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Kirk Hammett and the Frog Princess; I'm on a fairy tale kick, what can I say. Het.
Topic Started: March 20, 2007, 8:26 pm (4,615 Views)
Verity
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The Story Girl
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Disclaimer: The following is a work of very silly and pointless fiction. No harm is intended towards those mentioned, it is certainly not for profit, it's just to piss the time away.


As Usual: naughty language, and chapter 2 is just sick.


Chapter One


Once upon a time, long, long ago in 1984, there lived a totally bad-ass thrash metal band named Metallica. Metallica had four accomplished, handsome, and outrageously sexy band members. The lead guitarist Kirk, was the sexiest. He was so sexy that even the sun was entranced and amazed every time that it shone down upon his face.

On a fine, warm, evening, Kirk put on his leather jacket, and ventured outside the old school club that they had been performing in, to clear his mind, and smoke some weed.

Kirk was careful to make sure that none of the others could see him. James never really approved of smoking weed, and he didn’t want to have to share it with Lars or Cliff.
Kirk found a trash can to plop down on. He was in the process of lighting his joint when a voice yelped

“How dare you sit upon my home? Don’t you know that I am but a good tree fairy living alone?”

Kirk leapt off of the trash can, and to his shock and amazement a small, little, tree fairy flew out from inside of the garbage can.

“Whoever heard of a tree fairy that lives in a garbage can?” Kirk laughed heartily and tossed his mass of thick, black, curls.

“Tis better to be a tree fairy living in a garbage can, than a tree fairy living on the streets of L.A,” the fairy replied.

Kirk racked his brain. A tree fairy living in a garbage can? Since when did they have tree fairies in California? Cliff had given him some pills earlier that morning, but Kirk couldn’t be tripping, for he had taken those pills hours ago, or could he? Cliff could come up with some pretty fucked up shit about dungeons, and trolls, beautiful courtesans, and goblins. Perhaps Kirk was tripping.

“Fuck you,” Kirk growled and pulled his leather jacket tighter around him. “Go fly back to the woods or something.”

“But I have no tree to live in,” said the fairy. “I am poor and have no money. I can’t even feed my kids. I had to leave them behind.”

“Well then you shouldn’t have had any,” Kirk snapped. This fucking tree fairy was ruining his nightly smoke.

“I came to L.A. to sell my goods and hopefully make a little money,” the fairy explained.
“Would you fancy buying some?”

“Only if you’re selling cheap guitar strings,” Kirk laughed. The fairy frowned.

“I have no guitar strings,” she said glumly. “I come selling weed.”

“Weed?” Kirk asked. “I have plenty of weed. I don’t need any.”

“Surely you don’t have any golden weed though,” said the fairy.

“Golden weed?” Kirk asked in surprise. He had only heard of golden weed in fairy tales, and in some of Cliff’s most far out stories. According to Cliff, golden weed was weed grown by nymphs in the most enchanted parts of the forest, and was always handpicked and rolled by princesses. They were said to have magical charms bestowed upon them, and one joint could last for many, many, hits.

The tree fairy reached into her little knapsack and took out a fat, lush, golden joint.

Kirk reached for it, but the fairy stuffed it back into her knapsack.

“You must pay me twelve shillings,” she replied.

“Oh come on,” Kirk pressed. “I’m Kirk Hammett. I play in Metallica.”

“That is very nice kind man,” replied the fairy. “But you being Kirk Hammett does not put food in my children’s bellies.”

Kirk sighed, and reached down into his pocket for his coin purse. He carefully counted out twelve shillings, and not one shilling more, and gave them to the fairy. In return, the fairy gave Kirk the golden joint, and thanked him profusely. “For now my children will be able to eat tonight,” she cried and flew away.

Kirk shook his head, and rubbed his eyes. Still, he held a real, golden, joint in his hand. The fairy must have been real. His first thought was to go run back inside of the club and find Cliff. He would be most pleased to get to smoke a golden joint. But why in the hell should he share it? Kirk had paid for it, it was his. Greedily, Kirk stuffed the golden joint into his coat pocket, and ventured even further away from the club, so he could get stoned in privacy.

Kirk walked to the edge of the village, and past all of the houses and cottages. Eventually, he hit the forest, but he didn’t need to venture very far. Kirk plopped down on the side of a well, and carefully took out the golden joint. He held it up to the moonlight and it seemed to shimmer and say to him: “smoke me Kirk! Smoke me!”

Kirk began to fumble around for his lighter. Fuck! Where the fuck was it? Kirk began to search through the pockets of his leather jacket. He found guitar picks, ticket stubs, a moldy jelly biscuit, and the phone number of a groupie in Dallas that he had loved for one night six months ago, but no lighter. Kirk was just about to dig down into the pocket of his tight, tight, black denim jeans, when he lost his grip on the golden joint. To Kirk’s horror the golden joint fell down inside the well. Kirk watched until it fell out of his sight.

Kirk was speechless. He didn’t know what to say. Even fuck didn’t seem to get the despair and anguish that he was feeling out. He had just spent twelve shillings! Twelve mother-fucking shillings all gone! Gone down the well forever! Plus, he would probably never ever ever get another chance to try smoking golden weed, and all of the enchantments that came with it.

“I’m going to be fucking sick,” he murmured as he stared helplessly down into the well. All he could see was a thick, black, sludge of water. Kirk put his head down upon the side of the well and began to bitterly weep. “My golden joint is gone!” he wailed. “I would give anything for it, even my brand new guitar! Even all of my album royalties for the rest of my life. Even all of the most beautiful women in the world!”

Poor little Kirk Hammett began to weep and weep and weep. He was inconsolable. He wept violently, his poor little black curls bobbing up and down as he sobbed.

A disgusting, corpulent, frog poked its head up out of the well.

“Whatever is the matter?” it asked.

“Oh piss fuck you horrid old toad!” Kirk snarled.

“I am not a toad, I’m a frog,” it retorted huffily.

Man, he would never take anymore shit from Cliff again. First he was seeing talking fairies that flew out of garbage cans, now he was seeing talking frogs.

“I have dropped my golden joint down into the well,” Kirk sighed. “There is nothing that a fucking frog can do to help me.”

“I could go down into the water and fetch the golden joint for you,” the frog replied. “I wouldn’t ask for much in return.”

“You can have a case of Jagermeister, a fine distressed leather jacket, and all of the royalties from my band’s album sales,” Kirk said.

“I don’t want any Jagermeister,” said the frog. “That shit tastes like lighter fluid. I also don’t want your jacket, for it wouldn’t fit me, and I don’t care for your royalties either.”

“Well quit dickin around,” said Kirk. “Just go down and bring me my fucking joint!”

“If you will take me home with you, so that I can be your friend, companion, sweetheart, and playmate. And if you will let me sit at your table, at your right hand side, and eat upon your plate, and sleep upon your pillow, then I will go fetch your golden joint,” said the frog.

“Oh alright,” Kirk sighed. Silly frog! Like a fucking frog could really follow him around on a tour bus and eat from his plate. “Just get me my joint!”

“You promise?” the frog asked.

“I promise,” Kirk nodded.

The frog disappeared into the deep, murky, water, and reappeared with the golden joint in its mouth. The frog placed the joint down next to Kirk. Kirk greedily snapped up the joint and stuffed it into his pocket. He got up and began to head back towards L..A.

“Take me with you!” the frog yelped. “You promised.”

However, Kirk ignored the little frog.

“Please! Please!” the frog yelled. “I have all of your albums!”

But Kirk ignored all calls and squeaks from the little frog.

Kirk went home, and in the privacy of his bedroom was able to finally smoke that golden joint. The golden joint made Kirk play the guitar even better, and made him even sexier, if that was even humanly possible.


One pleasant evening, Kirk, Lars, Cliff, and James were hanging out in the hospitality trailer. They were at a music festival in Pennsylvania, and had finished playing their set. They were finishing off a case of beer, and Lars was making his way through a bag of iced oatmeal cookies.

“What the hell are you doing James?” Lars asked with his mouth stuffed with cookie.

James was hunched over his writing tablet. He had been carefully sketching something.

“I’m designing a tattoo for myself,” James said proudly.

“Oooh,” Kirk cooed. “A tattoo! I have always wanted one, but Ma won’t let me get one until I turn twenty-five.”

“You have gaught to be shitting me?” Lars laughed and stuffed another cookie into his mouth. “My mom said that I could get a tattoo at the age of fourteen, she let me drink at the age of six.”

“Wow, my mom doesn’t even allow any alcohol into her home,” said Kirk.

“That’s why it would suck to be you,” Lars replied. “I bet she still makes you wear long underwear doesn’t she?”

Kirk gulped and nodded.

“She says that it prevents consumption,” he blurted out shyly.

“What a focking antiquated rule!” Lars laughed and popped another cookie into his mouth. “Nobody wears long underwear anymore.”

“Fuck right,” James agreed.

Kirk looked down into his lap, and hung his head. To make it worse Cliff blurted out

“My parents let me drink when I turned twelve. I was allowed anything that I wanted from their liquor cabinet, as long as I asked first. When I was sixteen, they let me smoke weed with their friends.”

Kirk sighed. Cliff and Lars and even James with his tattoo, all seemed much more grownup and sophisticated than he. They never had to worry about trivial shit such as long underwear, booze, or tattoos. They didn’t have to try and cover up any swearing on the albums when they played them for their families, but poor Kirk sure did.

“Why on earth would you want a rabbit tattoo?” Cliff asked as he peered over James’s shoulder.

“That’s not a rabbit!” James retorted. “It’s supposed to be a tombstone.”

“Well how come it has ears?” asked Cliff.

James snatched the bag of oatmeal cookies from Lars’s grasp and dumped them over Cliff’s head. Cliff began to shriek madly when all of a sudden, they heard scratching at the trailer door.

“Kirk Lee Hammett!” a voice cried. “Open up for me!”

“Kirkie pie has a little nookie!” Lars sang.

Kirk opened up the door, expecting to see one of the many chickies that he had invited back to their trailer earlier that day. Instead, the frog stood there. At the sight of the frog, Kirk slammed the door in its face, and returned back to his band mates.

“Kirk, you look like you’ve shit yourself,” Lars commented. “What’s up? Your Mom come by or something? She’s going to see her little Kirky all drunk and fucked up.”

Kirk rehashed the meeting of the frog to his band mates. He told them about the tree fairy, the golden weed, the frog, and how the frog requested to become Kirk’s companion.

“You mean, you have some fucking golden weed and you never told me!” Cliff shrieked. “You have golden weed right here, right now?”

“Calm down Cliff,” James ordered. “Golden weed is nothing to piss yourself over.”

“Hell it is too!” Cliff retorted.

“Did you really make a promise to that frog?” James asked. Kirk nodded.

Just then, there was a second knock upon the door, and a voice sang

Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! Open up for me!
Don’t you remember what you promised me?

Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! Open up for me!

“Jesus!” Lars exclaimed. “The fucking frog can sing as well! What on earth is that shit you have you been giving us Cliff?”

“Kirk,” James said firmly. “What you promised, you must do. Go on and open the door, and let the frog in.”

With heavy feet, Kirk shuffled over to the door, opened it up, and let the frog follow him inside.
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MetGrrl
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ohmygod :lol: i love it! :horns2
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lolo
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hahahah omg i love it :D
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$DiamondHead$
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:lol: i love it too :biggrin
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Misshammett
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haha aww so sweet :D
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Verity
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Thanks so much for the reviews. :)

Now on with the silliness... Oh yeah- a tad gross, just don't picture anything.



Chapter 2

Plippety plack, plippety plack, went the frog as it seeped into the trailer. The frog left a trail of greenish tinged ooze as it followed Kirk on over to the table.

“Gross!” Lars cried.

“Ah come on Lars,” laughed James. “Frogs are the shit! Didn’t you ever go out and try to catch frogs when you were a kid?”

“Absolutely not,” Lars retorted, putting his hands onto his hips. “I was brought up in a prominent Danish family. I did not make a spectacle of myself.”

“Well you sure as hell did last night down at the Whiskey Pub,” James laughed, and Lars rolled his eyes. To Lars and Kirk’s horror, the frog began to eat up the oatmeal cookies that James had dumped over Cliff, and onto the floor.

Lars had ordered a heaping plate of chicken wings for everybody, along with a bucket of biscuits, and potato salad. Kirk sat down, for he was ravenously hungry. He stuffed his napkin into his collar in order to protect his prized Misfits T-shirt, and greedily reached across the table for a chicken wing that was dripping with barbecue sauce. He was just about to sink his teeth into the tender flesh of the wing when…

“Ribbit, ribbit,” croaked the frog.

“Kirk! Shut that fucking frog up!” Lars ordered with a mouth full of biscuit.

In dismay, Kirk threw his chicken wing down onto his plate, and glared down at the frog. The frog stared back up at him with huge bug eyes.

“Please let me sit up on the table next to you,” it said.

“You already ate,” barked Kirk. “You ate those cookies off of the floor.”

“But they had been stepped on,” replied the frog. “Would you want to eat stepped on cookies?”

“Fuck you,” Kirk snarled and again picked up his chicken wing.

“Ribbit, ribbit,” the frog croaked again.

“If you don’t shut that fucking frog up, I am going to slaughter it and boil it for tomorrow’s dinner!” Lars demanded.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone you stupid old frog?” Kirk wailed as he threw down his chicken wing. Would he ever get to eat?

“You promised me that I could be your companion, and that I could wine and dine with you,” the frog replied.

“Well, we are drinking beer not wine,” Kirk retorted.

“I like beer,” said the frog.

“I’m not going to let no frog sit up at the table with me,” Kirk snapped. “I could get warts.”

“Kirk,” said James. “If you promised the frog, then you must keep that promise.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Kirk asked. “It’s a frog!” He watched in horror as James took the last biscuit out of the bucket, leaving Kirk with none. “Frogs are dirty and they carry disease!”

“And so do most of the chicks that you bring home with you after our concerts,” James pointed out. “Ain’t that right Cliff?”

“Yep. Very dirty chicks,” Cliff mumbled and nodded with his mouth full of food.

“But we like them that way, don’t we?” asked James.

“Absolutely,” Cliff replied as licked barbecue sauce from his fingers and took a swig of beer.

“So that means that frogs are allowed at our table,” James stated as he dripped honey all over that last biscuit that poor little Kirk never got to have. Kirk looked over to Lars for help.

“Do as James says,” Lars commanded. Kirk had no choice. He reached for the frog, and held it out as far away from his body as possible. Then he placed it on the chair next to him. The frog leapt up onto the table, and plopped down right next to Kirk’s plate. To Kirk’s horror it took a long slug right from his beer bottle, finishing it off.

“The little fucker sure drinks well enough to hang out with us,” James observed.

The frog let out a belch, instigating a belching contest between James, Cliff, and Lars. The frog helped itself to the food on Kirk’s plate. It gobbled up twenty-six chicken wings, four beers, one jell-o shot, and four big servings of potato salad. Kirk was very repulsed by a frog eating off of his plate, and drinking from his bottle. He barely ate a bite, and he certainly didn’t drink anything. Kirk would go to bed hungry and miserable, and he wouldn’t even get the pleasure of being blasted for the night.

Kirk was about to go off to bed, but he could hear the sludgey sound of the frog behind him.

“No way!” he declared as he turned to face the frog. “You aren’t coming with me.”

“But you promised that I could sleep in your little bed,” sweetly replied the frog.

“Come on Kirk,” Cliff teased. “I heard that frogs are great in the sack.”

“Well then you fucking take it with you,” Kirk grumbled.

“I will, if you give me your golden joint,” Cliff replied. “Hell, I’d even fuck the frog for that.”

“Never!” Kirk exclaimed. “I fucking spent twelve shillings on that shit!”

“Fuck. That fairy ripped you off,” Cliff said shaking his head. He yawned. “Oh well, I’ve had enough of hanging around with you losers for one day. I’m going to bed.”

“Me too,” said Lars. “You keep that fucking toad away from me Kirk, you hear?”

“I am not a toad, I’m a frog,” the frog insisted.

“Fuck you, it’s all the same,” Lars mumbled, and he too flounced off to bed.

“Go on,” said James. “You promised the frog, now you have to take it with you.”

With a heavy heart, Kirk picked up the frog, holding it away from him, and brought it back into his bedchamber. He placed the frog in the furthest corner, and quickly undressed, and hopped into the warm, soft, and fluffy bed. No sooner had Kirk’s head hit the pillow he heard

Plip plop. Plip plop. Kirk was as still as a corpse, as he felt the blankets rustle slightly as the frog leapt up onto his bed. Kirk pulled his blankets up closer to his face, trying to keep as far away from the cold and slimy frog as possible. However, the frog crept right up to Kirk’s pillow, and plopped down right next to Kirk’s head.

“No!” Kirk cried and sat upright. “That fucking crosses the line! You are not fucking sleeping on my pillow!”

“But it’s so cold,” answered the frog. “Your pillow is so soft and warm, and your thick, black, curls are like a blanket.”

“No!” Kirk yelled.

“Kirk!” James roared from the other bedroom. “We’re trying to fucking sleep here! Now I don’t really give a damn if that frog wants to fucking suck your dick! Just let it have what it wants, so we can get some fucking sleep!”

“I second that!” added Lars from the other room.

Kirk took a deep breath, and shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at the ugly frog that now sat upon his pillow like a posha. Kirk brushed his hair off to the other side, trying to keep his tresses as far from the nasty old frog as possible.

As Kirk drifted off into a restless and weary slumber, he gave silent thanks that he had not promised to let the frog suck his dick.










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Simone
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:lol: the last one was really cool! can't wait for more! :horns: :heart: :horns2
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$DiamondHead$
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:P lmao that was cool
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Simone
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more please? :biggrin
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yea!!! we want more!! we want more!!!
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Verity
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Here you go ladies... some more!

Chapter 3


Kirk was rudely awakened the next morning as the frog took a flying leap off of his bed.

“Goodbye Kirk Lee!” it called and to Kirk’s delight and amazement hopped off out the window.

“Thank heavens,” Kirk muttered as he slipped back under his covers, for it wasn’t even yet noon. “That fucking toad is gone. By tonight we will be in a different state, and I will never have to be troubled with it or any of it’s bullshit again.”


Later that day Metallica arrived in Indiana for their next show. They would be playing on an evening concert, and because of this Kirk was very thankful that the blasted frog had left. Metallica concerts were not the place for nasty, disgusting, frogs.

James had gone out to grab some takeout Chinese food to bring back to their bus to eat for dinner. Lars had gone off to scan the scene for chickies since he was on a mission to bang a girl from every state that they toured in. Cliff had gone up to the liquor store to replenish their dwindling stash of booze, and pick up some munchies.

Kirk sat outside the tour bus on a broken and dilapidated lawn chair, happily sunning himself, and smoking a cigarette. He had kicked off his socks and high-top sneakers, and was soaking his feet in a mud puddle. He was completely relaxed. Since the others had gone out, he had complete, blessed, peace and silence.

Just then, there was a gigantic splash from the mud puddle, and the frog leapt out.

“Can I bum a smoke?” it asked.

“What the fuck?” Kirk shrieked.

Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee!” it sang. “Have you a smoke for me?”

Kirk’s hands immediately flew to his pocket to protect his pack of cigarettes.

“Get your own damn smokes,” he retorted. “How the fuck did you get here?”

“I’m your friend and companion Kirk Lee,” the frog replied. “We go everywhere together.”

Just then, Cliff Burton came up the walk clutching a brown paper bag filled with all sorts of bottles, and yummy treats. A shaggy, brown, and hideously ugly dog followed behind him.

“Hey look who followed me home from the liquor store Kirk,” Cliff greeted and gestured over to the dog. “I’m going to name him Geezer.”

Geezer smelled like a combination of trash, shit, and old shoes. Kirk knew that there was no way in hell that Lars was going to let Cliff drag that smelly dog all over hell’s half acre on tour with them.

“Does it eat frogs?” Kirk asked and gestured towards the frog.

Fear crept into the little frog’s eyes, but Geezer had no interest in the frog. Geezer wagged his tail politely, and hovered behind Cliff, hoping that he had found a new home.

“The fucker came back,” Cliff said with surprise, eyeing the frog.

“Kirk Lee, please let me have a smoke?” the frog pleaded once again.

“No way!” Kirk exclaimed.

“Oh come on Kirk,” Cliff said as he turned to go on inside. “Quit being such a cheap asshole.” He threw the frog one of his own cigarettes, and whistled to Geezer to follow him on inside. Geezer happily obeyed, leaving Kirk alone with the frog once again.

“Kirk Lee,” said the frog. “I need a light.”

Kirk heaved a dramatic and annoyed sigh, and pulled out his lighter. He bent down, and lit the frog’s cigarette.

“Now beat it,” he snarled. “I got to perform tonight.”

“Then perhaps I can tune up your guitar for you?” offered the frog.

“I’d rather have a deaf person tune my guitar,” Kirk replied gruffly, as he began to put on his shoes and socks.

James now came up the walkway. James was carrying two bags stuffed with Chinese food. The little frog began to jump around with glee.

“I love Chinese food! Fortune cookies are my favourite!” it sang.

“Hey Kirk! Your girlfriend came back,” James joked.

“That frog is not my girlfriend,” Kirk hissed. “It’s a fucking stalker that’s what it is.”

“Did you promise the frog your companionship?” James asked. Kirk looked away. He knew that he had, stupidly had.

“Then that frog has every right to go everywhere with you,” said James. “China, California, Rio de Janeiro, Hell, East bumfuck, everywhere.”

“But I shouldn’t have to suffer for the rest of my natural life,” Kirk whined as he followed James inside the bus, the frog followed, staying close to Kirk’s heels.

“Sit Geezer sit,” Cliff was commanding to Geezer. He held one of Lars’s oatmeal cookies over the dog’s nose.

“Jesus,” James whistled as he set his bags of takeout food down on the table. “Frogs, dogs, this place is turning into a fucking zoo! It even smells like a zoo! Actually, it reeks like all-hell in here! Now get that dog outta here!”

“Geezer is not the reason it smells in here,” Cliff retorted.

“It’s the frog,” said Kirk.

“No,” Cliff shook his head. “Whenever you have four guys living together, drinking together, and fucking women left-and-right-together, it’s going to smell like all-hell.”

“Whatever.” James shrugged and began to raid a carton filled with egg rolls.

Kirk began to walk across the room. The frog hopped along and followed.

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! Where you going with out me?”

“To take a shit,” Kirk replied testily. “Can I not even take a shit in peace?”

“But you promised that I could be your constant companion,” whined the frog.

“A man keeps his promises Kirk,” said James as he popped open a beer.

With a heavy sigh, Kirk picked up the frog, and carried it with him into the bathroom.


Lars came home in a rather sunny mood, for he had a beautiful, sun-tanned, corn-fed brunette return home with him.

“Cheers fellow comrades!” he happily greeted. “Meet Jill. I met her down at the Pig N Feed Barbecue. Ain’t she cool?”

James looked up from the bowl of noodles that he was devouring, and straight to Jill’s ass. He nodded with approval.

“They got some nice ass down at the Pig N Feed,” he greeted eloquently.

Just then, Geezer ran up to greet Lars, crazily wagging his tail and drooling all over.

“That can’t be a dog,” Jill said.

“If it is, it’s an ugly one,” Lars replied. “Cliff, what the fuck is going on?”

“Meet Geezer,” said Cliff. “He followed me home from the liquor store.”

Geezer went up to Jill, wagged his tail, and slobbered a huge, sticky, puddle all over her nicely tanned, shaved, legs.

“He slimed me!” Jill shrieked.

“Cliff, this fucking dog is drooling all over the place! Now get him the fuck out of here before he slimes me!” Lars ordered.

“He’s not drooling, he’s just spreading a little love,” Cliff replied and threw his arms around the dog. “Can’t we keep him?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Cliff asked.

“Because,” said Lars. “My daddy pays for the tour bus, and I say no dogs allowed.”

“But we can have frogs,” Cliff pointed out.

“What frog?” demanded Lars.

Just then Kirk emerged from the bathroom. The frog hopped out after him.

“Did it wipe your ass for you Kirk?” James asked.

“Actually, yes, it did,” Kirk replied sullenly.

“That’s true love,” James teased. “I’d wipe Jill’s ass for her.”

“Me too,” Cliff added.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Jill yelped and stood up. “You guys are as rude and vile as that disgusting frog and drooling dog! I’m out of here!” and she picked up her purse, and flew out the door.

“Sorry bout that Lars,” said James.

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” answered Lars. “I already got what I wanted from her anyway. Let’s eat! We have a concert to play soon.”

Kirk took his seat at the dinner table, and began to greedily heap most of the chow mien noodles onto his plate. He was starving, since he had barely eaten a bite the night before, and breakfast had consisted of only a shot of Bushmills and a bloody Mary.

Kirk was just beginning to shove down overflowing forkfuls when he heard

“Ribbit, ribbit,” from under the table. Kirk threw down his fork.

“Piss fucker!” he yelled.

“Watch your language at the table young man,” James scolded. “Good Riddance!”

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! I’m hungry,” the frog sang.

“Dude, he sings better than James,” Lars laughed.

“Shut the fuck up!” James sneered.

“Language!” Lars teased.

“Feed me! Feed me! Kirk Lee,” the little frog begged.

“You’re always hungry!” Kirk cried.

“Actually I haven’t eaten a bite yet today,” the frog replied.

“Kirk, you must fulfill your promise and keep Metallica’s dignity,” James ordered.

Kirk placed the frog up upon the table. Personally, he felt that there was nothing dignified about dining with grimy, slimy, smelly, old frogs.

“Kirk Lee!” the frog squealed with delight and slopped down all of his beer. Then it began to suck the chow mien noodles right from his plate. It would be another foodless night for Kirk.

The frog’s belly grew large as the frog sucked up every last noodle from Kirk’s plate, polished off six egg rolls, three beers, and ate everybody’s fortune cookies. Full and nearly bursting, the frog laid back, resting on Kirk’s beer bottle, and belched.

“Kirk can have a fat, revolting, belching frog, but I can’t keep my dog,” Cliff quipped bitterly.

Lars had banished poor Geezer outside, and had tied him to the trailer-hitch on the bus with a thick rope, until Cliff would be able to try and find his home. Geezer sadly lay on the dusty ground, his head in his paws, whimpering, and sadly gazing at the bus.

“Oh come on Cliff,” Lars said as he took his last sip of beer. “That dog probably belongs to some nine-year-old, overweight, farm girl, and she is probably just devastated that he wandered away.”

“Well then she don’t deserve him,” said Cliff. “He followed me home for a reason.”

“You were carrying food and alcohol,” replied Lars. “Of course he would follow you.”

“I promise to take good care of him,” Cliff pressed on. “I’ll take care of him all by myself.”

“Cliff, you can barely take care of your own self, let alone a dog!” Lars reminded him. “You get so fucked up and trashed that I have to put your clothes back on for you, and carry you home. I’ve had to lift you up out of your own pools of vomit, and keep you from falling into the toilet. There is no way that you could care for a dog. Kirk on the other hand is responsible. He can take care of his frog.”

“Kirk Lee, Kirk Lee,” the frog groaned and rubbed it’s bloated stomach. “I think I am going to be sicky!”

And poor Kirk had to escort the gluttonous frog to the bathroom, but his night was only about to get much worse.











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Simone
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MOOOOORE! I love fairytales!When I'm having children,I'll be reading your stories to them :lol: that will be a loooong time to wait!
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Thanks Simone, but you are going to have some rather foul mouthed children someday. :lol:
I love a good fairy tale too.


Chapter 4

The following contains lyrics from “Fade to Black.”



“Come Kirk!” Lars bellowed as he hopped up onto the stage. “Get your ass up here! We need to go to work so that we can pay the bills! Put bread on the table!”

Kirk was ripping through the greenroom, backstage. He couldn’t find his guitar anywhere, and he had left his second one back at the bus.

“I can’t find my ax!” he called.

“What do you mean you can’t find your ax?” Lars spat. “I handle all business, promotion, and booking for this band! All you have to do is ride along, and play the fucking guitar, and you’re telling me that you can’t find it?”

“I would never be so careless with my guitar,” James scoffed. “Look man, we need to take the stage in two minutes. Find it quick, or find another band to play with.”

Kirk trashed the greenroom as he cast all of their clothes, amp cables, mic stands, mic clips, guitar magazines, and other various objects out of their trunks. In the far corner, he noticed a big mass that was covered up with a blanket. Kirk peered under it, only to find Geezer, quietly chewing on a bone. Did Cliff really think that Lars was that stupid?

Kirk had no time to turn Cliff and Geezer in. James was already out on stage politely greeting the crowd.

“Indy-fucking-ana!!!!!!!” he bellowed.

A guitarless Kirk stumbled upon the stage. He had no idea what he was going to fucking do, but at least he was there. He saw Lars look at him in disgust.

“We’re Metallica! Fuck yeah!!!” James screamed to the audience. “And we are going to give you all a little dose of Whiplash!”

And with that, the band launched into Whiplash. To Kirk’s amazement the little frog hopped out from behind the stacked amplifiers, holding Kirk’s guitar. The frog placed it right in Kirk’s hands just in the nick of time. The guitar had been perfectly tuned, and the volume was set just right.

As Kirk played, he forgot all about the frog. All four members were having an “on” night and spirits were high. However, just a little over halfway through during Ride the Lighting things changed. Kirk was in the midst of his solo. He had a blaring passage of arpeggios that he was cruising through quite nicely, when all of a sudden he caught sight of that damn frog sitting perched upon the head of his guitar, headbanging.

He could take the frog eating off of his dinner plate. He could take the frog sleeping upon his pillow, and even wiping his ass, but there was no way in hell that Kirk Hammett was going to put up with some corpulent frog sitting on his guitar! Not only was the frog sitting on the head of his guitar, but it had left a trail of green, slimy, ooze, all over the fret board.

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! Ride the lighting Kirk Lee!” it squealed with delight as it banged its head with the music, and gave the horns up sign.

“You fucking prick! Get off of my ax!” Kirk hissed. He tried to fling the frog off of his guitar by swinging the guitar around madly.

“Holy shit!” James muttered as Kirk went wildly spinning about the stage.

Kirk played guitar really well, but not well enough to remember his solo, and try and fling the frog off at the same time. The others carried on as Kirk completely dropped out of the solo, and began to madly shriek and weave a web of profanities. Finally, the frog went flying off of the guitar, and clobbered Cliff (who was off in an ecstasy that only pot and performing kick-ass music could achieve) right in the head, causing him a concussion. Cliff and his bass fell into a heap on the floor.

“Sorry folks,” James called to the audience, hiding his disgust with Kirk. “I guess we weren’t kidding when we said we were going to give a little whiplash.”

Ratt took over for Metallica, as they dragged Cliff off the stage. Conveniently, the frog was nowhere to be found.

“Maybe the little cock-sucker died,” Kirk thought with satisfaction.

Cliff woke up ten minutes later. Even though he seemed fine, Lars still wanted him to be checked out by a doctor. Kirk waited back in the greenroom with Cliff for the doctor to arrive, as Lars and James went out to try and create some P.R. with the fans who were annoyed that their Metallica show got cut short.

“Did I really get hit by that stupid, old, frog?” Cliff asked as he held an ice pack to his head.

“Afraid so,” Kirk replied.

“I thought that I had just gone on a really bad acid trip,” Cliff shook his head. “Hey, when I’m at the doctor’s do you think that you could do me a favor?”

“No Cliff, I am not giving you my golden weed,” Kirk answered.

“No, it’s about Geezer,” said Cliff. “Do you think you could go right now and sneak him into the baggage compartment underneath the bus? That way Lars won’t see him, and he can still travel with us. We’re only on tour for two more weeks. I think I can manage it.”

Kirk sighed. He ignored telling Cliff that he was actually planning on telling on him and Geezer to Lars after the show. He felt so bad for smacking him with the frog. If he didn’t help his friend, he would most certainly have a guilty conscience. Kirk found himself, taking Geezer, and luring him with bits of cheese into the baggage compartment, where they kept all of their amps and equipment.

Kirk was just locking the baggage compartment door when he heard that annoying familiar song

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! What about me Kirk Lee?”

The frog had skipped up behind him.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Kirk snarled. “You just ruined our entire concert.”

“But Kirk Lee, didn’t I tune your guitar so sweetly?” it asked.

“Quit fucking calling me Kirk Lee! You’re not my mom,” Kirk snapped.

The frog’s face fell, and tears began to well up in its big, bug eyes. Kirk felt the slightest twinge of guilt in his heart. His guitar had been in better tune then it had been in for a long time. However, the frog had snatched it before the concert without asking, and had messed up their entire performance.

“Don’t ever fuck with my guitar again,” he said firmly. “Unless, I tell you that it’s okay. If you want to tune it before the shows, ask first, and don’t ever pull that shit again where I can’t find it before I’m about to go on.”

“But I was only trying to help thee Kirk Lee,” the frog answered.

“If you want to help Kirk Lee,” Kirk said. “Go drown yourself in a lake, or hop into a furnace or something.”

This time, the frog actually burst out into tears. But Kirk didn’t soften. He was through pussing around.

Kirk went on inside the bus. He had definitely had enough bullshit for one day.

He was happily situated in his bedchamber. He had a fresh, cold, bottle of beer, and was ready to take a hit from his golden joint. When all of a sudden, a recording of Fade to Black blasted throughout the tour bus.

“Is James that enamored with himself,” Kirk thought with annoyance as he set down his joint. “We just played the fucking song an hour ago. I don’t need to hear it again!”

“Guys!” Kirk bellowed. “Turn down that fucking music! I’m trying to get high in here!”

But no one turned the music down.

“I work with a bunch of lazy asses!” Kirk sighed huffily, and stalked out of his bedchamber. However, nobody seemed to be around. Lars and James had gone carousing for beautiful women, and Cliff was still at the doctor’s. Kirk, and Geezer underneath the bus, were the only ones there. Kirk couldn’t figure out where the recording was coming from, or who had turned it on. The bus was also dark, except there were a few candles lit.

“Guys, if this is some sort of a sick joke, it’s really third-grade,” Kirk called, but there was no reply. “Damn, I sound good,” Kirk thought as he heard his guitar interlude before the second verse. Just then, he heard the singing of an all-to-familiar voice, but it wasn’t singing the Kirk Lee song, it was singing

Things not what they used to be
Missing one inside of me
Deathly lost, this can’t be real
Can’t stand this hell I feel
Emptiness is filling me
To the point of agony


Kirk flipped on the light, jarring the frog from its reverie.

“What the blasted fuck do you think you’re doing?” demanded Kirk. Once he had flicked on the light he could see the frog was sitting upon the sofa, a tape recorder and a shot gun sat next to it. He immediately hit the stop button on the tape recorder.

“Preparing to die of course,” answered the frog. “I have always wanted to die dramatically like they do in the soap operas. Don’t you think that listening to Fade to Black right before you pull the trigger is a tragically dramatic way to go?”

“No, actually I don’t,” Kirk spat. “I have never heard of such foolishness.” He grabbed the shot gun away from the frog. “Where the hell did you get this?” he asked.

“James’s suitcase of course,” said the frog. “Now please. Let me finish my business.”

Kirk and the frog stared at each other in silence. Kirk was just about to hand the gun over to the frog when…

“Yo ho! Yo ho! A pirates life for me. YeAH!” James Hetfield sang. He and Lars were coming back from making good P.R. with the fans. Obviously, they had succeeded for they were both fully drunk, and each had a buxom belle on their arm.

“Hardee harr harr,” James grunted as he burst through the door of the tour bus. He caught wind of the mellow mood that was between Kirk and the frog. “Dude,” he remarked. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee!” Lars mimicked. “Marry me Kirk Lee! It is I, your darling frog! Kiss me you handsome lad, and let’s have little frog-Hammett children!”

“Oh Lars you’re so funny,” laughed the groupie who clung to his arm like a dingle berry.

“I know Mindy,” Lars replied.

“It’s Melissa,” the groupie corrected, frowning.

“Same thing,” Lars shrugged.

“Why do you have my shot gun Kirk?” James asked as he took the gun from Kirk. “This was in my suitcase. What the fuck were you doing in my suitcase? I don’t go pawing through all of your shit.”

“But I” Kirk began to stumble.

“What were you looking for?” James demanded. “Pot? You know that I don’t smoke that shit. Go snooping through Cliff or Lars’s shit for crap! Can’t a man have any privacy? You know Mustaine used to always go nosing through my shit. He read my diary once, which is one of the reasons why he isn’t standing right here with me today! You haven’t been reading my diary have you?”

“No James,” Kirk replied, his cheeks growing hot. “I didn’t take your gun, I swear. The frog had it. The frog was going to commit suicide. It was going to blow it’s brains out.”

Lars and James and the two groupies stared at Kirk as if he were on crack. Then all four of them burst out laughing.

“Did the frog write a suicide note to go with it?” Lars asked as he laughed hysterically.

“Shall we make it a coffin?” added James.

“Dude, suicide ain’t funny,” said Kirk.

“Kirk! It’s a fucking frog,” said James. “It spends it’s days eating flies and swimming in it’s own shit! You weren’t trying to commit suicide were you little frog?” he turned to the frog.

“I just want to spend my night in the arms of Kirk Lee,” replied the frog.

“And since he promised you, you shall,” James replied. “Now take the frog to bed. I have had quite enough of you for one day between your onstage diva antics, and nosing through my things.”

“Diva antics?” Kirk gasped.

“Yeah, throwing a frog at poor Cliff,” put in Lars. “Who do you think pays for him to go to the doctor to have his head checked out? My daddy! Not your daddy, my daddy! Cliff didn’t deserve that just because you got some corn cob shoved up your ass.”

“Corn cob?” sniffed Kirk. “I didn’t mean any harm! It was the frog!”

“Enough!” James yelled. “I have had quite enough of hearing about the frog for one day. You don’t shit right and then I have to hear you blame the frog!”

“But, but,” Kirk stammered. “It’s not fair!”

“Of course not,” replied Lars. “Now take that thing and go to bed. You’re creeping our lady friends out.”

Kirk grabbed the frog around its waist roughly. It yelped.

“Shut the fuck up,” Kirk sneered. For extra drama he slammed his bedroom door so hard that it nearly broke off of the hinge. “Fuck you!” he spat and disposed the frog in the farthest corner of his room. As Kirk was undressing for bed, he heard a rat, tat, tat on his window. It couldn’t be the frog, for the frog was sitting quietly in the corner gazing at Kirk’s shirtless bod.

“Now what?” Kirk groaned and went over to the window. He was surprised to see one of the roadies. The roadie handed Kirk a small envelope.

“I was told to give you this,” said the roadie and he pressed it in Kirk’s hand. “Good night.”

Kirk thanked the roadie, and then sat down on the edge of his bed. Perhaps he had a secret admirer from the show? His heart began to pound as he ripped open the envelope. He didn’t even care that the frog had hopped up on the bed next to him. Kirk’s heart sank when he saw Cliff’s scrawly handwriting, instead of feminine “chick” handwriting.

Hey Frog Boy,

Never thought I’d be saying this, but thanks for clobbering me with that frog. The nurse down at the doctor’s is a smoking hot angel, and I am spending the night with her. Hehe.
I will be back in the late morning. Could you feed Geezer his breakfast and take him out to you know, do his business? You might have to walk him around a little, and make sure he has water before you put him back under the bus.

Cheers,
Cliff


Kirk sighed and dropped the note to the ground. If he hadn’t have been all caught up with the frog he would have told Lars and James about Geezer. This was ridiculous! There was no way that Kirk was going to sit at home and watch the dog piss and shit all over while Cliff got to go gallivanting off with some chick. Kirk vowed to tell Lars and James about Geezer, first thing in the morning. He was tempted to go tell them that very instant, but he could hear James’s moans and Lars’s squeals from the other room, and decided that it wasn’t the best time.

Kirk fell into the warm, welcoming, bed, and pulled his covers up around him close. Never, had bed felt so grand, but that lasted only for a moment. The cold, wet, frog took its place on Kirk’s pillow.

“Kirk Lee, Kirk Lee,” it sang. “How about a bedtime story for me?”

“Once upon a time there was a brutal metal singer named Ozzy Osborune,” Kirk began. “Who liked to eat little frogs..”
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Simone
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:lol: :lol: :lol: the story beginning was ssooo cool! :horns: :lol: :horns2 love it! write as soon as possible!And make a Metallica fairytales book! I want one! :horns: :lol:
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A dumb chapter but it's the next one, so read it and weep.


Chapter 5

Kirk Hammet rolled out of bed early the next morning. To his delight, the frog was already gone.

“Maybe that will be the last of the little fucker,” he grunted as he pulled on his shoes and socks. Kirk threw on an over-size Samhain T-shirt and sported boxer shorts as he emerged from his bedroom.

Lars was still asleep back in his bedroom, but James and his girly had never made it to the bedroom, they actually had never even made it to the sofa. Carefully, Kirk stepped over them on his way to the kitchen.

They didn’t have much in the way of dog food. Kirk made some toast, and filled a bowl up with water, and then made his way outside.

As Kirk opened up the baggage compartment, Geezer came right over to greet him. When he saw that it was Kirk and not Cliff, Geezer stopped wagging his tail, and walked off to the farthest corner of the compartment.

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Kirk growled. “You want Cliff? Well Cliff don’t give no fuck about you! He’s off banging chicks instead! He only cares about you when he’s not getting any action!” With vengeance, he threw down the water bowl and plate of toast.

Geezer slowly came over to inspect the food. He looked up at Kirk and whimpered.

“That’s all that you’re getting,” Kirk replied harshly. “I don’t run a short order kitchen.”

Geezer inhaled the toast, and then went on to the water bowl. After he finished, he laid down. Every so often he would hear a stir or a rustle. He would sit up and perk up his ears, and go over to the door of the storage compartment, looking for Cliff, only to be disappointed. Kirk started to feel sorry for the poor ugly dog.

“Cliff will be back soon,” Kirk reassured Geezer, and gave him a quick little pat. “Damn that stupid frog,” thought Kirk. “That frog has me talking to dogs now. Well at least the dog doesn’t talk back.”

Kirk could hear the two chicks emerging from the bus, and Lars and James calling farewell to them. If Kirk didn’t get out of the luggage compartment soon, they would wonder where he went off to. Kirk bent over to give Geezer one last pet.

“I’m really sorry to do this to you boy,” he told the dog. “But I’m going to have to tell Lars on you so that you can stay in Indiana where you belong. On tour with Metallica is no place for dogs.”

Kirk left the baggage compartment, and entered the tour bus. Lars was looking over some of the band’s finances, and James was again working on his tattoo sketch. They had already broken into their morning six pack, as well as a bag of tortilla chips, and some bean dip.

“Good morning,” Kirk greeted.

Neither looked up or answered Kirk back. Kirk loudly cleared his throat.

“Lars, pass the bean dip,” James said.

“Not while I’m going to be cooped up in a tour bus with you for the afternoon,” Lars replied. James heavily sighed, and grabbed the bean dip himself.

“I have an announcement to make,” Kirk called. Lars and James finally gave Kirk their undivided attention.

“You and the frog are getting hitched?” guessed James.

“Not quite,” said Kirk.

“The frog is pregnant?” guessed Lars.

“You know, you’re really a pervert Lars,” Kirk scoffed.

“You got that one right,” Lars replied. “So what’s this announcement then?”

“Cliff’s been keeping that dog in the storage compartment of the bus,” Kirk blurted out.

Lars and James looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“And did he put a hot tub and a pinball machine for the dog in there too?” Lars laughed. “Kirk, you need to stop smoking all that weed and shit.”

“I’m being serious!” Kirk exclaimed.

“Do you really think that Cliff would really do something that foolish?” James demanded.

“Actually, yes,” Kirk nodded.

“What do you have against Cliff?” Lars asked. “Last night you pelted him with a frog, now you’re making up stories about him? Are you pissed that he gets paid more money than you do? Well, he has been with us longer than you have.”

“I think that’s it,” James agreed. “Kirk’s pissed that he’s on the bottom of the payroll.”

“I most certainly am not!” Kirk cried.

“Liar!” James screeched and pointed at Kirk. Kirk hated being pointed at.

“Knock it off James!” he snarled.

“Gee,” Lars said shaking his head. “I am gravely disappointed in you. You lie and cheat behind the backs of your friends. I would have expected this behavior from Mustaine, but I’ve always thought that you were much too mature for such bullshit. I guess I misjudged you.”

“No! Let me explain,” said Kirk.

“Shut up!” interrupted Lars. “I have heard quite enough from you for one day!”

“I’d sure drink to that,” put in James as he raised his beer bottle.

“But if we don’t get rid of the dog he’ll end up in the next city with us tonight,” Kirk said.

“Hush! Be gone with you!” Lars spat. “You sicken me!”

“I’ll show you guys!” Kirk shouted and stomped out of the bus, seething with intense anger. He kicked an empty beer can across the ground. “I’ll just bring old Geezer out of the luggage compartment and show them. Then Lars can take him to be put down at the pound for all I care!”

Kirk made his way over to the luggage compartment to fetch Geezer, but Cliff had beat him to it.

“Good morning,” Cliff said cheerfully as he undid the lock. He looked perky, maybe just a little bit hung over.

Kirk didn’t answer. He just glared at Cliff in disgust.

“Thanks again for hitting me on the head,” Cliff went on. “I had so much fucking fun last night. I wish you’d hit me on the head every night!”

Kirk watched as Cliff opened up the door. Geezer yelped and ran up to Cliff wagging his tail in excitement.

“Hey boy!” Cliff greeted. The two immediately began to rough-house on the floor. Cliff ended up on his back, with Geezer on top of him, licking his face.

“Gross,” Kirk muttered.

“Oh come on Kirk,” Cliff laughed. “You share your food and bed with a frog! Thanks for taking care of him for me.” Cliff said as he scratched Geezer behind the ears. “Geezer is my world.” He reached over for a paper sack. “And this morning I bought all sorts of shit for him.” Cliff took out a bag of dog food, a leash and collar, a bouncy ball, a couple of squeaky toys, and a huge stuffed pillow. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?” he asked.

Kirk was quiet as he watched Cliff throw the bouncy ball, and Geezer clumsily charged after it. Cliff had had no qualms about dumping Geezer on Kirk when something or someone better had come along. Why the fuck should he keep Cliff’s secret?

“Kirk?” Cliff asked once again when he saw that his friend had not answered him. “Kirk, you can’t tell on me! You just can’t! You know that Lars would take him, would take him, to the pound!” Cliff’s voice filled with desperation. “You know that Geezer’s chances of finding a home at the pound are small since he’s so, so”

“Ugly,” Kirk finished for him.

“Uh physically challenged,” Cliff replied. “They’ll put him down. Please promise me that you won’t say anything. Please.”

Geezer had retrieved the ball, and had brought it back to Cliff. He dumped it in his lap, and began to happily wag his tail, as Cliff handed him a treat.

“Alright,” Kirk sighed. “I promise.”

***

Metallica had the day and evening off, since they had a rather long travel day to get their next destination. So far, the pesky frog had not returned, and Kirk began to plan his night off. Since his dinner had been rudely interrupted for the past two days, he was very hungry, and getting a good, home cooked, meal was on the top of his list.
Finally, around five o’clock that evening they arrived, and could emerge from the bus.

“Do you think that you could divert James and Lars for a second, while I take Geezer out for his walk?” Cliff asked.

“No,” Kirk snapped.

“But I have to get Geezer out,” Cliff hissed. “We don’t want Lars and James going into the baggage compartment before I do.”

“Isn’t there some half dressed chicks waltzing around that can divert them?” Kirk retorted.

“Kirk you promised,” Cliff whined.
Kirk sighed. Just then, they heard a sing-song voice call

“Kirk Lee! Kirk Lee! What’s wrong Kirk Lee?”

“Oh God, not again,” Kirk muttered.

The frog hopped through the bus window.

“Kirk Lee does not look happy,” it said. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong Kirk Lee?

“You fucking won’t leave me alone!” Kirk retorted.

“You’re a chode,” Cliff scoffed at Kirk and left the bus.

“What are we going to do today?” the frog asked.

“We?” Kirk snorted. “You got a mouse in your pocket? I have the fucking night off, so I am going to do whatever the fuck I want.”

“We could go dancing down by the lake,” the frog suggested. “I love dancing.”

“Well I don’t,” Kirk replied. “I suck at dancing.”

“I could make you your own pair of dancing shoes,” the frog offered. “Then you would dance gracefully, and beautifully.”

“Maybe some other time,” Kirk called as he too left the tour bus.

“Wait for me Kirk Lee!” the frog yelled, but Kirk slammed the door right in it’s face, and then took off running towards the city, leaving the frog far behind.

Tonight, Kirk wouldn’t have to eat some crummy takeout dinner in the tour bus. He could go to a real, sit-down, restaurant, where they had menus, cozy booths, condiments, and non plastic silverware. However, if you were going to spend the money to have a sit down meal at an actual restaurant, you needed a beautiful maiden to escort you, and Kirk was certain that having a frog tagging along, was not going to do anything to help him pick up a beautiful maiden.





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