Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Through The Eyes Of...
Nikki
I'm about to stick a needle under my skin when an infernal pounding starts at my fucking door. I try to ignore it and carry on but a voice starts cursing my name.
"NIKKI YOU MOTHERFUCKER! OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR YOU FUCK! I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING IN THERE!! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!!"
Ah...our GNR fearless leader has put the pieces together. Now he's here to strut around like a little rooster with me and make threats he can't fucking back. I smirk and open the drawer on the night stand and lay my rig in it and shut it. I stroll to the door, turn the lock and open the door. I look down at Axl. His pale skin is redder than his fucking hair. I fold my arms and stare at him. I'm a little pissed at being called a piece of shit, even if it is true.
"Can I help you Axl?"
The little shit shoves me backwards and just flies at me trying to catch me off guard as I stumble. No. Not happening. I'm a veteran at fighting. I had exchanged blows with some of LAPD's "finest". I had fought everyone from fucking priests to bikers. There was no way that some fuck who was four inches shorter than me was going to get over on me.
As he's coming at me I regain my wits. I thrust my right hand up and grab his throat. It's scientifically proven that a person's arm span does not exceed their height. This means my arms are longer than Axl's, by roughly about two inches. If he takes a swing at me It will only graze me as long as I keep him an arms distance away from me.
As anticipated the fucker swings and I'm able to dodge it completely. I smirk and back him into the wall. He starts trying to move my hand from his throat. Yeah...that's not going to fucking happen either.
"You haven't done this much, have you kiddo?" I slightly chuckle.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. He spits in my face. Ok, he got me there, I wasn't expecting that shit. I'm enraged by this. I just instinctively punch him one hard time in the stomach. He bends over gasping for air and I grab him by the fucking throat again. I pull the switchblade from by boot and open it. I tower over Axl who is pawing at my hand again. I lay the blade across his cheek.
"This is one thing you will never beat me at," I hiss at him.
Fighting was in my soul. I always knew that no matter what, I could always fight. I could fight my way into and out of situations. I could fight someone who looked at me the wrong way. I was a fighter. Even a few record company dudes had met the losing end of throwing punches with me. I avoided a lot of their sexual advances this way. When I fought I fought as though my life depended on it.
"You fucking set us up!" Axl gasps. He's even more red now. "You fucking sent Erin my way didn't you?"
"You know," I smile, "I thought Izzy would catch on before you did. And it only took you 11 months." I can't help but laugh at him.
"You fucked her, didn't you?" He asks me.
"So what?" I ask him. "How does that shit matter? What matters is how many times I had to eat the bitch out before she would say yes to my proposal."
"What fucking proposal?"
"The one where she dates you in exchange for some popularity. I thought you had this shit figured out."
I see tears brimming his eyes. "Why?"
I take a breath and lower my knife. I can tell he's not going to fight me now so I let go of his throat and step back. "Do you know how many shows I have done over the last five years?"
He just shrugs at me.
"823," I answer. "You know how many countries I have been to? 26. You know how many months in the last 5 years I've got totaled up in free time from touring? 8 months. You know how long we have been in the top ten? 4 years. Every show in the last three years has been sold out. Management fucking keeps us touring because of how much money we bring in for them. They creep into our lives and control us with the bullshit fear of losing everything if we don't do as they say. And most bands buy that bullshit lie. No band can last forever. No band stays on the top. Fans loyalties change as their tastes change. My time in the spotlight can't fucking last and I know that. I accept that. But on my fucking terms. When I'm forgotten I want to be forgotten for a band that is truly better than me and not some flavor of the month. Do you understand?"
He just shrugs.
I sigh and sit on the bed. "I'm tired Axl. I'm tired of always moving a million miles a minute for months at a time with just tiny short breaks in between. I'm tired of being alone because the way I live just never works with any chick I meet. I want kids who can actually know their father. I'm 28 years old Axl, and I've already lived three lifetimes...Look at me, I'm already a burnt out rock star. I just need a break from all this shit. I need to be able to spend some of the money I make on something besides dope and fucking hookers."
"Where does my band fit into that?" He questions.
"I want you to be number one."
"Why us?"
"Because your band is the only one not trying to be my band. The only one not putting on lipstick and eye shadow like we did three fucking years ago. And you motherfuckers really have something to say. One day people will say you're one of the best vocalists of all fucking time. Slash will go down as some guitar fucking god. I'm trying to help your dumb asses get there. I got you a break. I got David Geffen to consider you. I did. I sent Erin your way to try to kill some of the gossip. I know what it takes to make it in this business and I'm trying to help you do that. And all the fuck I get in return from all this is a long overdue break. I'm trying to teach you how to do what you were meant for."
"Teach me?" He asks sounding a bit defensive.
"Yeah," I nod, "because you are truly clueless. You don't know the first thing about image and thats the most important fucking thing of all. That's what they take pictures of. That's what they write about. That's what draws the fans. You have to get an image and set it in concrete. You need signature items, like my lines under my eyes and my Sixx hat. Something that the whole world will recognize and imitate. The only one of you fuckers who even has an image is Izzy. That fucking hat he always hides under, the loose collared shirts that just drape on him...it consistent. But he will be known for that shit. The rest of you need that. I'm not saying, look like him, I'm saying...adopt a unique style and stick to it. And you have to learn how to control your band. Right now the only control you have is the fact that you've gotten them this far. I can show you how its fucking done. I can put you on top of the world. All you have to do is come on this tour with me and watch and learn. We got a deal?"
"I have conditions," he says.
I smirk, "Of course you do...lay em on me."
"You do not in any way get Izzy into fucking trouble, and you do not contribute to my bands drug problems."
"Deal," I nod and extend out my hand.
I'm about to stick a needle under my skin when an infernal pounding starts at my fucking door. I try to ignore it and carry on but a voice starts cursing my name.
"NIKKI YOU MOTHERFUCKER! OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR YOU FUCK! I KNOW YOU'RE FUCKING IN THERE!! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!!"
Ah...our GNR fearless leader has put the pieces together. Now he's here to strut around like a little rooster with me and make threats he can't fucking back. I smirk and open the drawer on the night stand and lay my rig in it and shut it. I stroll to the door, turn the lock and open the door. I look down at Axl. His pale skin is redder than his fucking hair. I fold my arms and stare at him. I'm a little pissed at being called a piece of shit, even if it is true.
"Can I help you Axl?"
The little shit shoves me backwards and just flies at me trying to catch me off guard as I stumble. No. Not happening. I'm a veteran at fighting. I had exchanged blows with some of LAPD's "finest". I had fought everyone from fucking priests to bikers. There was no way that some fuck who was four inches shorter than me was going to get over on me.
As he's coming at me I regain my wits. I thrust my right hand up and grab his throat. It's scientifically proven that a person's arm span does not exceed their height. This means my arms are longer than Axl's, by roughly about two inches. If he takes a swing at me It will only graze me as long as I keep him an arms distance away from me.
As anticipated the fucker swings and I'm able to dodge it completely. I smirk and back him into the wall. He starts trying to move my hand from his throat. Yeah...that's not going to fucking happen either.
"You haven't done this much, have you kiddo?" I slightly chuckle.
His eyes narrow as he looks at me. He spits in my face. Ok, he got me there, I wasn't expecting that shit. I'm enraged by this. I just instinctively punch him one hard time in the stomach. He bends over gasping for air and I grab him by the fucking throat again. I pull the switchblade from by boot and open it. I tower over Axl who is pawing at my hand again. I lay the blade across his cheek.
"This is one thing you will never beat me at," I hiss at him.
Fighting was in my soul. I always knew that no matter what, I could always fight. I could fight my way into and out of situations. I could fight someone who looked at me the wrong way. I was a fighter. Even a few record company dudes had met the losing end of throwing punches with me. I avoided a lot of their sexual advances this way. When I fought I fought as though my life depended on it.
"You fucking set us up!" Axl gasps. He's even more red now. "You fucking sent Erin my way didn't you?"
"You know," I smile, "I thought Izzy would catch on before you did. And it only took you 11 months." I can't help but laugh at him.
"You fucked her, didn't you?" He asks me.
"So what?" I ask him. "How does that shit matter? What matters is how many times I had to eat the bitch out before she would say yes to my proposal."
"What fucking proposal?"
"The one where she dates you in exchange for some popularity. I thought you had this shit figured out."
I see tears brimming his eyes. "Why?"
I take a breath and lower my knife. I can tell he's not going to fight me now so I let go of his throat and step back. "Do you know how many shows I have done over the last five years?"
He just shrugs at me.
"823," I answer. "You know how many countries I have been to? 26. You know how many months in the last 5 years I've got totaled up in free time from touring? 8 months. You know how long we have been in the top ten? 4 years. Every show in the last three years has been sold out. Management fucking keeps us touring because of how much money we bring in for them. They creep into our lives and control us with the bullshit fear of losing everything if we don't do as they say. And most bands buy that bullshit lie. No band can last forever. No band stays on the top. Fans loyalties change as their tastes change. My time in the spotlight can't fucking last and I know that. I accept that. But on my fucking terms. When I'm forgotten I want to be forgotten for a band that is truly better than me and not some flavor of the month. Do you understand?"
He just shrugs.
I sigh and sit on the bed. "I'm tired Axl. I'm tired of always moving a million miles a minute for months at a time with just tiny short breaks in between. I'm tired of being alone because the way I live just never works with any chick I meet. I want kids who can actually know their father. I'm 28 years old Axl, and I've already lived three lifetimes...Look at me, I'm already a burnt out rock star. I just need a break from all this shit. I need to be able to spend some of the money I make on something besides dope and fucking hookers."
"Where does my band fit into that?" He questions.
"I want you to be number one."
"Why us?"
"Because your band is the only one not trying to be my band. The only one not putting on lipstick and eye shadow like we did three fucking years ago. And you motherfuckers really have something to say. One day people will say you're one of the best vocalists of all fucking time. Slash will go down as some guitar fucking god. I'm trying to help your dumb asses get there. I got you a break. I got David Geffen to consider you. I did. I sent Erin your way to try to kill some of the gossip. I know what it takes to make it in this business and I'm trying to help you do that. And all the fuck I get in return from all this is a long overdue break. I'm trying to teach you how to do what you were meant for."
"Teach me?" He asks sounding a bit defensive.
"Yeah," I nod, "because you are truly clueless. You don't know the first thing about image and thats the most important fucking thing of all. That's what they take pictures of. That's what they write about. That's what draws the fans. You have to get an image and set it in concrete. You need signature items, like my lines under my eyes and my Sixx hat. Something that the whole world will recognize and imitate. The only one of you fuckers who even has an image is Izzy. That fucking hat he always hides under, the loose collared shirts that just drape on him...it consistent. But he will be known for that shit. The rest of you need that. I'm not saying, look like him, I'm saying...adopt a unique style and stick to it. And you have to learn how to control your band. Right now the only control you have is the fact that you've gotten them this far. I can show you how its fucking done. I can put you on top of the world. All you have to do is come on this tour with me and watch and learn. We got a deal?"
"I have conditions," he says.
I smirk, "Of course you do...lay em on me."
"You do not in any way get Izzy into fucking trouble, and you do not contribute to my bands drug problems."
"Deal," I nod and extend out my hand.
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