabs the already opened bottle, and straddles himself on top of the bass player. “Nikki, open up for mouth-to-mouth rescue.” He gulps a mouthful, hovers over Nikki, and then spits it into his open mouth. He’s laughing hysterically.