Why not?
It's a cold night in Los Angeles. The air outside is thick with the stench of spilled beer and cigarette smoke.
Dave just got kicked out of the bar for... getting into trouble. That isn't too surprising. But that guy was staring too much.
The sidewalk beneath his boots feels somehow both sticky and slick. His steps are erratic and though his mind is pretty blurry due to the substances, it's still a tempest of wounded pride and furious despair. The alcohol in his bloodstream wages war with the cocaine, one dragging him down while the other scrapes his nerves raw, leaving him suspended in a purgatory of hyperaware numbness. In his trembling hand, a beer bottle (the tenth one he's had this night, and he's eager to take more) gleams subtly under the ghostly flicker of a distant lamp.
He kicks at a crumpled soda can, watching it skitter into the gutter.
Dave's gaze fixes on nothing and everything these weeks. These two weeks. Two fucking weeks since the morning he woke up on a vomit-stained mattress only to find his guitars stacked by the door and a one-way bus ticket to California on top. Two weeks since the three men he'd called brothers had looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. His mind was still blurry and struggling to absorve any external estimulation, but he remembers the cold words very clearly: You're out, Dave. Go home.
Metallica; his creation, his brethren, had cast him aside. Abandoned and betrayed.
Their loss! He keeps telling himself everytime. But the phrase has been repeated so often these fourteen days that it has lost whatever power it once held to cauterize the wound.
As he stumbles forward, his glazed eyes catch sight of a peculiar specter pinned to a crooked pole. A poster, its edges curled and frayed, swayed gently in the wind as if beckoning him. With an unsteady hand, he tears it free. He stares at the inked words:
“Metallica. Live Tonight at the Greek Theater.”
He studies the photo: Cliff with his lion's mane, that fucker James with his dumbass smile, Lars looking like the smug little Danish shit he is, and then... there was an unknown face.
Who the fuck is that?
A guy—with black long curly hair, sun-kissed skin—stands there, smiling. The new guy; a stealer, who must be his replacement.
And the name of “Metallica” alone ignited a fire in his chest, but it's not the name that delivers the cruelest blow this time. No, it's the line beneath that photo, a wretched proclamation that seems to fucking make fun of him.
"With Kirk Hammett – New Lead Guitarist.”
The night seems to close in around him, and for a moment, Dave thinks he might vomit.
The bottle slips from Dave's fingers, shattering on the pavement. He doesn't flinch at the sound, doesn't notice the glass shards that dance around his boots or the beer that soaks into his jeans. All he sees is that name.
“Kirk Hammett,” he whispers the name to himself, tasting it. He scoffs.
A name and face foreign to his eyes, yet its presence stings like fucking venom.
They had replaced him within weeks. Replaced him, Dave fucking Mustaine.
The paper crumples beneath his tightening fist, his knuckles white with the ferocity of his grip. His heart pounds with a maddening rhythm. He shakes his head, and with a sudden burst of resolve, he reads the name of the theatre once again. Greek Theatre. The address isn't so far away.
The thought of this Kirk Hammett guy burns within him, a fire that could only be quenched by confrontation.
And there's no better trigger for confrontation (at least in Dave's case) than alcohol. More alcohol. He buys a six-pack at a the liquor store around the corner.
With unsteady but determined steps, he walks to his car. His path is now set.
The service alley behind the Greek Theater swallows light.
His hand lingers on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. His fingers on the other hand flex around the neck of his beer bottle, condensation mixing with the sweat of his palm. The poster lies unfolded on the passenger seat: Kirk Hammett's face, illuminated by yellow glow of the streetlights penetrating through the windows. The new guy stares up at him with big eyes that seem to mock even from glossy paper. Dave studies those features—memorizing the shape of the jaw, the curve of the brow, the way the hair falls—to make sure he would recognize the new guitarist in case he sees him.
Time to move.
Dave steps out, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing against the crumpled poster inside it. His boots crunch against the gravel as he moves towards the theater, his eyes scanning the scene in front of him like a predator on the hunt.
And then, he sees him.
The new guy leans against the brick wall of the theater, with a cigarette balanced between his fingers. The ember glows faintly in the dark, illuminating his face; a face Dave had only seen in photos but already loathed with every fiber of his being.
For a moment, Dave freezes, his pulse quickening.
But then: he clicks his jaw and moves forward.
As he got closer, he noticed this Kirk guy had his eyes closed, head tilted forward, bobbing it to, what Dave's first thought is, a guitar riff. Or a guitar solo. Maybe even Dave's guitar solos.
Kirk looks like he's chilling.
He looks young. Smaller, skinnier than Dave expected. Softer.
Obviously, he's itching for a fight. But a fight with a scrawny kid like Kirk doesn't seem like much fun.
He isn't even sure what his plan is, but he knows for sure his nature won't let him move on from this without confrontation. Having a talk to solve problems as civilized humans isn't Dave's style, but if it gets at least a little heated, it could satisfy him.
So, he walks over, until he's in front of Kirk.
Dave clears his throat. "You're the new guy, huh?" His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough.
Kirk snaps up, startled, his eyes narrowing slightly as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "Oh, hi. Yeah." A pause, cautious. "Can I help you?"
Dave scoffs. "Help me?” He shakes his head. “Nah, I think you've done fucking enough."
Kirk frowns. “What?” But then his lips curls into a confused smirk. "I’m sorry, man. Do I know you?”
Do I know you? As if he were nothing; a footnote, an afterthought, not even worth a warning from James or Lars.
"You should." Dave nods. "I'm the guy you replaced."
Kirk’s expression shifts, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Oh. You're… Dave.” His eyes track up and down Dave's body. Something in that look makes Dave's fingers itch to form a fist despite the earlier thought about not beting this guy.
Dave sneers. "Yeah, Dave. The guy who built this damn band from the ground up. The guy who poured his fucking blood, sweat, and tears into it; only to get kicked out by his own fucking friends. And now here you are, living the dream, huh? How's it feel, Kirk ?” He pronounces his name with disgust all over his face. “Standing on my grave?"
Kirk shakes his head and frowns. "Look, man, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just doing my job.”
He chuckles, trying not to make the situation more tense. But each smile, chuckle and smirk from Kirk make Dave even angrier.
"Your job?" Dave snaps, stepping even closer. "You think you can just replace me like I'm nothing? And worse, you think I'll just fucking cry about it and do nothing?"
As Dave stares at Kirk’s face, his mind churned with a storm of thoughts, dark and unrelenting.
This is what they replaced me with? This kid with his doe eyes and delicate features? This boy who looks like he'd apologize to a fly before killing it?
Kirk raises his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn’t make that call. It’s not personal."
"Not personal? It’s personal to me."
Kirk sighs. "Right." His shoulders straighten as he pushes himself away from the wall. "Listen, I don’t got time for this, so, good luck, Dave.” He throws the corpse of his cigarette away and turns to walk back inside.
That was it. The dismissal, the indifference; the goddamn nonchalance; it ignited something feral in Dave. He was trying to pick a fight so bad and Kirk was clearly not giving in. His grip on his beer bottle tightened as Kirk turned his back. Without thinking, without hesitation, Dave swung his bottle.
The glass shattered against Kirk’s head, with shards scattering to the ground. He stumbled, a broken moan escaping his lips as he clutched his head, swaying on his feet.
"Sorry, new guy," Dave mutters, catching Kirk before he could collapse. "But I’m not done with you yet."
With surprising ease, fueled by adrenaline and rage, Dave hauls the dazed new guitarist towards his car; a blue Chevy. Kirk’s protests are weak, slurred, his body limp. He tries to pronounce somethinf something, but his words are slurred and formless, head lolling against Dave's shoulder. A warm wetness seeps through Dave's shirt somewhere near Kirk's head rests; blood, bright copper in Dave's nostrils.
Dave quickly pulls out a key with one hand. The trunk creaks open, its hollow interior waiting, his free arm holding Kirk by the waist tightly.
Kirk realizes what's going on. He's being kidnapped by this fucking psycho he doesn't even know.
“No, no!” He yells in protest, squirming desperately under Dave's grip. But he is, unfortunately, a skinny and much smaller boy than Dave, so any movement or effort he made to escape was in vain. His fingers claw at Dave's jacket, seeking purchase, finding none. His legs kick weakly, connecting with Dave's shin but lacking the force to do major damage.
Dave pauses for a moment, looking down at Kirk’s pale, scared and confused face.
"This ain’t your fucking band," he growls under his breath, and with a single fluid movement, he heaves Kirk into the trunk. The body lands with a hollow thud and a soft groan against carpeted metal. Before Kirk can recover, before he can do more than draw breath for another shout, Dave slams the lid shut.
Now, the only noises staining the quiet night were the strained and muffled complaints coming from Dave's trunk, the shattered glass and a faint bloodstain on Dave's shirt the only evidence of the encounter.
He sighs. The silence gives him time to think.
What the hell were you thinking? The rational part of his mind whispered. Whatever part of him that hasn't been consumed by rage and drugs. You could go to jail for this. You could ruin everything for good.
But the rational voice is quickly drowned out by another, louder one; the one that has been screaming in his ear since that morning in New York when they put him on a bus with nothing but his guitars and his hangover for company.
They ruined everything first. They kicked me out, like I was nothing. Replaced me with him. And he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of it.
Whatever, he’ll think about it when he gets home.