Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Dance of Pales
The letters stopped. For a while.
They began a few weeks after Axl’s 15th birthday. He’d received an anonymous gift in the mail on that date, a black spiked collar that could be locked in the back. He’d deemed it “weird” and given it to Duff, who wore it to a photo shoot. A letter came a week after the pictures were published in a magazine, expressing displeasure in his lending the gift to another.
Letters kept coming, and eventually he wrote again, reiterating that the man had to stop. That he didn’t love him and in fact, the man was scaring him. Another letter arrived emphasizing that the man would never hurt him. He loved him deeply, and understood if Axl was confused about what he felt. He was young, after all, and asked again, as he had before, if Axl was a virgin in that way… or in any way. Another letter went back, again emphasizing that he had to stop, and it was none of his business who Axl had or hadn’t been with.
Two weeks went by. Three. No more letters and Axl breathed a sigh of relief. He had other things to focus on, anyway. Their second album was almost complete, and several dates had been arranged for promotion of the new single for it. Axl looked forward to being back on stage. The studio with all its wicked equipment and everything was fun, especially when they were turned loose on it to play and experiment, but being on stage was a super high. Their first tour had been a whirlwind of chaos, involving three countries, a lot of broken curfews, and even more broken hotel furniture. And at least one accusation of arson, but that was Stevie’s fault for trying to kill a spider with hairspray and a lighter. This tour would start off tentatively with club dates, which were always tricky considering they were minors and a lot of those places served alcohol, and hopefully expand to more countries than they could count.
The woods nearby often called to the Midwestern pair, who weren’t as city mouse as they pretended to be. They could go from being street rats to Tom and Huck in a blink, and today they wanted and needed out. Of course, first they had to suffer through a dull tutor and the lesson of the day. Homeschooling sucked almost as much as regular school did. Warren knew that sending that group back into the public school system would be seen as little more as an act of terrorism, the same or more so with private school. But agreements with the parents of three, and the signing over of legal guardianship to him of another, left their welfare on his shoulders. Like it or not, they were going to get an education and graduate high school at the least. That meant tutors, much to the dismay of the entire band.
The box was sitting at the front gate, tied with string and with Axl’s name written on it in a near-perfect forgery of his own handwriting. Curiosity overrode caution, and the two boys knelt to see what it contained. Izzy’s balisong, a little item the boy kept hidden from Warren to avoid confiscation, slit through the twine as if it were nothing, and he used the tip of the blade to flick the box open. A black plastic bag was inside, crumpled and rolled and filled with something. There was a smell, too. An odd, unpleasant smell. Coppery. Axl held the top of the bag while Izzy slit through it, pulling it open.
Axl remembered Izzy’s choked scream, but mostly he remembered the blood, and then throwing up. The bag had been full of kittens, heads removed. The mother lay at the bottom of the bag, split open.
They began a few weeks after Axl’s 15th birthday. He’d received an anonymous gift in the mail on that date, a black spiked collar that could be locked in the back. He’d deemed it “weird” and given it to Duff, who wore it to a photo shoot. A letter came a week after the pictures were published in a magazine, expressing displeasure in his lending the gift to another.
Letters kept coming, and eventually he wrote again, reiterating that the man had to stop. That he didn’t love him and in fact, the man was scaring him. Another letter arrived emphasizing that the man would never hurt him. He loved him deeply, and understood if Axl was confused about what he felt. He was young, after all, and asked again, as he had before, if Axl was a virgin in that way… or in any way. Another letter went back, again emphasizing that he had to stop, and it was none of his business who Axl had or hadn’t been with.
Two weeks went by. Three. No more letters and Axl breathed a sigh of relief. He had other things to focus on, anyway. Their second album was almost complete, and several dates had been arranged for promotion of the new single for it. Axl looked forward to being back on stage. The studio with all its wicked equipment and everything was fun, especially when they were turned loose on it to play and experiment, but being on stage was a super high. Their first tour had been a whirlwind of chaos, involving three countries, a lot of broken curfews, and even more broken hotel furniture. And at least one accusation of arson, but that was Stevie’s fault for trying to kill a spider with hairspray and a lighter. This tour would start off tentatively with club dates, which were always tricky considering they were minors and a lot of those places served alcohol, and hopefully expand to more countries than they could count.
The woods nearby often called to the Midwestern pair, who weren’t as city mouse as they pretended to be. They could go from being street rats to Tom and Huck in a blink, and today they wanted and needed out. Of course, first they had to suffer through a dull tutor and the lesson of the day. Homeschooling sucked almost as much as regular school did. Warren knew that sending that group back into the public school system would be seen as little more as an act of terrorism, the same or more so with private school. But agreements with the parents of three, and the signing over of legal guardianship to him of another, left their welfare on his shoulders. Like it or not, they were going to get an education and graduate high school at the least. That meant tutors, much to the dismay of the entire band.
The box was sitting at the front gate, tied with string and with Axl’s name written on it in a near-perfect forgery of his own handwriting. Curiosity overrode caution, and the two boys knelt to see what it contained. Izzy’s balisong, a little item the boy kept hidden from Warren to avoid confiscation, slit through the twine as if it were nothing, and he used the tip of the blade to flick the box open. A black plastic bag was inside, crumpled and rolled and filled with something. There was a smell, too. An odd, unpleasant smell. Coppery. Axl held the top of the bag while Izzy slit through it, pulling it open.
Axl remembered Izzy’s choked scream, but mostly he remembered the blood, and then throwing up. The bag had been full of kittens, heads removed. The mother lay at the bottom of the bag, split open.
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