Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Through The Eyes Of...
Nikki
My internal junkie alarm clock goes off far sooner than I want it to. I know this is because of that bullshit little chippers fix Izzy gave me. It wasn't the dosage I was accustomed to. Nowhere fucking close. I don't fucking chip! I should be grateful for the sickly little fix, but I haven't forgotten about the fucking gun to my head. And that sorry fucker took my favorite fucking knife.
I cradle my guts and manage to sit up on the side of the bed. I fish around for a cigarette and light it. I take the first drag and my guts heave up all over the floor. Nothing new. I just pull the cigarette back to my lips when I'm done. Housekeeping really hates me most days. As if I give a fuck. I spot about a third of a bottle of Jack next to the TV. I wince in agony as I bring myself to my feet to retrieve it.
My bones and joints make me wish Stradlin gave me the bullet instead of the fix. That bastard fuck. I grab the bottle and twist the cap off one handed with my thumb. Tricks of the trade kiddies. I bring it to my lips and the smell kicks in my gag reflex again. Not much left for me to give the cleaning ladies though, just a little spit and bile. Your welcome nameless cleaning lady. I pull the bottle to my lips again, careful not to breathe this time. I aim the bottom of the bottle at the ceiling and open my throat wide. I guzzle down all of its contents. Disappointed that its all gone I smash the bottle into the wall.
My frantic eyes then to the room praying to magically see some stash I had somehow missed. But there was nothing. The only shit around was with that motherfucker Stradlin. I'd rather fucking die than go to his room begging for more. That would just make his ducking day. I'd probably have to suck him and Axl both off for a couple crumbs that wouldn't get a first timer off. In my rage I send everything on the nightstand flying. I gag again. This time I lose every precious drop of Jack I just consumed. Mother fuck me!!
Now I'm really mad. I grab my bass that I just puked all over and launch it straight through the balcony door. It meets its horrible death some nine floors down to the pavement below. Fucking Izzy. Everything would be just fine if Mandy were here. I know it was Izzy's idea for Duff to send her away. Duff is too nice for that shit. That's why I pushed her on him in the first place instead of Slash. And I know destroying the tape was all Izzy too. Always protecting his band. I wonder if they ever protect him in return?
I drive my fist through the wall as tears seep from my eyes. I was so fucking tired of waking up every single day stuck in some horrible never ending rerun. Every day hurts more than the day before. My body turns on me in retaliation by keeping me stuck in some rats wheel. I drag my nails down my arms and sink into the wall crying like a bitch. Why was I even still alive? I should be dead by now. I run a hand through my hair and bring back my hand full of clumps of my hair stuck between my fingers. Great, at this rate I'm gonna have to wear hats onstage.
I open my eyes and am met with my own ghostly reflection laughing at me. A shooting pain in my stomach doubles me over. I slowly allow my body to slide down the wall and onto the floor. I stare back at my panting sweating reflection. I grab my boot and hurl it at the fucking sickly image of myself. It shatters on impact and I'm no longer forced to see how pathetic I look.
They would pay for this. Izzy would pay for this. He would pay the hardest, the longest, and the most. I would never allow him to again cross my path without paying for it. Izzy was fucking fucked. And he knew it was coming, there was no way he wouldn't be expecting me not to come after him. His guard would be totally tweaked out on maximum settings. I'll never be able to hit him head on. There was just one way to get him, by the element of illusion. A technique centuries old that dealt with misdirection. The hand is quicker than the eye and all that.
Yeah, the only way to get the fucker is when he can't see it coming. Get his attention to the left and get him on the right. Concern his mind with something that threatens him but isn't really a threat at all. Misdirect the savior of that damn band into becoming the victim. Sounds like a delightful little challenge to me. I can't help but hear the roar of fans outside. I pull myself up along the wall and make it to the window with sweat dripping from the ends of my hair, what's left of it.
Stepping out of a limo I see Duff and Slash. Reporters pish their way past the fans with mics and cameras in their faces. I imagine the questions are all about their sex lives. I huff in slight satisfaction. And then a lightbulb literally comes on and beats like a bass drum in my head. A smirk can't help but prowl my lips.
What did that band hold the most sacred? Slash. He the only one they all collectively look over. Duff, Axl, Izzy, fuck even Steven, they all protected the kid...not that they had done very fucking well with that. Yet, for just him, they all tried. Hummm, I think I might just have found my misdirection.
That's one problem remedied. Again I buckle in agony. Blood starts to drip from my nose. I wipe it on the hotel drapes and turn for the telephone. I dial a series of numbers on the hotels prehistoric rotary phone. Dial tick tick tick dial tick tick tick tick dial...you get my point. Finally it goddamn rings.
After at least 15 rings its picket up with a loud, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!"
"Tommy," I almost whisper.
"Nikki?! Nikki where the fuck are you bro?"
"Listen...I...I need you to score for me and meet me in Souix Falls."
"Is that where you've been all this time? Dude...why the fuck would you go there?"
"I've been tagging along with the Gunners. Had to follow some shit through. But that's not important. I need your help with something T-Bone. But first just please find me some shit and hurry."
"Sure thing Nikki, I'm on it."
My internal junkie alarm clock goes off far sooner than I want it to. I know this is because of that bullshit little chippers fix Izzy gave me. It wasn't the dosage I was accustomed to. Nowhere fucking close. I don't fucking chip! I should be grateful for the sickly little fix, but I haven't forgotten about the fucking gun to my head. And that sorry fucker took my favorite fucking knife.
I cradle my guts and manage to sit up on the side of the bed. I fish around for a cigarette and light it. I take the first drag and my guts heave up all over the floor. Nothing new. I just pull the cigarette back to my lips when I'm done. Housekeeping really hates me most days. As if I give a fuck. I spot about a third of a bottle of Jack next to the TV. I wince in agony as I bring myself to my feet to retrieve it.
My bones and joints make me wish Stradlin gave me the bullet instead of the fix. That bastard fuck. I grab the bottle and twist the cap off one handed with my thumb. Tricks of the trade kiddies. I bring it to my lips and the smell kicks in my gag reflex again. Not much left for me to give the cleaning ladies though, just a little spit and bile. Your welcome nameless cleaning lady. I pull the bottle to my lips again, careful not to breathe this time. I aim the bottom of the bottle at the ceiling and open my throat wide. I guzzle down all of its contents. Disappointed that its all gone I smash the bottle into the wall.
My frantic eyes then to the room praying to magically see some stash I had somehow missed. But there was nothing. The only shit around was with that motherfucker Stradlin. I'd rather fucking die than go to his room begging for more. That would just make his ducking day. I'd probably have to suck him and Axl both off for a couple crumbs that wouldn't get a first timer off. In my rage I send everything on the nightstand flying. I gag again. This time I lose every precious drop of Jack I just consumed. Mother fuck me!!
Now I'm really mad. I grab my bass that I just puked all over and launch it straight through the balcony door. It meets its horrible death some nine floors down to the pavement below. Fucking Izzy. Everything would be just fine if Mandy were here. I know it was Izzy's idea for Duff to send her away. Duff is too nice for that shit. That's why I pushed her on him in the first place instead of Slash. And I know destroying the tape was all Izzy too. Always protecting his band. I wonder if they ever protect him in return?
I drive my fist through the wall as tears seep from my eyes. I was so fucking tired of waking up every single day stuck in some horrible never ending rerun. Every day hurts more than the day before. My body turns on me in retaliation by keeping me stuck in some rats wheel. I drag my nails down my arms and sink into the wall crying like a bitch. Why was I even still alive? I should be dead by now. I run a hand through my hair and bring back my hand full of clumps of my hair stuck between my fingers. Great, at this rate I'm gonna have to wear hats onstage.
I open my eyes and am met with my own ghostly reflection laughing at me. A shooting pain in my stomach doubles me over. I slowly allow my body to slide down the wall and onto the floor. I stare back at my panting sweating reflection. I grab my boot and hurl it at the fucking sickly image of myself. It shatters on impact and I'm no longer forced to see how pathetic I look.
They would pay for this. Izzy would pay for this. He would pay the hardest, the longest, and the most. I would never allow him to again cross my path without paying for it. Izzy was fucking fucked. And he knew it was coming, there was no way he wouldn't be expecting me not to come after him. His guard would be totally tweaked out on maximum settings. I'll never be able to hit him head on. There was just one way to get him, by the element of illusion. A technique centuries old that dealt with misdirection. The hand is quicker than the eye and all that.
Yeah, the only way to get the fucker is when he can't see it coming. Get his attention to the left and get him on the right. Concern his mind with something that threatens him but isn't really a threat at all. Misdirect the savior of that damn band into becoming the victim. Sounds like a delightful little challenge to me. I can't help but hear the roar of fans outside. I pull myself up along the wall and make it to the window with sweat dripping from the ends of my hair, what's left of it.
Stepping out of a limo I see Duff and Slash. Reporters pish their way past the fans with mics and cameras in their faces. I imagine the questions are all about their sex lives. I huff in slight satisfaction. And then a lightbulb literally comes on and beats like a bass drum in my head. A smirk can't help but prowl my lips.
What did that band hold the most sacred? Slash. He the only one they all collectively look over. Duff, Axl, Izzy, fuck even Steven, they all protected the kid...not that they had done very fucking well with that. Yet, for just him, they all tried. Hummm, I think I might just have found my misdirection.
That's one problem remedied. Again I buckle in agony. Blood starts to drip from my nose. I wipe it on the hotel drapes and turn for the telephone. I dial a series of numbers on the hotels prehistoric rotary phone. Dial tick tick tick dial tick tick tick tick dial...you get my point. Finally it goddamn rings.
After at least 15 rings its picket up with a loud, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!"
"Tommy," I almost whisper.
"Nikki?! Nikki where the fuck are you bro?"
"Listen...I...I need you to score for me and meet me in Souix Falls."
"Is that where you've been all this time? Dude...why the fuck would you go there?"
"I've been tagging along with the Gunners. Had to follow some shit through. But that's not important. I need your help with something T-Bone. But first just please find me some shit and hurry."
"Sure thing Nikki, I'm on it."
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