Categories > Celebrities > Metallica > Epicene Part 2

Chapter 1

by Cerilla 0 reviews

Wake up and smell the coffee, sunshine.

Category: Metallica - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Humor - Warnings: [V] [X] - Published: 2018-06-06 - Updated: 2018-07-02 - 1624 words

Author's notes: Hey guys! It took me two years, but I'm back with Epicene's sequel. Of course, you have to read the first part before starting this one, if you haven't done it yet. I only have the first four chapters written for now, but I intend to finish this story, and I already have an idea where to go.
The usual warnings: foul language, some sex and some violence in later chapters as well as drinking and drug abuse. The R rating is for future chapters. English is not my first language and I have no beta reader, but I do my best.
Epicene par 1 & 2 will be crossposted on wattpad too.


Dave Mustaine clenched his jaw hard, fighting the impulse to vomit as much as he could. Everything hurt; his muscles, his head, his stomach, his throat when he tried to swallow.

Downside #485 of having a female body: being a fucking lightweight. He didn’t dare to open his eyes. Little steps. He thought, tentatively moving the fingers of his right hand.

The bass pounding from the apartment downstairs wasn’t helping the situation, carrying on undaunted with playing the same loop over and over again, every note hammering Mustaine’s brain like an anvil. Dave pushed himself up on trembling arms, retched, and fell down on the bed, aching more than before. Fuck! I can’t move, I can’t go back to sleep; I’m trapped in hell.

Eventually, the noxious bass player put his instrument to sleep, and Dave could fall back into a merciful comatose state.


Sitting on the bed, sipping his second cup of bitter coffee, Dave passed an hand through his hair and winced; it was so tangled it would take an hour and a whole bottle of conditioner to brush it out.

The bright afternoon sunlight passed through the small holes of the roller shutters, hitting the empty bottles of booze on the floor. Dave moved them around with his foot, wondering when it had been the last time he had had such a bad hangover. Maybe years ago, when he was a young teen who had just started binge drinking. His eyes shifted to his guitar and amps and he stared at them without really thinking for a few moments; then, he placed his coffee on the bedside table and got up.

Dave picked up his B.C. Rich guitar, feeling its weight, turning it around, eyeing it as if he was evaluating it for the first time. Uh, weird. he thought, as no powerful feelings caught up with him. No negative feelings either, in fact. Dave frowned; what was with that lack of a strong reaction? It was like handling his guitar was something… Mundane. Common. Natural.

Now, that shocked him. Apparently, all the emotional turmoil of the previous days (week, months) had been washed away by booze; floods and floods of it. Dave chuckled. Oh, alcohol, my good old friend, you’re always with me in my time of need. Of course, he should have known that getting wasted was the panacea for all evils. And sometimes the cause of them too, but not that time.

Putting down his axe, the redhead moved to examine his record collection, still packed in two cardboard boxes; all the vinyl and cassettes –legally bought or illegally copied– he had accumulated during the years. He passed his hands on every single one of them, until he reached a copy of Metallica’s demo tape. Dave gripped the cassette between the point of three fingers and his hand began to shake. The urge to throw the offending object to the wall was overwhelming, but the young man (woman) repressed it and slammed the tape back into the box instead.

Dave hastily grabbed a random tape an put it into the stereo. “It’s about time these four walls listened to some real music.” he murmured, remembering not too fondly Faith’s passion for glam metal. “Goodbye Mötley Crüe, welcome… Anvil!” Dave exclaimed, looking at the cassette cover. “You’ll do it, my friend.” Keeping the volume at a reasonable level, for the sake of his own head, the redhead immerged himself into his beloved music.


Dave closed the pantry door with a sigh; empty, just like the fridge. His stomach wasn’t upside down anymore, but he had nothing to fill it with. “I’m going to wake up hungry tomorrow.” He searched every drawer, every pocket and even the couch to see if there was any money left, since his wallet was depressingly empty, and 3.87 dollars was all he could put together. He was in dire need of a new job, if he didn’t want to starve to death or go back living with Antonia and Rachel; he was deeply fond of the two women, but he was in no hurry to return sleeping on their sofa. It didn’t help that Faith was taking her sweet time licking her wounds after the disastrous end of her last relationship. He missed her income more than he missed the girl herself.

Dave filled a glass of water from the sink and sipped it, pondering what he could do. The first idea that came in mind was to look for a job at a music club; The Troubadour, The Roxy Theatre, Whisky a Go Go… no, Whisky had been shut down… Anyway, he wanted to go back where he belonged, which was where music was. All right, Los Angeles was infested by those horrible glamsters, but it wasn’t like every place in the city had succumbed to them.

The redhead’s planning was cut short by a renewed pounding sound coming from below. Little shit is at it again. Dave fumed, gritting his teeth. His head was finally fine, but he was in no mood for listening to some wiener practicing obsessively for music school. He went to the stereo, turned the volume up to 10 and placed the speakers on the floor. Fight fire with fire. He smirked, as Ram Jam’s ‘Hurricane Ride’ blasted out.

Not a second after the song was over, someone knocked on Dave’s door. That must be the little shit. He opened the door, ready for a fight, but the kid who appeared on his threshold was one of the most white-bread guys he had ever seen. One of those who constantly get asked by old ladies if they can reach the top shelf and get them the right box of oatmeals. Except that the boy was of average height, 5’9’’ probably, which still made him slightly taller than Dave’s female form, much to the redhead’s annoyance.

“Hi, I’m Dave Ellefson, nice to meet you.” The guy said with a smile, tilting his head.
Oh, fuck you and your mother too. Mustaine was tempted to reply, but just settled for frowning instead.
“Uhm, you are the one who’s playing music out loud, right?” the kid –Dave– asked.
“Mhm. And you’re the restless bass player.”
“Two times a day is too much, right?” he chuckled awkwardly. “Message received.”
“Good. I can turn down the volume now.” the redhead said, but before he could close the door, the boy stopped him.
“No, I like this music.” Dave exclaimed.
“And you are fine with listening to it through the ceiling?”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could listen to it here with you.” the kid blushed.
Oh, oh, oh, hell to the fucking no. “I really don’t think so, kiddo. And don’t get strange ideas, I’m lesbian.” He said, finally shutting the door on the bass player’s face.

Dave Ellefson blinked repeatedly, standing still in front of the ginger girl’s threshold, baffled by what had just happened. He had been practicing his bass playing, like every good student of the Bass Institute of Technology-slash-aspiring rock musician would, when a loud music blasting from the ceiling interrupted him. He couldn’t recognize the song, but it sounded really cool and made him want to meet his upstairs neighbour.

He had moved to Los Angeles less than a week ago, but it had been clear from the very beginning that L.A. was the kind of city where one needed a friend if he didn’t want to succumb, and Dave was at quota zero for the moment being. Initially, he was supposed to move with a handful of friends right after graduation, but for a stupid reason or the other, all his friends had stepped back and his departure had been delayed until basically the very last moment.

Dave shook his head and sighed, slowly moving downstairs, cursing his bad luck. So much for making friends with the cool neighbour. She wasn’t cool at all, just a cranky, rude girl with terrible hair and dark circles under her eyes, who thought appropriate to inform him she was lesbian. The young bass player squirmed; he had never met a gay person in his life, he even doubted that in Jackson, where he was from, there were any. Certainly, they didn’t go around publicizing it. But he had heard that there was a big queer community in L.A., so he supposed he needed to get used to it.

How full of herself she was, though, assuming he wanted to pick her up! Sure, she was pretty, despite her worn-out face and homely clothes, but still… Dave sat on his bed and sighed again. No, L.A. and its people surely weren’t easy.

Additional notes: As I said before, if you have problems picturing Dave Mustaine as a woman, you can use Roswell-era Katherine Heigl as reference. ("Pic."
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