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LOL Bruce!
LOL Bruce!
While reading through some things, I came across some type of things. It's about how much the Stones sold. Accordingly, the Stones have sold many albums and more than what RIAA has indicated. Most of the 60's catalog is off and it still uses a lot of what was certified platinum in the 60's. In '71, you couldn't really find "Sticky Fingers" in the stores, also in '81 - '82. It's sold probably more than 5 million and RIAA is still using the time around when it became platinum. They've sold over 210 million.
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Okay, fic time.
Edit: I think this is somewhere around '70.
Title: Red on the Tiles
Pairing: John Lennon/Mick Jagger
Disclaimer: For their sanity sake, I don't own them. Pure fiction, as in I made it up.
"Well I just wanna break you down so badly
In the worst way" MakeDamnSure - Taking Back Sunday.
The smell of metallic copper stung the air. It penetrated everything and settled into every crevice of the foundation.
Red. The smell was in red.
It dripped. It stained every surface it touched. A pink blotched color left behind.
It was warm. Vitamin rich. And it was fresh.
Fingers were rubbing together, the warm liquid sliding easily through these fingers. It also trailed. The substance reached soft fabric and settled into the fibers.
This red liquid was sprayed. Splattered across satin white carpet. Droplets leaked through the fabric.
A silver object was clutched between cold, but warm, strong hands. It gleamed icily, covered in rich, warm crimson juice. It slowly cascaded down the paper thin spine. The razor sharp edges gripping the little droplets.
The beholder sat. He stood in this face. Brown strands were coated in rosy colors and dripped into thin pools. Brown, mahogany orbs looked at this pointed silver item; a poised knife.
A trail was burrowed out. These eyes followed. Servants of some sorts. There lay his beautiful creation. A beautifully bruised thing, like overripe fruit. Covered in a layer of it’s own satin red- like a velvet layer. That pretty prey of his. It looked so fragile, yet moments earlier it begged to differ.
Those lovely sounds. Oh, how he remembered them. How his own skilled fingers wrapped coolly around the exposed neck. How he produced those relentless noises. The voices mingled together, creating a monotonous unity. Forced sounds became an orchestra; a wheezing, over worked, overture of a symphonic orchestra.
Progressively, it manifested with hostility in sounds of a strangled motion.
“Cheers for a souvenir,” he said. A smile grassed those thin lips. How the others so vehemently contrasted in color and robustness.
Fingers scratched at the holster of the knife. The black, pitched handle in which it was mercilessly gripped at the back of the blade.
“Oh John,” this low voice whispers to itself. “This is some type of work.” And it’s ******** good work.
John is easily crouched. Red stained fingers slid into the pockets of those denim clad legs. Fingers shake loose a cigarette from the crinkled package of the soft pack and slides it loosely into his mouth.
Exhaled smoke leaks from the becoming abused joint. It exits like a runaway train. The plumes only serve to disappear.
He watches the statue. T was warm once. This abused versifier lying so lonely in it’s own deserted habitat. Or rather John’s banishment of this statue into a solitary confinement. John is slow; with eagerness of his own anticipation as he unfolds from his low, steady crouch.
He approaches it; this abused, little red beast. The texture: so smooth and pale. Ivory, but now tarnished. How could something with no life anymore be so undeniably beautiful?
His own breath mingles. Surrounded by its servants. The red liquid leaks from this statue, metallic stench over penetrating, to only condense into the air. Like steam.
Coated fingers reach towards the face of it. Digits trace and touch at this beauty. John’s saccharine touch goes unnoticed by the statue.
“This is how you wanted it right?” A cool remnant of a voice. “Eh, Mick?”
John tilts hits head, eyes very calm. He gazes at Mick Fingernails scrape delicately at this pearly skin. Warmth slides up into his naked fingers. Eyes, half lidded with icy expectations, regard a sadistic satisfaction and chuckles low and sinister as the ruby colored droplets smear across the once beating and pulsating skin.
Mick’s essence, that rich blood, is running out and displayed in large pools around that milky skin.
Those orbs. That big, eyed pretty blue ocean that lay trapped in Mick’s skull has dried up. No longer is that ocean of life rumbling and flowing with aliveness. Just a big, empty, sparse confinement.
Still, John slides his palm across that abused ivory skin. It feels too warm, like it’s still breathing. The life has already been wheezed out, strangled. The purple and yellow are like bedazzled jewels; glittering on that creamy neck. The slow, rotting flesh is adorned with these pretty blooming flowers. Ugly and bruised with these dead petals, yet such a luscious quality.
Sharp clouds contrast as John looks at his own skin. Colors vibrantly displayed as Mick’s skin takes and welcomes in deaths parlor. Quivering ash fell from his still burning cigarette.
John soon wonders briefly, the astral projection of wondering ideas and thoughts floating around in his mind like a thick haze. How was Mick fairing? Where would Mick’s place be? How was he fairing in the dead lounge?
There is a sharp tang in John’s mouth; blood that had been smudged and sprayed along that skin. Getting on firm knees, John leans ever so softly, yet tauntingly and sadistically, towards the face that held so many broken emotions. John takes the time to taste those lips: still warm, but cooling like heat in a frost.
The voice that bulged from this cold vessel: so vehement and cracked. Hiccuping broken words and heated. Those were lovely sounds to John’s ears It was at its most beautiful: swirling in agony and screaming out desperate cries.
He broke away, feeling his fingers dig into those gouges, against that thin abdomen. Three, possibly four, long hollow paths crucify that bony stomach. John slowly inserts his fingers into those holes, fingering the flesh. Warmth rises and John licks those cold lips.
A low chuckle ruffles John’s frame. John pulls away, blood caking his fingers and nails as he inspects them. Scratches decorate his hand, fingernail paths laid out on his own tan singed hand.
Mick was his sacrifice. All the planets creaked to a halt to watch this ceremony. To remove him and cleanse all that Mick has touched. He achieved it with this ritual. His ground was his alter: Mick, covered in his own life blood, lain out for the world to see.
The knife was still clutched in his fingers. He cast it aside and turned around. Pieces of Mick’s tattered clothing lay in heaps. The sight is what he bears and his mind absorbs it.
Those last heady cries. Aimed for the sky.
“Really Mick.” Cold words cut through. “Did really ever think that you would ever surpass me?”
Mick just never got it. Never have, and never will.
No music. Just the sound of a microwave.
