Thursday, August 28, 2008
DMH Fiction: Somewhere
"Where are we?" Scott asked, looking over Fozzy's shoulder. He pushed up his glasses even though they didn't need it.
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Labels: creative writing, Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring
Monday, June 09, 2008
Deadly Metal Hatchet Fiction: Fozzy's Skateboard
So you came here, expecting to read about this fictional ShapeShifter band. Nope. Not today. I've been playing with this idea for the other band that's starting to test the waters here, and finally had the time/energy to get it down. If you're new to Deadly Metal Hatchet, they are a baby band -- as compared to ShapeShifter's world domination -- who are more about the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their gimmick, then they are about music. In a word, they suck. But they aren't letting that stop them.
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, touring, Writer's Island
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Thursday Thirteen #67 -- Bits about Deadly Metal Hatchet
I've been on this Deadly Metal Hatchet kick lately, wanting to make the time to explore them more, learn their back story, bring more of them to you.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
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1. Deadly Metal Hatchet is four guys who have created a gimmick for themselves that works. Think Iron Maiden's Eddy, only more gruesome. 2. That gimmick is the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their mascot. 3. Here's links to other DMH posts. The first. An earlier Thirteen. Chelle and the Hatchet. The perils of being a baby band. And meeting a groupie. 4. Fozzy, the lead guitarist, is the only known survivor of a Hatchet attack. That's why the Hatchet lives with him now. 5. Fozzy founded the band as a better way to cope with a bad motorcycle accident. The alternative was to crawl into a bottle. Which he tried. 6. Lido's the singer. 7. He figured that being in a band would take him out of town and away from the woman he loved -- and who loved him back. 8. Scott's bass drum was a Hatchet victim. Thankfully, Scott wasn't playing it at the time. 9. Unfortunately, though, the Hatchet did its work before a show. Scott's tech was one busy man, but it wasn't enough and the band had to take the stage without the drums. They returned in the second song. Thankfully. 10. By that time, the audience was booing. It was an ugly show. 11. It took them awhile to get booked again after that. And when they did, they had to play the frat of one of Lido's friends. 12. Fozzy and the Hatchet had a long talk about desecrating the band's equipment. 13. Notice how there's nothing about Gecko yet? Like I said, I'm still working on these guys. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, meme, Thursday Thirteen
Sunday, January 06, 2008
DMH Fiction: Chapeau
You probably want to go take a peek at this week's Weekend Wordsmith prompt in order to fully understand the ending of this. I stared at that thing for a good hour or so before this bubbled forth, sort of like a mud pot in Yellowstone (yes, pictures to follow). And for those of you who are confused, DMH means... Deadly Metal Hatchet. You got it.
Scott stared at the girls. "You for fricken real?"
"Well, yeah," the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn't the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.
Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she'd said. She had a pool.
It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.
Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. "Who's this?"
"My friends call me Chapeau," she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.
"Chapeau?" Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. "That means hat or something, dunnit?"
"Think about it," she said and winked at Scott. "We leave in ten."
Scott didn't have much to explain to Gecko. "She has a pool."
It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.
They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?
The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.
Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy's feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.
They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they'd brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she'd got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.
Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.
After Scott's turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.
It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn't needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.
Scott stared at the girls. "You for fricken real?"
"Well, yeah," the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn't the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.
Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she'd said. She had a pool.
It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.
Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. "Who's this?"
"My friends call me Chapeau," she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.
"Chapeau?" Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. "That means hat or something, dunnit?"
"Think about it," she said and winked at Scott. "We leave in ten."
Scott didn't have much to explain to Gecko. "She has a pool."
It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.
They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?
The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.
Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy's feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.
They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they'd brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she'd got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.
Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.
After Scott's turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.
It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn't needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Anonymous (Deadly Metal Hatchet)
I'll post links to past Deadly Metal Hatchet pieces, as this may be a bit of a jolt for those of you used to Trevor and his antics. The Hatchet is a young, up-and-coming band made up of four guys: Fozzy, Lido, Gecko, and Scott. They have a gimmick: the Deadly Metal Hatchet they are named after.
At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here's one for you, and I'm not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.
Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn't like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who'd decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.
The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.
"So what're we gonna play tonight?" Gecko asked.
Fozzy shook his head. "Too early to do setlist."
"Why are we wasting time with this talk again?" Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. "We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don't we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?"
Fozzy screwed his face up. "It's not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place."
"…and time to play ten of 'em. Why don't we ever play those last two?" Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.
As he reached for the can of Coke he'd brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. "Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?"
Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.
"Yeah," the other guy said. "We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we'll be able to tell everyone we knew 'em when."
Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. "Got any clue who you're looking for?"
The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. "Deadly Metal Hatchet."
"Yeah, we know," Scott said. "But do you know what they look like?"
Red Flannel shifted his weight again. "Don't they wear shirts with the Hatchet on 'em?"
Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.
"So," the guy in the brown flannel said, "know where we can find 'em?"
"How can you be fans if you don't know what they look like?" Scott asked.
The kid in red shrugged. "We're not fans. Not really."
"We think they suck," the kid in brown said. "But one day, they'll get big and we'll be able to say we hung with them."
Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.
"Should we?" Gecko asked. "I mean, the band may not like it."
"Fuck the band," Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. "They don't need losers like you two."
He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.
"You join a fricken band to get noticed," Scott said in the safety of the
band's dressing room. "Not to get told you suck."
"At least they think we'll be someone," Lido said.
"Dude, we already are," Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.
In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.
The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.
Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet
At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here's one for you, and I'm not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.
Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn't like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who'd decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.
The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.
"So what're we gonna play tonight?" Gecko asked.
Fozzy shook his head. "Too early to do setlist."
"Why are we wasting time with this talk again?" Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. "We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don't we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?"
Fozzy screwed his face up. "It's not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place."
"…and time to play ten of 'em. Why don't we ever play those last two?" Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.
As he reached for the can of Coke he'd brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. "Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?"
Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.
"Yeah," the other guy said. "We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we'll be able to tell everyone we knew 'em when."
Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. "Got any clue who you're looking for?"
The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. "Deadly Metal Hatchet."
"Yeah, we know," Scott said. "But do you know what they look like?"
Red Flannel shifted his weight again. "Don't they wear shirts with the Hatchet on 'em?"
Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.
"So," the guy in the brown flannel said, "know where we can find 'em?"
"How can you be fans if you don't know what they look like?" Scott asked.
The kid in red shrugged. "We're not fans. Not really."
"We think they suck," the kid in brown said. "But one day, they'll get big and we'll be able to say we hung with them."
Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.
"Should we?" Gecko asked. "I mean, the band may not like it."
"Fuck the band," Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. "They don't need losers like you two."
He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.
"You join a fricken band to get noticed," Scott said in the safety of the
band's dressing room. "Not to get told you suck."
"At least they think we'll be someone," Lido said.
"Dude, we already are," Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.
In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.
The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.
Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, fans, fiction, outtake, Poetry Train, touring
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Screaming
… now that I've pretty well shredded that Alabama band, let me tell you about this t-shirt I got from the good souls who work for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They sent it in size 4X, so that right there tells you they're serious about having me wear it and not use it to wash the car I ain't got. It also tells me that they care about ol' Chelle LaFleur here 'cause let me tell you, having something made in a 4x costs extra bucks.
Now, most of you know all about Deadly Metal Hatchet. They're an okay band, one of those bands you always want on your bill 'cause they'll help pack the joint and if you're smart, you'll take a cut off their merchandise sales, too, 'cause people can't get enough of that Hatchet. They're not dumb, either. They'll be the first to tell you that they'll never be able to pull in more than five thou peoples a night. They're about the Hatchet more than the music, they know it, and they don't care, so long as their merchandise sales are good.
This t-shirt they sent me's got the Hatchet on it, of course. It's sticking out of what my medical editor says is a lung and let me tell you, she had a good old time showing me all the different parts of a lung, all of which are right smack there, right where they ought to be. Anatomically correct and all that.
It's a cool shirt. My medical editor said she'd have stolen it if it were her size, so I got on the phone and tried to mooch one for her. They'll be in the stores soon, so keep your eyeballs peeled for 'em and keep off my medical editor's clothes.
Before y'all go out, though, there's one thing you need to know about this latest Deadly Metal Hatchet shirt. It's a black shirt with white print. White print that glows in the dark and makes fat Creole women like yours truly here scream when they walk down a dark hallway and see their size 4x besom glowing at her.
I told you first, and I told you here. Chelle LaFleur screams. Deal with that fact, and get your own damn shirt. Mine's hidden at the bottom of the pile 'cause if it's not, it glows all night long and keeps me up, staring at all those anatomically correct lung parts.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. Deadly Metal Hatchet shirts and bands from Alabama. Both make ol' Chelle scream.
Now, most of you know all about Deadly Metal Hatchet. They're an okay band, one of those bands you always want on your bill 'cause they'll help pack the joint and if you're smart, you'll take a cut off their merchandise sales, too, 'cause people can't get enough of that Hatchet. They're not dumb, either. They'll be the first to tell you that they'll never be able to pull in more than five thou peoples a night. They're about the Hatchet more than the music, they know it, and they don't care, so long as their merchandise sales are good.
This t-shirt they sent me's got the Hatchet on it, of course. It's sticking out of what my medical editor says is a lung and let me tell you, she had a good old time showing me all the different parts of a lung, all of which are right smack there, right where they ought to be. Anatomically correct and all that.
It's a cool shirt. My medical editor said she'd have stolen it if it were her size, so I got on the phone and tried to mooch one for her. They'll be in the stores soon, so keep your eyeballs peeled for 'em and keep off my medical editor's clothes.
Before y'all go out, though, there's one thing you need to know about this latest Deadly Metal Hatchet shirt. It's a black shirt with white print. White print that glows in the dark and makes fat Creole women like yours truly here scream when they walk down a dark hallway and see their size 4x besom glowing at her.
I told you first, and I told you here. Chelle LaFleur screams. Deal with that fact, and get your own damn shirt. Mine's hidden at the bottom of the pile 'cause if it's not, it glows all night long and keeps me up, staring at all those anatomically correct lung parts.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. Deadly Metal Hatchet shirts and bands from Alabama. Both make ol' Chelle scream.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, creative writing, Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #39 -- The Hatchet
If you haven't heard, I'm at Cub Scout Camp with half of the Opening Act, so the Tour Manager's in charge around here. Because the power's going to his head, he probably won't honor you with a return visit. I'll have to do that when I get back, so look for a visit from me late into the weekend or early next week. Be sure to sign Mr. Linky even if you don't leave a comment, so I know to visit you!
As for this week's Thirteen... if you were here on Monday for Rhian's poetry train, you'll understand. For those of you who weren't, Deadly Metal Hatchet is an up-and-coming band who have this gimmick: a Hatchet. Their fans are into them more because of the antics of the Hatchet than for the band's music, and for good reason.
Really. Go read the outtake and then come on back. You'll appreciate this all the more.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
As for this week's Thirteen... if you were here on Monday for Rhian's poetry train, you'll understand. For those of you who weren't, Deadly Metal Hatchet is an up-and-coming band who have this gimmick: a Hatchet. Their fans are into them more because of the antics of the Hatchet than for the band's music, and for good reason.
Really. Go read the outtake and then come on back. You'll appreciate this all the more.
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| 1. Lots of hearts. Deadly Metal Hatchet's not quite the love-song type. 2. A lung (stop back for more about this!) 3. A full stomach, with contents in full detail, some of which a perceptive fan can make out but the rest of which make for unending discussion in fandom 4. A leg 5. In the breast of an otherwise curvy, attractive blonde whose come-hither face has been replaced by a scream of horror 6. Sticking out of the head of lead guitarist Fozzy, who is the only known survivor of a Hatchet attack. 7. Right smack in the middle of Scott's bass drum. 8. A tour case. Rumor has it that the band has put the names of bands they don't overly like on this case, but the truth is that the Hatchet went after one of its own band's cases. 9. A beer keg. All involved agreed it was a terrible waste. 10. The driver of the band's tour bus. This was actually a bit of an inside joke, as they had this driver who almost deserved his date with the Hatchet. He should have been in the Book of World Records for his complaining habit. 11. What appeared to be a CD put out by a boy band. Or a vanilla, generic girl who gyrated more than sang. Or both. 12. The logo for Treble TV, the hot music video channel that refused to play DMH videos. 13. A cover of Rolling Stone magazine. And this was before the magazine's reviewers panned the DMH's first three releases. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction, meme, Thursday Thirteen
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Deadly Metal Hatchet Intro (Post-Trevor's Song Era)
Welcome to this week's Poetry Train! This is a multi-day commitment, so be sure you've got me in your reader. You won't want to miss the fun that's Deadly Metal Hatchet.
Security bought the band a measure of privacy in the club's lobby. That and the fact that Deadly Metal Hatchet, the night's headliner, was still on stage.
"So what do you think?" Daniel asked anxiously.
Val yawned and patted her lips with her fingertips in a gesture of bare politeness.
Mitchell ignored her. "I think their sound sucks, but that could be the venue, not the band."
"How many times did we have that problem," Eric mused.
Mitchell ignored him, too. "They've got a good following," he said. "Does it extend outside of Phoenix?"
"I think so," Daniel said. "I asked JR that, and he said people are talking more about the Hatchet than the band's music, though."
Mitchell stroked his chin and tried to think. If people were more into the band's mascot than the band's music, ticket sales wouldn't necessarily follow. Daniel was hoping that they could find a support act that would bring in some people who otherwise would have avoided ShapeShifter shows. This wasn't necessarily the band to do that.
As Daniel and Eric discussed the Hatchet, Mitchell wandered over to the poster of the Hatchet that Kerri was studying. "What do you think?"
"This is some nice art. Not technically great, but that's part of its success. It's crude enough to make you think this is some guy's fantasy, disturbing as that thought is, but at the same time, that's what makes it. It's easy to relate to."
"I meant the music," Mitchell said, wondering if that was true. Of course he knew that when Kerri was standing in front of a piece of art and you asked what she thought, all you got from her was art.
She shrugged. "It's okay. I like you guys better, but I'm biased."
"Would you get excited about seeing the two bands together?"
"If I could buy a new Hatchet shirt, sure."
He shook his head and told himself she was giving him exactly what he was asking for. Kerri may have kept her radio tuned to KRVR back in the days before they'd met, but that hadn't meant she'd had a clue who he was when he'd introduced himself to her. She wasn't a music fan, much as it pained him to admit that.
They rejoined the band. Daniel gave him an expectant look, which he answered with a shrug. "Talk to JR. I think you might be right that we're a natural fit for each other and with a gimmick like the Hatchet, it's only a matter of time before that band gets big."
"As big as us?" Eric asked.
Mitchell shrugged again. "Not with that sound guy working for them." He gave him a sly smile. "Maybe we should bring whoever it is on tour with us. Not give them the chance to get as big as us."
"I don't think they will," Daniel said thoughtfully. "But the Hatchet sure might."
Mitchell laughed. "Good. We get a piece of their sales, remember?"
Security bought the band a measure of privacy in the club's lobby. That and the fact that Deadly Metal Hatchet, the night's headliner, was still on stage.
"So what do you think?" Daniel asked anxiously.
Val yawned and patted her lips with her fingertips in a gesture of bare politeness.
Mitchell ignored her. "I think their sound sucks, but that could be the venue, not the band."
"How many times did we have that problem," Eric mused.
Mitchell ignored him, too. "They've got a good following," he said. "Does it extend outside of Phoenix?"
"I think so," Daniel said. "I asked JR that, and he said people are talking more about the Hatchet than the band's music, though."
Mitchell stroked his chin and tried to think. If people were more into the band's mascot than the band's music, ticket sales wouldn't necessarily follow. Daniel was hoping that they could find a support act that would bring in some people who otherwise would have avoided ShapeShifter shows. This wasn't necessarily the band to do that.
As Daniel and Eric discussed the Hatchet, Mitchell wandered over to the poster of the Hatchet that Kerri was studying. "What do you think?"
"This is some nice art. Not technically great, but that's part of its success. It's crude enough to make you think this is some guy's fantasy, disturbing as that thought is, but at the same time, that's what makes it. It's easy to relate to."
"I meant the music," Mitchell said, wondering if that was true. Of course he knew that when Kerri was standing in front of a piece of art and you asked what she thought, all you got from her was art.
She shrugged. "It's okay. I like you guys better, but I'm biased."
"Would you get excited about seeing the two bands together?"
"If I could buy a new Hatchet shirt, sure."
He shook his head and told himself she was giving him exactly what he was asking for. Kerri may have kept her radio tuned to KRVR back in the days before they'd met, but that hadn't meant she'd had a clue who he was when he'd introduced himself to her. She wasn't a music fan, much as it pained him to admit that.
They rejoined the band. Daniel gave him an expectant look, which he answered with a shrug. "Talk to JR. I think you might be right that we're a natural fit for each other and with a gimmick like the Hatchet, it's only a matter of time before that band gets big."
"As big as us?" Eric asked.
Mitchell shrugged again. "Not with that sound guy working for them." He gave him a sly smile. "Maybe we should bring whoever it is on tour with us. Not give them the chance to get as big as us."
"I don't think they will," Daniel said thoughtfully. "But the Hatchet sure might."
Mitchell laughed. "Good. We get a piece of their sales, remember?"
Labels: creative writing, Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train
