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| Kirk's Special Sauce; Kirk Hammett whips up a genius ice cream topping that gets everyone excited - and Kirk scared! | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: April 26, 2014, 11:20 pm (435 Views) | |
| lady_jaymz | April 26, 2014, 11:20 pm Post #1 |
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Bad Seed
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Here's a long-ish story I wrote that was inspired by the awesome video "A Year and a Half In The Life of Metallica": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHAUsxBMR2Q I couldn't help but notice that Kirk eats a lot of ice cream! Everything else is pretty fictional, but cute. Enjoy!![]() KIRK'S SPECIAL SAUCE CHAPTER 1 *** "No, no, NO! That shouldn't go 'duh-duh-dum-da-dum,' it should go 'dum-dah-dah-da-DUM.' Lars Ulrich clapped his hands and nodded toward Kirk Hammett, who was slumped over his black ESP Skully, brows knit in frustration. "Ohhkayyy," Kirk sucked in his breath and prepared to do the take for what seemed like the hundredth time. He looked furtively at producer Bob Rock, silently imploring him to disagree with Lars so he could just get this dumb part over with, but Bob simply nodded in agreement with Lars. Focus, Kirk, FOCUS. The riffs that seemed so easy when he jammed them alone in PJs were tripping him up right now, and it seemed like the more pressure he felt, the less he could connect with his playing. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let his fingers dance over the frets of his guitar. He forcibly removed his mind from the intense pressure that was on him – it WAS 2AM, after all, and HE was the one holding everyone up – and . . . “PERFECT! Wow, that was excellent, Kirk. Easily the best playing I’ve heard from you so far.” Bob Rock stood, took off his headphones and stretched, a big smile on his face. “Yeah, Kirk. That sounded pretty sick. Now you’re gonna have to re-do all your other parts.” Lars gave him a playful punch in the arm and turned to James Hetfield and Jason Newsted, who were tangled up on the saggy old couch in the back in the room, sound asleep. “Hey, wake up, you lazy fucks!” he yelled, yanking away a motheaten wool blanket. Jason grunted and James tumbled to the floor. “Kirk just kicked all your asses!” “Whaaa, no way, Kirk.” Groggy James propped himself on his elbows and rubbed the spot on his head that had bumped the floor. “You got that part, man?” "Yeah," Kirk said sheepishly, a big grin on his face. "Now you don't have to play it." "I just had the most AWESOME dream about Godzilla," Jason slurred, reaching for a glass of water. "It was, like, 50 years in the future and-" "YO, doofus, Kirk nailed his part!" Lars mussed the bassist’s mop of curls. "That Godzilla enough for you? Now let's get the fuck home!" "Godzilla, cool!" Hands balled up in front of him, Kirk did a little excited jump like a schoolgirl, his dimples flashing. He was so lost in the moment that Bob Rock had to give him a little nudge to remind him to pack up for the night-er, morning. CHAPTER 2 *** An hour later, Kirk was freshly showered, wrapped in a warm white terry robe and matching fluffy slippers. He ran a detangling comb through his wet curly locks as he padded from the bathroom to the kitchen. The clean smell of shampoo in his nostrils and the plush feel of the slippers on his dry feet were like heaven to him in that moment. The other guys might make fun of him if he said it out loud, but creature comforts were very important to Kirk. And he was about to have his very favorite treat of all . . . He opened the freezer door and gleefully removed a brand new pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Bean ice cream. Yep, just vanilla – the other guys made fun of him so much for it, but it really was just perfect – no extra crap getting in the way of the warm, sweet flavor. (Besides, if it really was so “boring,” why was he always finding mysteriously half-finished cartons?) He popped it in the microwave for 5 seconds to soften it so that his spoon would glide right through and . . . oh, his mouth was watering just thinking about it! He had earned this. But as Kirk was about to pad back to the room he shared with James, he was struck with an unusual notion. What if he were to put something ON his ice cream? Like a sauce of some sort? He remembered going to one diner on tour and getting some sort of butterscotch topping on his dessert, and it was delicious! Maybe it was his triumphant feat at the studio, but he was feeling quite adventurous all of a sudden. Besides, this could be fun! He popped the ice cream back in the freezer and went to work. “Hmmm.” Kirk first rifled through the refrigerator. Milk, grape Kool Aid, beer. A sticky bottle of chocolate syrup and tub of Cool Whip James had smuggled in with a girl last week (Kirk would try not to think about it). Then he parsed through the spice rack. Lars had tried to cook for a few weeks, and though the results weren’t always that great (“FUCK this!” Lars had screamed on the last night of these experiments, when he discovered he’d basted a roast chicken with cinnamon instead of paprika), the little jars and bottles all looked and smelled so wonderful. Kirk opened and took a whiff of each one: Almond extract, vanilla butternut extract. Licorice-y anise stars, nutmeg, fennel, cinnamon, rosemary. The cabinets yielded cocoa powder, peanut butter, powdered strawberry Jell-O. Kirk lined up all of his ingredients neatly, as if he were doing a cooking show, then stared at the little army of jars and bottles facing him. He really had no idea what to do with any of it, but he folded up the sleeves of his robe and grabbed a bowl and whisk. Kirk knew some people like beer on their ice cream – and hell, he just plain liked BEER – so he sloshed some of that in the bowl first. He then stirred in a big dollop of Cool Whip and a splash of the almond extract. Tasted great so far, but what about a little . . . It didn’t take long before Kirk was really going to town, sprinkling and pouring and whisking every single one of his ingredients into his sauce. In the process, the cereal bowl he had been using got too small, so he swapped it out for a big mixing bowl. Ten minutes later, the proud guitarist held up a bowl of mucky, soupy, purple-brown muck. It didn’t look very good, and it DID smell a little strange, too. But that wasn’t what mattered. The important part was that it tasted . . . . . . Kirk dipped a finger in the mixture and popped it in his mouth . . . . . . Really GOOD! “Mmmmm, WOW, this is totally delicious!” Kirk exclaimed as he took a wholehearted swig straight from the bowl. It was indescribable, completely unlike anything Kirk had ever tasted before. A little sweet, a little bitter, a little savory, a little buttery, a little fruity, a little nutty . . . it was like all of Kirk’s favorite flavors were having a party in his mouth. He grabbed his ice cream and toted it and his new sauce to his room. “James, James!” He yanked on his roommate’s arm. “Wake up!” “Unnghhhhh.” The weary vocalist rolled over and away from Kirk. “Leemee alone!” “No, James, please! You really need to try this!” Enticed by God knows what sort of ideas, this statement interested James enough to roll back toward Kirk. "Try what? Whatcha got?" “I made a special sauce for my ice cream and –“ “A special sauce for your fucking ICE CREAM? What the fuck, man, it’s like 4AM and-“ “Here, James,” Kirk pushed the bowl at him, grinning from ear to ear. “Please try it. It’s so good you HAVE to!” “All right, all right,” James mumbled, thinking it would be nice to be rid of this chipper annoyance. “Lemme at it.” He took a little sip, and paused, expressionless. Then he bent in for a bigger swig. “Well, WELL?!?” Kirk was practically levitating with excitement. “Hey, man, what the hell is this?” James’ face softened into a curious smile. “This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever tasted. Wow!” “I made it for my ice cream!” Kirk repeated. “You MADE this? Yourself?” “Yeah!” “Damn, I could live on this shit. Where’s that ice cream?” “Right here! Oooh, lemme get another spoon.” Kirk dashed back to the kitchen, leaving the carton of Vanilla Bean with James. James turned the cold container idly in his hands and some bold text caught his eye: Think YOU have what it takes to design America’s next favorite ice cream flavor? Send your idea to us and we’ll award our very favorite with an all expenses paid trip to New York City to debut your flavor on Good Morning America in front of millions of viewers! . . . It was James’ turn to be excited. “Hey, Kirk!” he exclaimed as his friend bustled back into the room. “Did you see this?” He pointed to the carton. "Yeah," Kirk sighed, "I know it has a lot of calories. I try not to think about it!" “No, doofus, this!” James shoved the label in Kirk’s face. “You could totally win, you know.” Kirk’s eyes lit up as he read. "Oh, wow. Wow! Yeah!!" “You should write your recipe down right now and send it in the morning. That’d be killer, man,” James leaned back, crossing his long legs and roping his arms behind his head. “OK, OK, I will! Let’s eat our ice cream, first!” James hollowed out some of the ice cream in the carton before pouring on a generous amount of sauce. The bandmates watched the sun rise as they licked their spoons clean. CHAPTER 3 *** “What the FUCK, you guys. I can’t believe none of you TOLD me about this.” Lars Ulrich scraped the last bit of ice cream from his bowl and licked the spoon. “I’m always the last guy to know ANYTHING around here, though, so . . ." “More sauce, less ice cream this time!” Jason held out his bowl for seconds, and Kirk happily obliged him, even though his Haagen Dazs supply was starting to get dangerously low. "Isn't that the greatest thing you've ever tasted?" James stood proudly, arms folded over his chest watching his bandmates devour Kirk’s concoction. Kirk was over the moon. Having the approval of James AND Lars twice in less than 24 hours? TOTALLY rare. (He’d have to check his horoscope . . .) The ONE minor regret Kirk had, reflecting later in the day, was that he told Lars about the contest. If James had been excited, Lars was STOKED. Kirk had already won in his mind, and he was brimming with ideas for promotion and even the possibility of a special Metallica ice cream flavor ("and it wouldn’t just be stupid licensing crap, either! Kirk literally eats ice cream ALL THE FUCKING TIME. We can share that experience with the fans!...") It was nice that everyone was so excited and all, but it was starting to make him nervous, and he couldn’t quite figure out why . . . CHAPTER 4 *** “OHMIGOD! I WON!!!!” Six weeks later, Kirk was jumping up and down, clutching the freshly opened envelope and shrieking with joy. “Won what, Kirk? The World Series? The genetic lottery?” Lars cracked sardonically, not looking up. He and James were crouched together on the living room sofa, parsing through a new interview that’d just been printed in Guitar Player. “Whoa, shit, James. They totally fucked up which pickups are in what guitar, didn’t they here? Those are Kirk’s, right?” All of the excitement over Kirk’s new ice cream flavor had been forgotten in the wake of finishing and kicking off promotion of their soon-to-be-released new album. The big bowl of sauce had been polished off weeks ago. Kirk had tried to replicate it, but his second attempt was absolutely disgusting, and he’d had to dump it outside so it wouldn’t stink up the kitchen. After that, he just shrugged off the sauce idea and cozied back with his old familiar plain Vanilla Bean, straight from the carton. “The ICE CREAM CONTEST! I WON it!” “WHOOOA NO FUCKING WAAAAY KIRK!” Lars jumped up and gave Kirk a high five and James put him in a celebratory headlock. “HELL YEAH!!” Kirk held out the letter and read it out loud in the midst of his crushing group hug. “Enclosed are four round trip tickets for you and three friends to visit GMA’s studios in New York City to present your special flavor live, on air, for everyone to taste . . .” His voice started to trail off a little and his body went limp. “Yeah, Kirk! That’s awesome. Read the rest, man.” James encouraged. “I-I . . . my tummy kinda hurts.” Kirk let the letter flutter to the ground and squirmed out of the adoring tangle, leaving his two bandmates calling after him as he went to his room and shut the door. He flopped on his bed and stared at the ceiling, paralyzed with anxiety that increased with every moment he considered just what he’d done. He’d have to recreate his one-of-a-kind, spur-of-the-moment genius creation, live, ON AIR, with the entire country watching in three weeks. Yet he had absolutely no recollection whatsoever what he’d done or how he’d made it. The “recipe” he’d sent was just a little empty single-shot Schnapps bottle he’d filled with some of the sauce, and obviously they’d liked it, and OBVIOUSLY they wanted to know exactly how he made it . . . all matters he’d barely considered in the heat of the moment. There was only one thing to do. He’d have to chain himself to the kitchen and figure out how to make that sauce again. He’d spend hours – DAYS, if need be, and he’d do it if it KILLED him. There was no other option but nationwide – hell, WORLDWIDE humiliation! Gaudy tabloid images of a disgraced Kirk, and, by extension, a disgraced Metallica, goaded his imagination. It would basically be the worst thing EVER, of ALL TIME. Kirk covered his eyes and washed down a few Aspirin with a swig of one of James’ old beers. Kirk spent every free moment he had thereafter either furtively whisking ingredients in his mixing bowl or at the grocery store buying new supplies. He tried EVERYTHING in his power to remember exactly what he’d used, and how much, including self-hypnotism (a disaster; he’d instead convinced himself he was a tiger in his past life and Jason had had to drag him to a local aura healer just to break the trance and stop him from roaring and trying to bite Lars) and putting his shampoo and conditioner in a paper bag and huffing the aroma so that it might jog his memory (the less said about that, the better). But each concoction seemed sloppier and worse than the last. The other guys didn’t know what he was up to, and if anyone suspected, they didn’t let on. But on the evening before the big trip, James reached over and touched his shoulder, a look of genuine concern in his eyes. “Hey, Kirk, are you OK? You’re sweating.” “Darn, uh, heat!” Kirk jerkily fanned himself with his hand. “Uh, yeah, I’m good. Great! Yeah!” Kirk balled up his fists and took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. Part of him just wanted to pour out his heart and confess everything to James, but the thought of admitting that he’d screwed up so massively as everyone else was so excited was beyond daunting. CHAPTER 5 *** It was the night before the GMA appearance, and all the guys except Kirk were having fun horsing around in the deluxe hotel suite they'd been comped. “This mattress is PERFECT.” Jason hopped up and down on the plush king sized bed, narrowly missing the mummylike sheet shrouded form of Kirk Hammett. “Can we steal this?” “Not if you’re getting your stank-ass feet all over it!” Lars quipped. The exchange jogged James’ memory. “Hey, Kirk, how this ice cream thing gonna work out tomorrow? Are they gonna have all your stuff ready for you to make it? Or do you have to get the ingredients yourself and bring them in?” Oh, shit. Kirk rolled out of bed. “I guess we probably have to get them,” he moaned miserably. Kirk and James took a cab to a little market they’d frequented a few times when they’d toured in the city before. It was a little ways off, but James was partial to it because it carried a homebrewed beer he adored and had never seen anywhere else. “I hope they’ve got all your shit, dude.” James loaded up a cart with big dark bottles as Kirk paced in circles at his side, biting his nails to the quick. “Hey James, can I tell you something?” “Shoot, man.” “There IS no recipe. I made the sauce at 3:30 in the morning with a bunch of random crap from the kitchen and I don’t remember any of it or how I made it and OHMYGOD James, I’ve tried SO many times but I just CAN’T get it right and –“ Kirk collapsed at James’ feet and broke into messy, hiccupping sobs. “I know I’ve let everyone down and I’ve totally blown it for the band. Please forgive me!” “Whoa, whoa." James crouched and put his hands on the crumpled guitarist’s shoulders. "Calm down, buddy. You’re talking like this has already happened!” “What do you mean? What does it matter? I’m doomed!” “Kirk, man, just do your thing. Do what you always do. Do what Kirk Hammett does best!” Kirk stopped sobbing for a moment and looked up at James. “Wha-what's that?” “It doesn’t matter how shitty you play a riff in the studio, or even before a show. You get out there and blow everyone away! Even if what you play isn’t exactly like it was on the album – so the fuck what? You come up with something great man. There’s always something else great out there, and you find it and run with it.” “Yeah, well, thanks, I guess. But how is that going to help me now? I can’t play my guitar on the show.” James laughed and gave Kirk a playful shove. “Come on, dumbass. Let’s get shopping!” The heavy glass bottles clanked noisily as he pushed the cart to the dairy section. “Let’s go to where the ice cream stuff is first. Did you put any toppings in there?” Kirk mulled. “Not specifically. Except wait, there was that chocolate syrup. And Cool Whip! I remember because-“ James reddened a little. “Uh, right, right. Put 'em in.” “Beer, too, but we already have plenty of that.” “Ha! No kidding. No wonder it tasted so good." James thought a moment as they stolled down the aisle. “I remember there was a fruity taste, too. And a peanut-y one.” Kirk snapped his fingers. “Yes! Jason’s peanut butter and jelly! And there was something else…” “Lars was having a cow that someone used half the strawberry Jell-O and left the packet open.” “Aha! And the grape Kool-Aid, yes! That’s what made it purple.” James laughed and shook his head. “Kirk, man, I’ve gotta hand it to you. If I had known what was in that shit, I never would have tried it. Now how about that licorice taste that was in it?” Kirk knitted his brow. “This is the hard part. I put some spices in it that smelled like different things, but I have no idea what they’re called. Except cinnamon.” “It’s gotta have that licorice, though. That was killer.” James added a bag of black Twizzlers to the cart. “Wait, no! I didn’t have any of those in there!” “Sure tasted like it.” James shrugged. “That’s what matters, right?” “Hmmm.” Kirk hovered over a row of spice bottles. “I wish we could open these and smell them. Oh, look, the ALMOND stuff. Yes!” He tossed the almond extract in. “You had this weird chicken taste in there, like those kinda spices. But with no salt.” James tossed in a bottle labeled ‘Grandma’s Magic Poultry Spice.’ And what’s that stuff in apple cider? Allspice?” “No, no,” Kirk shook his head, then throw up his hands and sighed. “Oh, what the hell! Throw it in.” “Atta boy.” James winked at him and examined everything piled in the cart. “But I think we’re forgetting one major thing-“ “The ICE CREAM!” Kirk exclaimed. CHAPTER 6 *** Half an hour later, Kirk and James returned to the hotel suite, laden with heavy bags of groceries. Jason was stretched out on the bed snoring as Lars stared at the television, loud moans and grunts filling the room. “Jesus, turn that shit down, Lars, and help us with these bags.” James yelled, startling the transfixed drummer from his reverie. Lars jumped up and quickly flicked off the porno he’d been enjoying. “Christ, what did you dickweeds do, buy out half the fucking store? And-" he read the bags "-you went fucking UPTOWN for all this shit?" James threw Lars a beer. "This answer your question?" "Awww, fuckin’ A! Hell’s Kitchen Home Brewery!” Lars grinned. “Right on!” “I hope there’s room in the minifridge for this,” Kirk fretted as he kneeled and lined all the perishables neatly on the small shelves. “Hey, Kirk,” Lars said, chewing on a Twizzler and washing it down with a swig of his beer. “Why don’t you make up some of your shit, first? That would really hit the spot.” James and Kirk exchanged a knowing look. “No,” Kirk said. “That would be bad luck.” “Yeah,” James added. “Like banging your girl on the night before your wedding or whatever it is.” Lars nodded. “This is gonna be so sick, dudes.” He raised his bottle and James and Kirk returned his toast. “To motherfucking METALLICA!” “And to Kirk,” James winked. Kirk smiled and took a gulp from his bottle. Things were starting to look all right, after all. CHAPTER 7 *** “OK, asswipes, wake the fuck up!” Lars ripped everyone’s sheets off. “Good morning, METALLICA!” “Aggh,” Kirk sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as a black shirt landed on his head and slid over his face into his lap. It was printed with the Metallica logo, a silver snake graphic and the date 8/12/91 in bold white letters. “Put it on,” Lars nodded. “I brought those for all of us to wear.” Jason moaned and buried his head back in his pillow. “What the fuck, dude! I was just having the best dream ever.” “We have to be at the studio in Times Square at 4:45,” Lars commanded. Grabbing the mattress the groggy bassist was curled on, he flipped it over. Jason yelped as he tumbled into the nightstand. “Get dressed, asshole! You too, Kirk, get your shit together. James, call our cab. And Jason, I do NOT fucking give a shit about your DREAM in ADVANCE and do something about your fucking HAIR, like wash it, PLEASE.” "There was this fucking scorpion warrior and he enslaved these ants in a sandbox-" Jason mumbled from a heap on the floor, rubbing his head. "Really? Cool!" Kirk exclaimed. "SHOWER. NOW!" Lars pointed to the bathroom and Jason obediently went in and closed the door. "I want to hear about his dream," Kirk whined, pulling his shirt on. He felt flushed and his palms moistened with sweat as anxiety started to consume him. “Ah, well.” He sighed to himself and started unloading the minifridge. "Here goes nothing." CHAPTER 8 *** The band made it to the studio fifteen minutes late, which had put Lars in a huff, but this ended up not being a problem as the producers “expected” them to be late so they shot them an earlier time, making them thirty minutes early. Clearly, they underestimate the power of having Lars Ulrich in your band! Kirk thought. Then a familiar sight caught his attention: “EDNA!” Kirk’s favorite guitar was propped in the corner of the large dressing room. "What are you doing here! And-" Lars rolled in his drum kit. “Yep! We’re gonna play a couple of songs. Sandman, and one of the old ones, Puppets, I think.” "Ohmigawd. I think I’m gonna faint." “I wasn’t gonna waste a promotional opportunity like this! What do you think I am, like a total fucking idiot?” “Ahhggghhhhhhhhh.” The other members of the band were equally blindsided, and moaned weakly in protest before admitting that Lars was right and picking up their instruments to practice. This is too much. Kirk felt his world begin to collapse and his head felt like it was caving in. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not strong enough to fuck up twice in one day. Someone, help! A chipper young woman with a clipboard interrupted as the band warmed up. “I need Kirk Hammett, please? Is there a Kirk Hammett in here?” The band chuckled at her obvious lack of recognition of their famous faces. “He’s the one on the floor, babe.” Lars pointed a drumstick at the withered guitarist. “I need him to come with me,” she nodded, her worried expression indicating that the show’s star guest might have fallen victim to some typical rock star shenanigans. "Kirk, get up dude." Lars grinned, reading her concern. "He’s alright. He just gets stage fright real bad, that’s all." “Oh-ohh. I see.” She led Kirk to his own, smaller dressing room closer to the stage door. "We'll give you a buzz two minutes before you're supposed to come on. We have all your food ready - all you have to do is put on this -and this-" she tossed him a white chef’s hat and apron - and come to the door and wait for us to announce you. Do you understand?" "I got it, I got it," Kirk waved her away. So now I’m stuck alone and I won’t even be able to tweak my recipe or rehearse with the guys! What kind of sick joke IS this, universe? CHAPTER 9 *** After the longest half hour of his life, Kirk was jolted by a buzz. He exhaled, wiped some sweat off his forehead and pulled on his hat and apron. Walking down the hall to go onstage, he felt like a kid being summoned to the principal’s office. “And now, here to present America’s next favorite ice cream flavor is none other than Metallica’s Kirk Hammett!” Kirk strolled onstage, blinking at the bright lights and gave the roaring audience a shy smile and a wave. “Now, Kirk,” the host greeted him. “We hear that you invented a flavor that absolutely blew Haagen Dazs away.” “It was unlike anything anyone on the panel had ever tasted,” added a middle aged man sitting behind him. “It was so amazing and complex that we couldn’t put our fingers on what it was. And believe me, we at Haagen Dazs KNOW our flavors.” The audience laughed and clapped lightly. “And it CERTAINLY must have come as a surprise that this flavor was created by a celebrity, none other than Kirk Hammett, who plays guitar with hard rock band Metallica!” The man laughed. “Believe me, it would have won by a landslide no matter who created it. But you know, Joan, this young man didn’t even send us a recipe.” The host feigned shock. “He didn’t! How rock star of you, Kirk!” Kirk shrugged awkwardly and giggled. “I guess.” “Well,” the host continued, patting Kirk on the shoulder, “I hope you have that recipe with you now because you are going to gave all of us in the audience a special taste right now!” She clapped her hands and on cue a wide table piled with his ingredients and some fancy looking kitchen accessories rolled onstage. (“He’d better have that fucking recipe with him!” blurted Lars from the dressing room, where the band crowded around a small monitor in back. Lars was red and sweaty and Jason was chewing his nails. Only James seemed calm). “Uh, yeah, well!” Kirk stared at the intimidatingly shiny stainless steel mixing bowl in front of him. The food lined up very neatly, just as he’d done that morning in the kitchen two months ago. “I sure hope so, too.” The confused audience laughed. Focus, Kirk, focus. C’mon, Kirk! prayed James. Then something magical - but very familiar - happened. Kirk felt his body and mind relax. He forgot the hosts, the band, the audience, the entire country, including thousands of Metallica fans who’d woken up uncharacteristically early just to see him. It was just him, and the task at hand, which was to make an ass-kicking sauce! He didn't remember exactly what happened, or how it happened. He dumped and sloshed ingredients together without using any measuring cups or spoons (much to everyone’s bemusement). He mixed it up. And when he felt he was done - didn’t know, just felt – he handed the bowl to the Haagen Dazs executive. "Here ya go!" The executive looked at the brownish-purple slop doubtfully, much as James had. But he poured a little bit in a shotglass and sipped. Kirk’s heart stopped. “Wow, yes! This is it! America’s new favorite ice cream flavor!” the man declared. The audience went nuts, and Jason, Lars and James leapt up, hugged and whooped, “YESSSS!” “You – you really like it?” said Kirk, who was still frozen on the stage. The audience and host laughed. “Of course we do. We love it!” “Oh, yeah! Yessssss!” Kirk jumped and pumped his fist, then remembered the last thing. “But you guys, everyone, stop! We can’t have it without the ice cream!” “Of course not,” the host laughed. “That’s why we brought this.” She opened a huge chilled stainless steel vat filled with – “Vanilla Bean ice cream! Sweeeet, yesssss!” (Leave it to Lars to instruct the studio to stock up!) Kirk personally helped hand out bowls of ice cream smothered in his sauce to the adoring audience, who were within minutes licking their spoons and asking for seconds. “When is this going to be released?” asked one excited woman. “August twelfth, nineteen ninety-one!” Lars Ulrich’s unmistakable voice boomed from the stage. Kirk turned around and saw his grinning bandmates on stage. “The release will coincide with that of our brand new self titled studio album.” The executive nodded. Obviously he and Lars had done some chatting while Kirk was busy hypnotizing himself, sniffing Pantene and wasting food! “I hear Kirk has another treat for us!” The host guided him back to the stage, where Lars grabbed his arm. “He’s going to join the rest of the boys in Metallica and play a surprise set, right here in Times Square!” The audience gasped and many fled outside to claim their places by the stage. “We’ve got five minutes, Kirk, let’s go!” Lars yanked him out the door. As they jogged down the hallway toward the back exit, Kirk started to untie his apron. “Leave that on, buddy,” James instructed. “Not every band can boast a star chef.” The two-song performance went flawlessly – the band was on fire, and shocked New Yorkers on dashed down sidewalks and jumped out of cabs in their freshly ironed work clothes to mosh. Kirk played better than he’d ever played in his life - even in the studio! After the show, James gave him a squeeze. "I knew you could do it, man," he whispered to his friend. "Thanks for believing in me!" Kirk whispered back. As for the sauce – how did he do it? Kirk enjoyed a bowl of ice cream in the dressing room, and it didn’t really taste much like the batch he’d made before. In fact, it was totally different. But still delicious! And no one really seemed to notice that it was off. Kirk hadn’t measured or written anything down the second time either, of course, but Haagen Dazs watched the filmed segment of him dumping and pouring and derived some approximate measurements, which they tweaked in their kitchens until they’d developed a dead ringer. Metallica ice cream was a huge hit, and as for the album, well, everyone knows how that went. And Kirk learned an important lesson – that sometimes, it isn’t about doing something exactly right, it’s about having confidence in himself that he has the ability to deliver a solid effort, every time. THE END. Edited by lady_jaymz, April 26, 2014, 11:29 pm.
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8:37 PM Jul 10