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Father of the Year; Kirk is going to get even with Lars. Het.
Topic Started: July 3, 2007, 9:40 pm (14,610 Views)
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Father of the Year

Summary: Everyone is buzzing about the Father of the Year essay contest, and Kirk wants to enter his guitar tech. When Lars makes degrading remarks about Kirk's family, and steals his essay, Kirk with the help of Cliff, plan the ultimate revenge...


Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. No harm is intended towards those mentioned. It is not for profit. None of it is true, or is it?




November 1985


Chapter 1- The Two Merriest Guitarists in Denmark


“Last one to the guitar tech’s is a shriveled moldy ball sack!” James Hetfield screamed at the top of his lungs as he leapt right into a slush puddle, sending slush and shit splashing all over his tight, stone washed, jeans.

“Fuck that you asshole!” Cliff Burton eloquently screamed. He took a running start, and then went sliding on a patch of ice. He slid smack right into James, who was still standing in the middle of the mud puddle, scratching his privates. Both, fell on their asses right into the mud puddle.

“You two better be careful or else Mr. Chelton is going to have more repair to do on your guitar than just changing a string,” said sweet, gentlemanly, and practical Kirk Hammett.

Kirk Hammett didn’t bellow obscenities at the top of his lungs, slide on patches of ice, or jump into slush puddles. Kirk Hammett always took very ladylike steps around the ice and puddles of slush, careful not to muddy up his brand new, lily white, high-top sneakers that his Mom had sent to him for an early birthday present.

Metallica was in Copenhagen Denmark working on their epic masterpiece Master of Puppets. All was going well, until James broke a string on his guitar. So it was out of the studio, and off to Mr. Chelton, the village guitar tech to get James’s string fixed.

“Mr. Chelton’s going to have to fix my ass,” James laughed as he stood up. He was absolutely coated with slush. “I think I busted my nut sack.”

“You busted your brain is more like it,” Cliff scoffed, clearly not happy that he had gotten all wet and dirty. “My bellbottoms are ruined.”

“Good, we can buy you some normal pants then,” said James. “Hey Hamster, why don’t you give me your scarf since mine is all wet.”

Kirk untied the red knit scarf from around his neck. His mother had knitted it by hand over the summer after she had found out that Kirk was going back to cold Denmark, to record another album.

“Thanks bud,” mumbled James as he gave Kirk his dripping wet black scarf to put on. James tied Kirk’s warm, dry, red scarf around his neck.

“Disgusting,” Kirk muttered as he put on James’s soggy, mud encrusted scarf.

“We better haul ass!”James announced. “Mr. Chelton is going to close soon! Last one there is a ball sack!”

“You’re a sack of shit, that’s what you are!” a still disgruntled Cliff spat. Then without warning, Cliff pushed James back down into the slush puddle. James fell on his ass yet again, with a giant splash. Cliff linked his arm with Kirk’s.

“Looks like James is the moldy ball sack!” he chirped, and he and Kirk took off running towards the guitar shop. “Come on Kirk! Maybe Mr. Chelton will give us some gingerbread!”

Kirk looked up to Cliff for maturity and direction. Since being in Denmark for the past couple of months, the two had become close friends. Metallica had been given two hotel rooms at The Hotel Iroquois to stay in during their time in Denmark. Lars and James shared one, Cliff and Kirk were in the other. This gave the two lots of time alone. At first, Kirk had been shy and nervous around Cliff. After all, Cliff claimed that once, a giant hippogriff flew over his bed. What if it happened again in Denmark?

However, Kirk soon found that Cliff was fun. Cliff taught Kirk how to play poker, and gin rummy. On nights when they were too riled or wasted to fall asleep, Cliff would tell Kirk stories about ghosts, fairies, and wizards. But Kirk’s favorite stories were the stories that Cliff made up about a group of privileged orphan children that he called The Misfits. Every night, he would tell Kirk another chapter. Sometimes, Kirk could hardly wait until bedtime!

One night, they got stoned and built a fort in the middle of their hotel room out of chairs, bed sheets, and pillows. And no matter how hard up for money that he seemed, Cliff always had plenty of cigarettes, booze, and pot to share with Kirk.

Kirk pushed open the door to Mr. Chelton’s guitar shop. The little brass bell that hung over the door tinkled as the two stumbled in. The smell of sanded wood, and gingerbread greeted them.

“My, my! It’s my lucky day!” Mr. Chelton exclaimed. “It’s the two merriest guitarists in Denmark!”

“But I’m a bassist,” Cliff corrected.

“Aye, that’s right,” Mr. Chelton replied with a wink. “Well then, you’re the merriest bassist, and Kirk’s the merriest guitarist.” He took a plate of warm, round, and soft, gingerbread cookies out from behind the counter. Mrs. Chelton owned a bakery down the street, and made the best cookies in all of Copenhagen. Mr. Chelton always had sweets for the Metallica boy’s frequent visits.

“Thanks Mr. Chelton,” Kirk and Cliff chorused as they each took a handful of cookies.

The bell over the door rang again, and James trickled in with his guitar.

“You two are pig fucks,” he hissed.

“Young Master James,” Mr. Chelton greeted. “What brings you back? You were just here yesterday.”

“I broke another string,” James replied.

Another string!” Mr. Chelton exclaimed, as James handed him the guitar. “Mr. Hetfield, I must say, when are you going to learn how to change your own guitar strings?”

“Never!” replied James, as he helped himself to the plate of cookies.

“I’m not going back to the United States with you,” said Mr. Chelton as he hunted around for a new string for James’s guitar.

“Kirk will do it then,” said James with a mouth full of cookie.

“Mr. Chelton showed me how to change a guitar string in a heartbeat,” Kirk said proudly. “He can show you too James.”

“He doesn’t have to,” said James. “That’s what we keep you around for.”

“Do you remember the trick that I showed you Kirk?” asked Mr. Chelton. Kirk nodded, sending his black ringlets bobbing back and forth.

“Thread up through the bass full of grace, and then thread up to the head, and you’re ready to shred,” Kirk recited proudly.

“Aye, that’s right my boy!” nodded Mr. Chelton as he threaded James’s guitar string. “You’re a quick study Mr. Hammett.”

Kirk’s heart swelled with pride from Mr. Chelton’s praise.

Mr. Chelton had to be one of Kirk’s favorite people in Denmark. He knew absolutely everything there was to know about guitars. He had repaired guitars for Angus Young, Ozzy Osbourne, Paul McCartney, and the Rolling Stones. Because of that, he was filled with all kinds of stories about all of the wonderful people he had met. He also knew how to restore antique guitars, and lutes. He had one lute hanging up in his shop that was dated 1760. He even had let Kirk strum a few chords on it. Even if Kirk’s guitar didn’t need any work done to it, Kirk would find himself stopping by Mr. Chelton’s shop on a cold, blustery, Copenhagen afternoon, to watch Mr. Chelton repair and rebuild old guitars. Kirk had learned a lot, plus Mr. Chelton always had a story to tell, and warm gingerbread to eat.

“There you go Mr. Hetfield,” said Mr. Chelton, as he handed the guitar back to James. “Why don’t you give her a try, make sure that you like it. It’s a beauty.”

As James began to noodle around on his guitar, Mr. Chelton motioned for Kirk to come with him into the back room, where he did most of his rebuilding.

“I just got finished rebuilding a beautiful guitar dated from 1912,” Mr. Chelton said. “It’s an acoustic, and I think it has the nicest tone of any guitar that I’ve worked on. I wanted your opinion.”

“Oh Mr. Chelton,” Kirk breathed. “You want my opinion? Tis an honor.”

The list of accomplished guitarists that Mr. Chelton could have come in to try out this guitar was endless. Kirk couldn’t believe that Mr. Chelton would even trust a kid like him.

Very carefully, as if it were a baby bird, Kirk slung the guitar strap over his shoulder. He began to play one of the etudes that Joe Satriani had given him to work on. Mr. Chelton was right. The guitar had one of the richest, and deepest, tones of any acoustic guitar that Kirk had ever played. It was fit for Joe Satriani himself.

“Holy shit Kirk!” James gasped as he and Cliff entered the back room. “That’s you playing? I thought that it was a record. That guitar has one hell of a sound to it, especially for an acoustic.”

“It’s a deep, loud, motherfucker,” Cliff commented.

Kirk couldn’t hide his gloating grin. It felt good to get praise from James his bandleader, and Cliff his new friend. Plus, he was playing on an amazing guitar to boot.

“You should buy it,” Cliff chirped.

Kirk didn’t even want to know what a guitar like that would go for. Probably thousands upon thousands of dollars.

“I want to try it!” said James. He was about to roughly grab the guitar from Kirk, when Mr. Chelton intercepted it.

This guitar had an owner actually, and we must be careful with it,” said Mr. Chelton. “It belongs to Yngwie Malmsteen. He’s playing a big concert here in Copenhagen in a few weeks, and he’s planning on using this very guitar.”

“Really?” Kirk exclaimed. “You not only let me touch, but play a guitar that belongs to Yngwie Malmsteen?”

“Why yes, of course,” replied Mr. Chelton. “I wanted your opinion.”

“It’s a phenomenal guitar,” Kirk replied truthfully. “Yngwie Malmsteen is so lucky. I could only dream of owning such a guitar.”

Mr. Chelton watched as Cliff and James wandered back out into the showroom.

“Someday you just might own eight or nine antique guitars,” he said to Kirk, as he gently packed away Yngwie’s guitar. “And I can rebuild them all for you. You’re a very talented young musician Kirk. From the first time that you came in here last year, and you played me your solo from Call of the Ktulu, I knew that you had a gift, a very special gift. That’s why I trust you with some of my finer guitars, and I do value your opinion.”

“You don’t know how much that means to me Mr. Chelton,” Kirk replied. “I’d trust you to work on any of my guitars.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Mr. Chelton chuckling. “Hopefully, I’ll be working on Metallica guitars for a good, long, while. It certianly looks like it, especially since James refuses to learn how to change a string.”

“What was that?” asked James as he poked his head in the backroom.

“Nothing James,” Kirk and Mr. Chelton chorused in unison.

James paid Mr. Chelton for the string. Mr. Chelton never charged the Metallica boys any labor charges, especially not for something as mundane as changing a guitar string. On the way back to their hotel, Cliff needed to stop off at a convenience to buy some more cigarettes. As Cliff paid, Kirk fell deep into thought.

Mr. Chelton has to be one of the nicest men in the entire world. He rarely charges us, and he lets us hang out in his shop all day long. He feeds us cookies, but most of all, he takes me seriously as a musician, and values my musical opinion. No one has ever done that for me before. I should really do something special for him before I leave to go back home. A present might be nice, but what would be special enough? Danish chocolates? No, his wife owns a bakery.

“Hey Hamster!” Kirk was brought out of his reverie by James. “Get a load of this shit. Isn’t this kind of writing shit is up your alley.”

James was pointing to a flyer that was sitting on the convenience store counter. It read

SHOW YOU FATHER THAT YOU LOVE HIM! PLUS WIN TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS AND BOX SEATS TO THE CONCERT OF YOUR CHOICE!

ENTER THE FATHER OF THE YEAR CONTEST!

Show the man you call Father, your love and appreciation by writing an essay telling us how great he is. All essays must be between 2-3 pages in length, and must be double spaced. The Copenhagen Men’s League will judge the entry that they feel best describes a Father’s love. All entries must be written by the son or daughter of the Father, and must follow the rules of correct grammar and punctuation. First price is ten thousand dollars, and box seats to the concert of your choice. Second Price is dinner for two with the president of the Danish Men’s League himself!
All entries must be in by November 23. The Men’s League will not accept any late entries.


“You should enter that Kirk,” Cliff said as he ripped into his new pack of cigarettes like a dog ravishing through the trash. “You write the best essays.”

“Yeah man,” said James. “You could win us ten thousand fucking dollars! Plus those concert tickets sound pretty sweet. You and I could go see Motorhead.” James grabbed a flyer, and stuffed it into his pocket. The trio trooped back outside into the cold.

“I don’t have a good Father,” Kirk replied. “My Father used to beat the shit out of me, my Mom, and my brother and sister. I don’t want to write an essay about how wonderful the fucker was. I hate the bastard.”

“The Danish Men’s League doesn’t know that,” said Cliff. “Just write some bullshit. That’s all essays are anyway.”

“You should enter your Father Cliff,” said Kirk. “You said that he let you drink when you were twelve, and took you to a strip club when you were only fourteen, and even lied about your age so that you could get in.”

“Yeah, that was pretty sweet,” Cliff agreed. “But you write much better essays than I do. Your essays are always the best.”

“I just don’t feel right about writing a bunch of lies in an essay,” Kirk replied.

“Fuck that shit,” said James. “It’s ten thousand dollars Kirk! After we finish this cock sucking album, we could fucking take a cruise to the Bahamas. Cliff and I will help you come up with some bullshit.”

“Absolutely not,” Kirk retorted, shaking his head. “I will not write an essay of lies, just so you guys can all flounce off to the Bahamas, and see Motorhead.”

“Come on Kirk!” James cried in exasperation as he started to blow on his hands to keep them warm. “Ten thousand dollars is a shit load of money for us. I mean who knows, maybe it would even rekindle a relationship with your old man.”

“Why don’t we make up some bullshit about your Father instead?” shot Kirk.

“Because I never want to see the fucker again,” snapped James. “We could make some shit up about your old man teaching you how to play guitar. Please Kirk. You have to write it. Just think! Box seats to Motorhead. We’d be living like fucking royalty.”

Kirk bit his lip, and looked down at his stark, white, tennis shoes. He didn’t want to lie. Lying was wrong. James’s words echoed in his head

We could make up some shit about your old man teaching you how to play guitar.


”I know!” Kirk exclaimed. “Mr. Chelton! I could write my essay on Mr. Chelton. He’s not my Father, but he’s like a Father to me.”

Kirk had wanted to do something special for Mr. Chelton, and now he knew exactly what he could do to thank him for all of his kindness.

“Oh that would be perfect Kirk!” Cliff agreed. “I mean, not only could you write about Mr. Chelton helping you out with your guitar, but you could also write about how your own real dad used to beat the shit out of you, and knock your Mom around. That way, you’ll score sympathy points with the judges.”

“I love it!” James nodded happily. “Kirk is sure to win!”

“Well, maybe,” said Kirk. “I can’t guarantee a win, but I will surly try. It’s just that I think Mr. Chelton would much rather go to the Yngvie Malmsteen concert that’s in a few weeks, than go see Motorhead. If he’s going to be my Dad, he should pick the concert.”

“Oh well,” James shrugged. “Yngvie’s cool. We get the ten grand though. We could have one hell of a band trip. Come on!” he yelled. “Last one back to the hotel is deflated tit!” And he and Cliff took off running down the street.

“Wait for me!” Kirk cried as he followed behind them. But even if he was the last one back to the hotel he didn’t care. Even if it was only Mr. Chelton, for the first time ever, Kirk had a decent Father, and everyone was going to know it…
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Chapter 2- The Metallinews


Later that night Kirk Hammett and Cliff Burton were lounging around in their hotel room. Kirk was working on a rough draft of his essay, and Cliff was making himself a Mai Tai with some of the booze that he had bought for the room. Kirk put down his pen with satisfaction. He had finished his rough draft, and tomorrow he would type it all out, and mail it to the Danish Men’s League. He thought about going down to the bar, but it was so cold and nasty outside.

There wasn’t much to do in Copenhagen except drink, screw, smoke pot, play guitar, drink, and screw some more. Since they had been there for two months already, Kirk and Cliff had virtually drunken their bank accounts dry, screwed every girl in town, and both had become very accomplished on their instruments.

“Hey Cliff,” Kirk said. “Want to order room service?

“We’ve already ordered every fucking thing off of the menu,” Cliff replied. He took a swig of his Mai Tai and frowned. “Needs more orange curacao.” He muttered sourly.

“We have to eat dinner though,” Kirk replied.

“This is dinner,” said Cliff as he held up his drink. Kirk shook his head

“I promised your Mother that I would see to it that you eat a proper and balanced dinner every night,” Kirk said importantly. “Now let’s see,” he said as he opened up the room service menu. “We like the potato skins. We can get those, and let’s get an order of the jumbo onion rings too.”

“I want one of those Danish pecan logs,” Cliff demanded as Kirk called in the order.

Lars and James usually took their meals with Lars’s family. This meant eating in some of the finest restaurants in Europe, but Kirk and Cliff were usually left behind. Because of this, they were very familiar with the Hotel Iroquois’s room service.

“They said they’d bring it up in an hour,” Kirk reported, hanging up the phone. “They’re backed up tonight.”

“Fuckers,” Cliff muttered, and finished off his Mai Tai.

“What should we do while we wait?” Kirk asked. “It’s much too cold to go down to any of the bars.”

“We could make another newspaper,” Cliff suggested.

“Oh yes!” Kirk exclaimed. “That would be fun!”

One night they had both gotten wickedly stoned, and wandered up to the hotel’s storage room. There, they found an old typewriter from the 1930’s. They decided to steal it, and brought it down to their hotel room. They found that it still worked for the most part. Sometimes the H key would stick a little, but other than that it was a perfectly fine typewriter.
Cliff and Kirk had started writing their own newspaper to help pass their free time. They called their paper The Metallinews, and mostly wrote it for their friends and family back home in the United States.

“What should we write about?” Cliff asked as he fished around the desk for a piece of hotel stationary, and threaded it through the typewriter.

“Let me check our notebook,” answered Kirk. Cliff and Kirk took their jobs as Metallica’s reporters quite seriously, and they kept a notebook with notes and ideas for future articles. That way, they wouldn’t forget anything that happened. “Let’s see,” he mused. “Flemming Rasmussen finished a whole stack of pancakes from The Butterfield Pancake House,” he read.

“He fucking does that everyday,” quipped Cliff.

“Lars’s Dad bought him a new tennis racket,” Kirk tried.

“Lars’s Dad is always buying him new shit,” said Cliff. “That ain’t news.”

“That’s all we have,” Kirk sighed. “We have absolutely nothing to report on. We could interview the concierge dude again.”

“I don’t like that fucker,” Cliff retorted. “He’s always fucking yelling at me for smoking pot in the lobby.”

“Write an editorial for the paper about it then,” Kirk suggested.

“Good idea,” Cliff said, and he began to type or slowly peck out his editorial letter. As Cliff slowly pecked away on the typewriter, Kirk decided to go over his rough draft for the essay contest yet again.

A Father’s love is like no one else’s. It’s unselfish, unsurpassed, and unconditional. It doesn’t have to come from a biological father. It can come from a grandfather, uncle, mentor, or even a close friend. I would like to nominate my friend and guitar mentor Mr. Henrich Chelton, for Father of the Year.

“Take that you bloated dick!” Cliff sneered as he finished up his editorial.

“That was quick,” Kirk said.

“I like writing when I’m pissed off,” said Cliff as he lit a cigarette. “The words just flowed right from my heart. I think we need to show my editorial to the owner of the hotel. Maybe I could make a difference.”

“We can slip a copy of The Metallinews under his office door,” Kirk laughed. “But I’m pretty sure that the owner of The Hotel Iroquois has issues that are far more important than smoking pot in the lobby.”

“Humph. We’ll just see about that,” Cliff snorted. “Now what the fuck are you doing?” he asked.

“Working on my essay for the contest,” replied Kirk.

“Hey, let’s write about the Father of the Year Contest,” said Cliff. “That’s news.”

Kirk looked thoughtful. “I guess that we could. It would be news to Lars at least. He doesn’t know about it.”

Kirk happily plunked down in front of the typewriter and typed away. The Father of the Year Contest intrigued and excited him.

“Mention the ten thousand dollar prize,” Cliff reminded him. “And the concert tickets.”

Kirk had been typing for about ten minutes when they heard a banging come from underneath them. It was Lars.

Lars and James had the room directly under Kirk and Cliff. Whenever Lars wanted to speak with them, he would bang on his ceiling with a broom handle, a signal that Kirk found rather annoying. The signal meant that Lars or James had an instant message for them, and to go to the heat vent. The heat vent in the floor looked right down into Lars’s room. If they were all congregated around it, they could talk to each other.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning!” Kirk hissed. “Whatever could he want now?”

Kirk and Cliff went over to the heat vent, and got down on all fours. They spotted Lars’s round, sticky, face right under it.

“What the fock is going on up there?” he demanded. “What the hell is that infernal noise?”

“Sorry Lars,” Kirk called. “We’re just working on typing up another newspaper.”

“Well do you need to focking type it at two in the morning?” Lars demanded. “Some people are trying to sleep down here!”

“You never go to bed this early,” Cliff argued.

“So what!” snapped Lars. “I don’t focking feel like hearing the typewriter clanking the entire night!”

“Fuck you!” Cliff spat. “Come on Kirk,” he said as he got up. “Let’s finish our paper.”

Kirk went back to typing. The two worked for another hour, ate their room service, and finished their latest issue.

“There,” Kirk said proudly as he sat back in his chair. “It’s finished and hot off the press.”

“Good,” said Cliff, who was full of food and Mai Tais. “I’m going to bed Kirk.”

“Good night Cliff,” Kirk replied. He just had to fix one misspelling. No sooner had Kirk finished his edits, Lars banged on the ceiling again.

“Doesn’t the fucker ever go to bed?” Kirk grumbled as he made his way over to the heating vent. “You called Lars?” Kirk asked.

“Yeah dude,” yelled Lars. “I want a bag of pork rinds from the vending machine. Come down here. I’ll give you the money, and you can bring them to me.”

“Lars, the vending machine is just down the hall,” Kirk sighed. “Can’t you get them yourself?”

“I’m in my jammies Kirk,” Lars replied. “I really don’t want to go parading around the hotel in my jammies.”

Why? You parade around the hotel all of the time in nothing but a pair of short boxer shorts,” Kirk thought. He sighed

“I’ll be down in just a minute Lars,” he said loyally.

Kirk grabbed his room key, and the latest edition of The Metallinews. At least he could show Lars their latest newspaper.

Kirk took the elevator down to Lars’s floor, and knocked on the door of his room. James opened the door.

“Hamster’s here!” James bellowed.

Lars was sitting on the bed, his eyes glued to the television. “My money’s on the table,” he said, without even acknowledging Kirk.

“Cliff and I finished a new edition of The Metallinews,” Kirk announced proudly. He held up the paper. “It’s hot off the press.”

“Fuck yeah!” James cried, and grabbed the paper. “I fucking love The Metallinews.
“It’s perfect to read while taking my morning shit.”

“Thanks James,” said Kirk.

“Is there anything worth reading in there?” Lars asked. “The last issue was kind of lame.”

“It was not,” Kirk retorted.

“Move out of the way of the TV!” Lars snapped at him.

“You wrote about the Father of the Year Contest,” said James as he browsed the paper. “Did you know about that Lars?”

“Huh?” Lars muttered, not looking away from his TV program.

“Father of the Year Contest,” James repeated. “You write an essay about why your Dad should be Father of the Year.”

“Sounds like pussy shit,” Lars quipped, still besotted by the TV.

“No man, the grand price is ten thousand dollars,” said James. This bit of info finally got Lars’s attention.

“What?” he asked. He turned on the TV mute button, and looked at James.

“Grand price is ten grand, plus box seat tickets to the concert of your choice,” said James.

“Are you focking kidding me?” Lars asked. “Give me that!” he rudely grabbed the paper from James.

Is your Father Father of the Year?
By Kirk Lee Hammett

Want to show your Father that you love him? Want to pay him back for all of those baseball games, hotdogs, and fishing trips that he’s taken you on? Enter the Father of the Year contest! The winner wins ten thousand dollars, and box seats at the concert of their choice.
The Father of the Year Contest is an annual essay contest put on by the Danish Men’s League. The League is searching for the essay that best describes why your Father should be Father of the Year.


“Jesus!” gasped Lars. “The Danish Men’s League sure has a lot of mother fucking money to piss away. Are they really awarding ten thousand dollars?

“Fuck yeah,” nodded James and he handed Lars the actual flyer. “Hamster is going to enter.”

“You are, Kirk?” Lars asked in surprise. “But you always said that your Dad was a dick. Didn’t be beat the shit out of your Mom one night?”

“He beat the shit out of my Mom on many nights,” Kirk replied flatly. “I’m not going to write about my Dad. I’m going to write the essay about Mr. Chelton, the guitar tech.”

“He’s not your Dad Kirk,” said Lars.

“Not biologically,” Kirk replied. “But he treats me like a son. Really he does. He’s been more of a Father to me than my real Father has, so I can write about him.”

“The rules say that it has to be the Father,” Lars pointed out. “My Dad belongs to the Danish Men’s League. They’ll only laugh at your entry, and throw it away. You’ll only embarrass yourself and Metallica. I’ll enter it. My Dad is sure to win. For one thing, he’s on the League, so he’ll be judging the essays. Plus, unlike your Dad, my Dad not only loves and cares for his family, but he was able to provide well for us. Mr. Chelton isn’t your Father, and he doesn’t have much money.”

“Money has nothing to do with it!” Kirk snapped. “It has to do with who’s the most loving father.”

“Love doesn’t mean dick to the Danish Men’s League,” replied Lars. “Kirk, you’re out of your element here. Let me do this. I know how the league operates. I know what they want, and what they’ll be looking for. Even if you did write a bunch of twaddle about Mr. Chelton, who says that you know what to write? You’ve never had a loving father. You don’t know what it’s like to have a father take you to a sporting match, or give you driving lessons, or teach you how to shave, or teach you about women.”

“I think I can figure it out Lars,” Kirk snapped, his cheeks growing hot.

“All that you’d be able to write about is how it feels to get your ears boxed, and your ass kicked,” said Lars. “Unlike your Dad, my Dad was able to give me the good life with the creature comforts. He inspired me to work hard so that I could keep having the good life. You haven’t turned into your father yet, but you will eventually.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Kirk retorted, grabbing his newspaper back.

“It happens to everyone,” Lars shrugged. “Someday, you’ll turn into your old man. You’ll become an alcoholic. It runs in the family. You’ll beat the shit out of you wife and children.”

“I most certainly will not!” Kirk screamed. “Don’t ever say that! I would never beat anyone! I let you guys beat the shit out of me all of the time!”

“You’re used to it, that’s why,” Lars replied. “I’m going to enter my Dad, and he’s going to win. He said that when I get back to the United States he’ll buy me a new car.”

“I want you to know two things Lars Ulrich!” Kirk yelled. “First, I will never grow to be like my Father. I’ve learned how not to be from him. Second, I plan on entering Mr. Chelton, and I’m going to win.”

“You’ll only make an ass of yourself,” said Lars as he plopped down to start his own essay. “You’ll be disqualified for sure. Honestly Kirk, you just aren’t meant to have a father. I on the other hand have a wonderful father, and I deserve to win this contest. This contest isn’t for silly poor boys like you from broken homes. It’s for those who come from loving and stable homes.”
.
Kirk felt his cheeks growing hot. He wanted to give Lars a piece of his mind, but was too afraid, so he remained quiet.

“Quit gawking at me like I’m a focking circus animal!” snapped Lars. “Go get me my pork rinds!”

As Kirk took the money and headed down the hall to the vending machine, a sick feeling crept into his stomach. What if Lars was right? What if the Danish Men’s League laughed at him? What if they not only laughed at him, but Mr. Chelton as well? And what if someday Kirk did turn out to be just like his father?
















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ridethelife427
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saints and stars! this is an awesome story! keep it up. poor kirky... ***sniffles*** more! ((please?!)) :heart:
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MetalChik666
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more please!! :D its fucking great :tu:
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Shayi
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Wow :) This looks like it's set to be another awesome soap opera in the life of Metallica :)

Lars is an asshole - Kirk is sweet and Cliff just makes me laugh. Fabulous work so far - any chance the Metallinews can be sent here ;)
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Verity
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The Story Girl
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Thanks so much for reading and revewing. This story is a little weird, so I wasn't sure if I'd get any readers. You all made my day!



Chapter 3- Claudia


A flustered and very upset Kirk Hammett made his way down the hotel hallway to the vending machines. He wished he could just tell Lars to go fuck himself, but he just couldn’t do it. His eyes started to blur with tears as Kirk put the money in the vending machine, and pushed the button for the bag of pork rinds.

The only reason that Lars wants to enter that contest is for the money,” Kirk thought to himself. “I want to enter to show my gratitude towards Mr. Chelton.

The bag of pork rinds slowly started to move from its slot, but then stopped. It had gotten stuck. Lars Ulrich’s fucking bag of pork rinds had gotten stuck in the vending machine!

“Shit!” Kirk muttered. “Why does this have to happen now, at four in the morning of all times?” He tapped the glass of the vending machine. “Please come to me,” he politely asked, as if the bag of pork rinds would respond to the politeness. Instead, to Kirk’s dismay the bag just hung there, caught in midair. “Fuck you Kirk!” It seemed to say. “Nobody loves you. No don’t even have a father!”

That was just too much for Kirk. He went sprinting down the hall, up the stairs, and back to his own room.

“Cliff!” he called. He went over to the bed where Cliff was sacked out in a heap under the covers. “Cliff!” he said again. “I need your help.” He began to gently give Cliff a shake. Cliff rolled over, but didn’t wake up. “Cliff!” Kirk cried, this time louder. “I desperately need your help!” No answer, just the sound of Cliff’s quiet breathing. Kirk began to whack Cliff with a pillow. “CLIFFORD! WAKE UP!” he yelled.

“Jesus Christ Kirk!” snapped a very ornery Cliff, as he sat up in the bed. “What he fuck is the matter with you?”

Kirk was near tears.

“I need your help,” he said. “It’s urgent. Can you come with me?”

The desperation in Kirk’s voice told Cliff that this must be important. Cliff nodded, and rolled out of the bed. In nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, he groggily followed Kirk down the hall, into the elevator, and to the vending machines. Kirk pointed to the vending machine.

“The pork rinds are stuck,” he reported.

Cliff stared at the vending machine with sleepy, glassy, eyes. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he said.

“I know,” Kirk replied. “I can’t believe they got stuck at four in the morning of all times.”

“You fucking woke me up while I was in the middle of a fantastic dream about banging some Puerto Rican chick, all because Lars’s fucking pork rinds are stuck in the vending machine?”

“Do you think that you could get them out?” Kirk asked.

For an answer, Cliff turned to the vending machine, and kicked the side of it as hard as he could.

“Fuck you bitch!” he snarled at the machine. The bag of pork rinds happily dislodged, and danced their way out of the machine, where Kirk intercepted them.

“Excuse me,” said a shy, feminine, voice.

Kirk and Cliff whirled around, both afraid that she had seen Cliff kick the shit out of the vending machine.

A very beautiful woman was standing behind them. She was tall with long, thick, brown hair, green eyes, and a nice, tight, ass that was accentuated by the pair of tight jeans that she was wearing. She was holding two plates. Each had a slice of cake on them. Cliff hovered behind Kirk, embarrassed that she had seen him half dressed.

“I’m the pastry chef here at the hotel,” she said. “I’m trying out new cake recipes, for brunch, and am trying to get feedback from anyone that I can find. Would you two mind sampling some?”

“No, not at all,” replied Kirk, still entranced by her beauty. “We’re down with free cake.”

The lady handed Kirk one of the plates. “This one is vanilla almond flavored,” she said. “The other one is lemon.”

Both Kirk and Cliff tried a bite of each cake.

“They’re both delicious,” said Kirk.

“One just has to be better than the other,” said the pastry chef.

“The lemon,” said Cliff as he took another bite. “Definitely.”

“I agree,” said Kirk. “But both are some of the best cake that I’ve ever tried. We should ask James what he thinks. He loves cake.”

Just then, the door to Lars’s hotel room flew open. Lars dressed in a pair of silk paisley print pajamas, emerged from the room, and stomped down the hall.

“What the fock is taking you so long?” he bellowed. “What did you have to do Kirk? Fock the vending machine? Make and package the pork rinds yourself?”

As soon as Lars caught sight of the cake lady, he stopped dead in his tracks, and actually went speechless.

“Want to try some cake?” Kirk asked, offering Lars one of the plates.

Lars was still speechless.

“Hello Lars,” the cake lady said emotionlessly.

“Hi Claudia,” Lars nodded, and shifted uncomfortably.

“You two know each other?” Kirk asked, surprised. Lars barely spoke to the hotel’s employees. They were just the hired help.

Claudia was about to say something, when James emerged from the room even more undressed than Cliff was, in nothing except boxer shorts.

“You fuckers are having a party out here by the vending machine without inviting me?” he mused as he came up to them.

“We aren’t having a party James,” Lars snarled. “Go back to bed.”

“Fuck no!” James retorted. “You guys have cake, a beautiful woman. It sure as hell looks like a party to me.”

“Are you back in town visiting Lars?” Claudia asked.

“I’m making an album with my band,” Lars replied rather snippily. “Flemming Rasmussen our producer, gets us a good rate on the studio over here.”

“I see,” Claudia responded. She gave the three others a cursory glance.

“So Larsy-poo,” said James. “Where’d you meet this babe? You weren’t kidding me when you said that you got all the puss in Denmark.”

“James!” Lars squawked.

“Lars and I go back a long while,” Claudia said. “Just stupid kid stuff really.”

“Yeah,” Lars grunted. “Look, we have to be in the studio by one tomorrow afternoon. I really need to get to bed.”

“Don’t you want your pork rinds?” Kirk asked.

Lars looked at them and frowned. “Jesus Kirk!” he snapped. “Is that all you think about is food?” And with that, Lars flounced back to his room.

“Fuck, I’ll take them,” said James. He grabbed the bag from Kirk. “Lars must be a friend of yours,” he said to Claudia as he ripped the bag open.

“Well he used to be,” Claudia replied. “We haven’t seen each other in years.”

“Old girlfriend?” James asked as he shoved pork rinds into his mouth.

“James!” Cliff scolded. “You don’t ask some broad that you’ve just met at four in the morning that kind of shit.”

“It’s alright,” Claudia said. “Yes, we did used to be boyfriend and girlfriend. God, it must have been like five years ago. It was just a short, high school summer fling. He was over here at his parent’s vacation home for the summer, and then it ended when he went back to school in the United States.”

“You were just summer fuck buddies then,” James concluded. “You two didn’t do the pen pal thing?”

“I don’t think Lars was all too interested in that,” Claudia said rather uncomfortably. “Things just didn’t work out between us. He must have improved as a drummer if he has a band now.”

“Not really,” James replied as he held the bag of pork rinds over his mouth in an attempt to get out every last crumb.

“Mommy! There you are Mommy! I’ve been looking all over for you!” A sweet, shy, and incredibly adorable little girl came running down the hallway. She had very long brown hair, and big green eyes. She was dressed in a pink night gown, and carried a stuffed rabbit. She ran straight to Claudia, and threw her arms around her legs. She looked to be around four or five.

“Cecily!” Claudia gasped. “What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

“I had a bad dream,” Cecily moaned, as she shyly looked up at the three long haired dudes that stood before her. “You weren’t there,” she added.

“Cecily darling, you know that Mummy works during the night,” said Claudia as she gently stroked the little girl’s hair. “I have to make all of those pretty cakes that you see at morning brunch.”

Cecily just nodded, and buried her face into her Mom’s side. The three long haired guys frightened her.

“You have a kid?” James asked, not hiding his disappointment.

“This is my daughter Cecily,” Claudia introduced. “Cecily dear, please say hello to these gentlemen.”

Reluctantly, Cecily turned to face Kirk, Cliff, and James.

Kirk stepped forward and smiled.

“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Kirk.”

“How do you do,” said Cecily, offering him her hand, but avoiding eye contact.

“I’m well,” replied Kirk as he gently shook her hand. “I like your rabbit.”

Cecily said nothing. Instead, she went back behind her Mom.

“She’s very shy,” explained Claudia. “She just turned five. She’s my entire world though. She’s all that I got. She’s a very smart little girl.”

“I guess three long haired, half naked dudes would be pretty scary for a five year old,” said James. “Oh well, just wait until she gets to be like sixteen. She’ll love us.”

Claudia frowned.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I have to put Cecily back to bed now.” She took Cecily’s hand. “Come along now sweetie. It’s off to bed with you!”

The three watched as the two headed to the elevators and disappeared.

“Well that was sure a quick cock block,” Cliff stated. “A woman with a kid.”

“You got that right,” nodded James. “A shame too. She had a nice ass, and she could bake good cakes.”

“She seemed young to have a five-year-old,” said Kirk.

“She could have had it while in high school,” said James. “Start em young. No wonder Lars got rid of her, since she has the kid and all.”

“Lars doesn’t seem like the fatherly type,” Cliff agreed.

“Well, he’s certainly sure that his Dad will win Father of the Year,” Kirk quipped, as the three slowly headed back to their rooms. “I don’t think I’m going to enter.”

“Complete and utter nonsense!” retorted James. “His essays don’t hold a candle to the shit that you can write. I can just see it now. My Father should be Father of the Year just because he’s Torben Ulrich the tennis pro. Like anybody gives a shit.”

“When you put it that way, maybe I do stand a chance,” Kirk replied hopefully.

“You do, and you’re going to enter,” said Cliff. “Or else me and James will come kick your ass.”

“But you two do that anyway,” Kirk pointed out.

“True,” nodded James. “But this time we have ten thousand dollars at stake, so we would not only kick your ass, but we’d kick it all the way down to hell.”

“You got no choice Hamster,” said Cliff. “You have to enter.”

“Oh alright,” Kirk sighed as he and Cliff stepped onto the elevator. “Good night James,” he waved, as they elevator door closed.

Kirk was secretly glad that they had convinced him to enter Mr. Chelton into the contest. After all, what did Lars know about being a father anyway?
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ridethelife427
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awwww! this is amazing! and what about cecily... hmmm. could lars have a secret love child? great update! keep more comin! :biggrin
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Verity
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Here's some more :)


Chapter 4- Getting Back at Lars



Kirk finished his essay first thing the very next morning. It was a very good thing that he and Cliff had swapped that old typewriter. It made his essay look very professional, even if it was on Hotel Iroquois stationary. Kirk neatly signed his essay, folded it into a Hotel Iroquois envelope, and carefully in his neatest penmanship, addressed it. He fished through Cliff’s duffel bag for a stamp, since Cliff had bought shit loads of postage stamps for them to use for sending copies of The Metallinews back home. Kirk placed the envelope in his guitar case so that it would stay safe. He would mail it off to the Men’s League during his break.

“Hey Cliff, want to go down with me to the post office during break?” Kirk asked when the boys decided to take their break.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cliff asked. “It’s like negative 30 degrees outside and snowing like a mother fucker. I wouldn’t go outside for all the pot in Columbia.”

So Kirk bundled himself up in his leather jacket, scarf, mittens, and ear muffs, and braved the Copenhagen winter. Snowflakes whirled and danced around his head as he ran (to keep warm) all the way down the lane, through the covered bridge, and across the street to the post office.

As Kirk approached the mailbox he grabbed the envelope out of his pocket.

“I hope I win,” Kirk said as he rubbed the envelope for good luck. “Cliff and James are banking on it, and Mr. Chelton deserves to go see Yngvie Malmsteen.”

Kirk was just about to drop the envelope into the mailbox when he heard a voice say

“Why if it isn’t little Quirky Hammett!” It was Lars. “Are you mailing a love letter to that little flat chested twit that you see back at home.”

“Don’t call her that!” Kirk snapped. “She’s my girlfriend, and I love her!”

“She’s my girlfriend! I love her!” Lars mimicked. “What are you mailing anyway? A postcard to your Daddy? Wait a minute, that’s right. You don’t have a daddy.”

“Fuck off Lars!” Kirk snapped, and stepped closer to the mailbox. “What are you doing here anyway? You never write to anybody.”

“I just mailed in my essay for the Father of the Year Contest,” Lars replied smoothly. “My Dad is so touched that I entered him. He said that if I win, he’ll pay for me and one friend to go spend a weekend in Italy.”

“La tee da,” Kirk spat sourly. “I’m mailing my essay.”

Kirk was just about to drop the essay into the box, when Lars greedily snatched it away out of his hands.

“I told you Kirk, entering Mr. Chelton is against the rules,” Lars said.

“I don’t care! Give it back Lars!” Kirk shrieked. Lars held the letter high up over his head. Kirk began to jump up and down trying to grab it, but it was no use.

“You’ll only embarrass yourself,” retorted Lars, as he held the letter away from the jumping Kirk. “The Danish Men’s League will never let you live this down. I’m only trying to protect you.”

“It’s my essay, and I want to send it!” Kirk cried. Tears were beginning to sting his eyes. He jumped up one last time, but it was in vain. Kirk couldn’t reach the letter.

“I promise to split some of my prize money with you when I win,” said Lars. “You can buy anything that you’d like. Maybe you can even go buy yourself a Father.”

“Fuck you!” Kirk yelled, and the tears began to fall down his face.

“Don’t fucking cry Kirk,” Lars grumbled violently. “You cry every time that someone lets out a fart in the wrong direction.”

“Give it back!” Kirk screamed again. Lars took the envelope and shoved it deep down inside the crotch of his pants.

“You’ll have to reach inside my dick to get to it!” Lars laughed.

It was no use. Lars was right. Kirk couldn’t and shouldn’t enter Mr. Chelton into the contest.

“I fucking hate you!” Kirk cried through tears, and then took off running down the street.

“Oh come on Kirk!” Lars yelled after him. “Come back! I was just fucking with you! Come back man!”

But Kirk ignored him. Kirk Hammett didn’t care if he ever saw Lars Ulrich again. He hated Lars. To make things worse, Kirk slipped on a patch of ice, and fell right onto his ass with a hard thud right in front of the hotel. Kirk sat on the ground, and began howling.

Fortunately for Kirk, James and Cliff were hanging out in the hotel lobby playing a game of Scrabble, and polishing off a bottle of wine. Kirk’s wails could be heard well inside the hotel.

“Someone needs to shut that mother fucker up!” James declared.

“It sounds like Kirk,” said Cliff. The two got up from their table, and dashed through the revolving door outside. Sure enough, there sat Kirk Hammett on the cold ground in front of the hotel, weeping.

“You’re such a pussy Kirk!” James snapped as he helped Kirk up off the ground. Kirk’s ass was covered with cold water from the snow. He had ice and snow all over his pant legs. “You can’t cry every time that someone kicks your ass.” James continued as he brushed snow off of Kirk.

“Yeah, because that’s like everyday,” added Cliff.

“I didn’t get my ass kicked!” Kirk retorted through tears. “I fell. I fell down on the ice.”

“You look like hell,” said James. “Your face is red, and your eyes are puffy. You’ve been crying for a hell of a lot longer than just a few minutes. Someone beat your ass.”

“Lars is so mean!” Kirk wailed through tears as Cliff and James helped him inside. They sat Kirk down in a chair in the middle of the busy lobby.

“What did Lars do this time?” James asked as he offered Kirk a cocktail napkin to wipe his eyes with.

“He stole my essay for the Father of the Year contest,” Kirk answered through tears.

“Lars can be such a fucking dick,” Cliff declared. “It’s half off wine day at the bar. Want me to buy you a bottle?”

Kirk looked up at Cliff and stopped crying.

“You’d do that for me?” he asked.

“Well, I plan on drinking some of it too,” Cliff replied, and he shuffled off towards the bar.

“I can’t believe that little goat prick took your essay,” said James as he helped Kirk out of his wet and soggy leather jacket.

Just then, a big pink rubber ball, bounced towards them. It stopped right at Kirk’s feet.

“Oh no!” cried it’s owner. Cecily, the little girl from last night, ran towards them. She stopped before getting too close to James and Kirk. She actually even took a step backwards. Kirk picked up the ball.

“Hi there,” he said and smiled at the cute pigtailed little girl. “Is this yours?”


“Cecily!” Claudia yelled from across the hotel lobby. “How many times do I have to tell you not to play ball in the lobby. Now apologize to those gentlemen now!”

Cecily looked down at her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“That’s alright,” said James. “We’ve done a hell of a lot more damage to a hotel lobby than that silly old ball could do. Hey Kirk, remember the time that Lars took a shit in a flower pot at the Strathallan Hotel in Rochester?”

“She’s a little girl James,” Cliff said, returning with a bottle of wine and corkscrew. “You’re not supposed to say words like shit in front of her.”

“Oh,” James replied, putting his hand over his mouth. “Sorry bout that.”

Cecily actually giggled, and smiled a shy smile.

“I think she likes cuss words,” James declared.

“She might, but her Mom doesn’t. Trust me,” said Cliff as he handed Kirk the bottle of wine and corkscrew. “Open this, will you?” he ordered.

Kirk began to struggle with opening the bottle of wine. Cecily watched and cocked her head with great interest. “Oh shit Cliff!” he mumbled as he fumbled around with the corkscrew. “I can’t get it.”

“You can’t work the vending machine, you can’t open a bottle of wine, it’s a wonder that you can even wipe your own ass,” Cliff muttered as he grabbed the bottle and corkscrew.
This sent Cecily into another fit of giggles.

“You think that’s funny?” Kirk snapped. Cecily stopped giggling, and smiled her shy smile.

“My Dad showed me how to use a corkscrew back when I was seven,” Cliff said as he pulled out the cork. “Whenever I was sick he would always stay home from work to take care of me. He’d give me wine and read aloud to me.”

Kirk looked down into his lap. Immediately, Cliff had realized what he had said. He turned red, and his hand flew up to his mouth. “Oh fuck,” he muttered. “Kirk, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mention my Dad.”

“It’s alright Cliff,” Kirk sighed. He began to play with the edge of his napkin. “It’s not your fault that you have a warm and loving dad, and I don’t.”

“I don’t have a Dad at all,” volunteered Cecily.

“Join the club,” quipped James. “Don’t worry. You’ll have a Daddy soon enough. Your Mom is always walking around in those tight jeans. She has a nice rack too. She’s bound to pick up a man.”

“Huh?” asked Cecily, frowning. “Mum says that I don’t have a Dad. He’s not around, and lives far away in a different country.”

Kirk and Cliff immediately exchanged glances.

“Cecily!” scolded Claudia as she made her way over towards them. “Please stop bothering these gentlemen. I’m so sorry.” she apologized.

“She’s not bothering us at all,” replied Kirk. “We don’t mind looking after her. Honestly.” He handed Cecily her bouncy ball.

“Especially since you’re a friend of Lars’s,” added James.

Claudia frowned.

Used to be a friend of Lars’s,” she corrected. She took Cecily’s hand. “Come on Cecily. Mummy has to finish making pastry crusts for tonight.”

Cecily shyly waved as her Mom pulled her away, and they disappeared through the door of the hotel restaurant.

“Boy she sure didn’t want her little brat around us for very long,” James observed as he filled his glass with wine and chugged it.

“Gee I wonder why,” Cliff shot. “You don’t fucking go on about her mother’s tits and ass in front of the kid James!”

“They’re good assets,” James shrugged. “Someday little Cecily will have them too. And it’s not like you’re Mr. Perfect either. You said “fuck” in front of her. Let me guess. Your Dad taught you that one when you were five?”

“Actually, my Mom taught me that one,” grunted Cliff. “But I was five.”

As the two bickered, Kirk had grown very quiet as he sipped his wine.

“You feeling better Hamster?” James asked, and knocked him upside the head.

“Yeah actually,” Kirk stated. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking about Cecily?”

“That she’s going to grow up to have nice boobs like her Mom?” James asked.

“No,” Kirk said frowning. He helped himself to more wine. “That maybe Cecily is Lars’s daughter.”

James spat out the wine that he was drinking as he broke out into laughter.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he laughed. “She’s too sweet and cute to be related to Lars.”

“It isn’t that far fetched,” said Cliff. “I mean, didn’t that Claudia chick say that she hadn’t seen or spoken to Lars in five years?”

“She did,” Kirk said nodding. “And we know that Cecily just turned five, and that her father lives in a different country.”

“I don’t know,” James said. “I guess it ispossible. But it’s highly unlikely. A woman who looks and wears as tight of jeans as Claudia does, probably has had a lot of suitors. I bet she’s been with countless men.”

“Even so,” said Cliff as he lit a cigarette. “Wouldn’t it be a hoot to see how Lars would react if he thought that Cecily really was his daughter?”

“He’d shit,” said James. “Fuck, I’d shit if that ever happened to me.”

“Me too,” put in Cliff. “I couldn’t even imagine anything shittier.”

“It definitely would be funny,” Kirk agreed. “But Lars has no reason to think that Cecily’s his. I don’t even know if he even knows about Cecily. He hasn’t been around us when we’ve seen her.”

“We just have to give him reason to think that she belongs to him,” Cliff replied. “We could write him a letter or something.”

“But why would we want to do that?” Kirk asked.

“Because he treated you like shit,” Cliff replied. “Just think about it Kirk. What better way to get back at Lars for being a shit to you about your dad, than making Lars believe that he’s a shitty dad himself.” Cliff blew a ring of smoke into the air. Kirk thought about what Cliff had said. It did sound like the perfect revenge. Even James had a devilish grin on his face.

“So,” he said as he finished off his wine. “We just have to convince old Larsy-poo that little Cecily is really little Cecily Ulrich?”

“Yep,” Cliff nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Making Lars believe that he has a secret daughter sounds so shady, low, and devious,” Kirk mused. “I love it! I absolutely love it! I want to get started right away! Let’s get another bottle of wine to celebrate…”
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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“I love it! I absolutely love it! I want to get started right away! Let’s get another bottle of wine to celebrate…”
^^

Hehehehe what a fantastic end line to a chapter :) Devious sneaky little sods that they are.

Not that Lars doesn't deserve it of course - because he does :)

Fabulous stuff there!
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MissMetallica;;
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another great start to another FANTASTIC fanfic by verity!!

cant wait to read more!!
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Verity
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Thanks for the reviews gals. I'll keep more coming. This next chapter was written while a little drunk. I'm looking at an old poster of Kirk as I write though, and he makes a very good muse. :)



Chapter 5- Operation Cecily Ulrich

Kirk couldn’t wait to get operation Cecily Ulrich underway, and neither could Cliff and James. They decided to get started right that very evening.

They were in the studio doing the wretched, loathed, and tedious task of editing. They had hours and hours of music to shift through, and that was just for Master of Puppets.

“I want to use take seven up until thirty-one seconds,” Lars reported to the poor, humble, recording engineer who had to put up with all of Metallica’s chronic bullshit. “Then I want to use take five for the next five seconds, then back to take seven for ten seconds, and then take one for the next forty-five seconds. Then I was wondering if we could loop my drum lines from take six into take eight for about twenty-seven more seconds, then we can use my third take up until the chorus.”

“You’re going to have to repeat that again Lars,” said the recording engineer.

“Jesus!” Lars snapped. “Its not focking brain surgery!”

“Actually, the fucked up convoluted way that you edit kind of is,” Cliff said from the couch where he sat smoking a cigarette. “If you could play the shit down in one take, it would be a fuck load easier.”

“Fuck you Burton!” Lars snapped. “If you’re so focking great why don’t you go play bass with the symphony or something?”

“Because then I would have to cut my hair,” replied Cliff.

“Really Lars,” the recording engineer piped up. “You’re going to have to better explain that edit to me. It’s too confusing.”

“Here,” Lars scoffed as he thrust a mangled sheet of loose leaf paper that had the edits written down on it. “I thought that Flemming told me that he had hired more competent people this time around.”

As the recording engineer took Lars’s edits and started to work his magic on Lars’s drum lines for Master of Puppets, the others decided it was time to kick off their grand scheme.

“Guess who we met today?” James asked Lars as he opened a bottle of beer.

“Amelia Earhart? How the fock should I know?” demanded Lars.

“We met up with that Claudia chick friend of yours, and her adorable little daughter Cecily,” James said in a gossipy tone. They waited to see if this instigated any reaction from Lars.

“That bitch has a kid?” Lars asked smoothly, as he lit a cigarette. To Kirk’s disappointment, there wasn’t even the slightest bit of alarm in his voice.

“A little girl,” chirped Cliff. “She’s about five years old, and just as sweet as sugar.”

“If there was one person who shouldn’t have reproduced it was Claudia,” Lars muttered. “Oh well. Kid won’t stay sweet for long. She’ll become a psycho freak just like her mother.”

“Don’t say that Lars,” said Kirk. “The poor little girl doesn’t have a daddy around.”

“I don’t blame him,” shot Lars. “Claudia is a bitch.” He turned his attention back to the poor sound engineer. “Are you focking done with that edit yet?”

Lars didn’t seem to know who Cecily’s daddy was either. Their plan could move onward.

***

Later that night Kirk and Cliff were back in their hotel room waiting for room service to bring up their dinner.

“How do you think that we should tell Lars that Cecily is his daughter?” Kirk asked. “Should I call him up and pretend to be Claudia?”

“No, that wouldn’t work,” replied Cliff. “He’d wonder why she never did that before, and plus you don’t sound like Claudia anyway. We should probably send him a letter declaring paternity.”

“From where?” asked Kirk. “Like the hospital? We don’t know where Cecily was born.”

“We’ll send it from a lawyer,” said Cliff. He searched around for a piece of paper that wasn’t Hotel Iroquois stationary.

“I don’t know any Danish lawyers,” said Kirk.

“That’s what the phonebook is for numb nuts,” Cliff hissed as he threaded the paper through the typewriter.

“Good idea!” Kirk said as he grabbed the unused phonebook that sat next to the unused Bible, in the bedside table. Kirk flipped the book open. “Oh piffle!” he announced. “They don’t have lawyers listed. Whatever will we do?”

“Give me that you fuck!” Cliff snatched away the phonebook. “Try looking under attorneys, dumb ass.”

“Oh yeah,” Kirk exclaimed taking the book. “Copenhagen has a shit load of them.”

“Look for one that deals with domestic issues,” Cliff instructed.

“Here’s one,” Kirk said pointing to the ad. “Mikhail W. Gurken. Domestic Attorney at Law.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cliff nodded in approval.

“So now what?” Kirk asked.

“We write a letter of paternity from this Mikhail W. Gurken dude claiming that Cecily is Lars’s daughter,” said Cliff.

“What does a letter of paternity look like?” Kirk asked as he sat down at the typewriter.

“How the fuck should I know?” Cliff snapped. “It’s not like my mailbox is overflowing with them.”

“You’ve never gotten one?” Kirk asked.

“Of course not!” retorted Cliff. “Don’t act so fucking surprised either! Now move the fuck out of the way!” He pushed Kirk off of the chair, and took his place in front of the typewriter. “We’re going to need to get a PO Box so that Lars can respond to the letter, and we’re going to have to try and get Cecily in on this too. Offering her some candy should do the trick.”

“Do you really think that candy would work Cliff?” Kirk asked.

“Of course,” Cliff said with full confidence. “Kids are stupid. They always fall for that kind of shit. No go find out what Claudia’s last name is,” he ordered.

“How do I do that?” Kirk asked. “I can’t go to her room and ask her.”

“Do you not have any brain inside of your head at all?” Cliff asked. “Fucking call down to the front desk and ask who the fucking hotel pastry chef is!”

“Good idea,” Kirk nodded, and picked up the phone. He found that Claudia’s last name was Mickelson.

Cliff began to type as Kirk looked over his shoulder. One of Kirk’s springy, black, curls brushed up against Cliff’s cheek.

“Would you not hover all over me!” Cliff snapped. “Jesus! Give me some fucking room!”

“I’m just trying to help Cliff,” Kirk whined. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

Kirk looked as if he were about to burst into tears at any moment. “Fuck,” thought Cliff. “I just made the little fucker cry.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Cliff replied as he grabbed his pack of cigarettes. “It’s just that you’re making me nervous.”

So poor Kirk flopped down on the bed, as Cliff worked on the rest of the letter. He opened a package of licorice.

Tomorrow is November 23,” thought Kirk. “Tomorrow is the deadline for the essay contest, and I never even got the chance to enter Mr. Chelton. It would have been so nice to at least have entered the contest. Then I could have pretended that Mr. Chelton was my Father, even if it were just for one day.”

“Cliff,” Kirk piped up. “I want to have a kid someday. Maybe a little boy would be fun.” He stuffed a piece of licorice into his mouth.

Cliff whirled around in his chair, and nearly choked on his cigarette. He looked at Kirk as if Kirk had just suggested that they both climb into a truck and exfixiate themselves while wearing women’s panty hose.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked.

“No,” Kirk replied sheepishly. “Lots of people have kids. I could even teach it how to play a little guitar.”

“You’re pussy whipped Kirk,” Cliff said as he went back to his letter. “I drink, smoke weed, and screw fifteen-year-old girls, but my one humble and noble contribution to society is, that I absolutely will not reproduce. The fucking world is too overpopulated anyway.”

“I think it’s because I never had a loving father,” Kirk sighed as he stuffed more licorice into his mouth. “I have this empty void in me, and the only way that I can fill it is by being a loving father to a child of my own.”

“You really are sick aren’t you?” Cliff asked.

Kirk frowned.

“I finished Lars’s letter,” Cliff announced, and took the paper out of the typewriter. “Want me to read it to you?”

“Yes please,” Kirk replied. Cliff cleared his throat and in his most official voice read

Dear Mr. Ulrich,

My name is Mikhail Gurken, and I am a prominent, established, attorney in the Copenhagen area. I am contacting you today regarding the child, a daughter Cecily, that you had five years ago with a Miss Claudia Mickelson of Copenhagen.
Cecily would like to meet her long lost father, and have a relationship with him. Studies show that girls that have close relationships with their fathers do better in school. Don’t you want little Cecily to do well in school?
Claudia was not the party who contacted me regarding this matter. It was Cecily herself. She really wants to get to know her dad. She loves Metallica, and her favorite Metallica song is “Anesthesia Pulling Teeth.” How could you possibly deny this sweet little angel a chance to meet her father?

You can reach me regarding this matter at the following PO Box.

Sincerely,

Mikhail W. Gurken, Domestic Attorney at Law.


“Ta da!” said Cliff. “How do you like it?”

“It’s perfect Cliff,” responded Kirk thoughtfully, as he looked down at his slightly bloated stomach from all of the licorice that he had just polished off. “Except for one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Cliff asked, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Take out the Anesthesia bit,” said Kirk. “That wouldn’t be her favorite song, it isn’t anybody’s favorite song.”

“Fuck you Kirk,” Cliff grunted, but he did edit that part out of the letter.

“Now it’s perfect!” Kirk said with a smile. He threw his arms around Cliff, nearly knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. “I might write the best essays, but you definitely write the best letters…”
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ridethelife427
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yay! awesome update verity! absolutely wonderful. :D
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MissMetallica;;
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hhahaha cliff putting the anesthesia part in the letter made me laugh!

great update! :D
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Shayi
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Bring me that horizon
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“That wouldn’t be her favorite song, it isn’t anybody’s favorite song.”

“Fuck you Kirk,” Cliff grunted, but he did edit that part out of the letter.

“Now it’s perfect!” Kirk said with a smile. He threw his arms around Cliff, nearly knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. “I might write the best essays, but you definitely write the best letters…”


Oh man, end on a giggle eh? That bit made me laugh so hard :) I love it when Kirk and Cliff are being sneaky! All through this I could just picture it - Cliff slighly exasperated, Kirk excited... fabulous, absolutely fabulous :) This is such an excellent story, and such a great idea for one as well!
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Verity
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Sorry for any spelling mistakes. The first half of this was written while wasted, the second half I was sitting on a beautiful deck overlooking lake Michigan, but the sun glare made the screen hard to read.
Hope you enjoy- I have to haul my ass to work or else I'll be late!
BLAH!!!



Chapter 6- Getting to Know Little Cecily


Kirk Hammett cast off the bed covers and danced out of the bed the very next morning. Lars would get their letter today and operation Cecily Ulrich would be officially underway. To celebrate, Kirk decided to order room service for breakfast, something that they never did because number one, ordering room service twice a day was too expensive for an up and coming rock band, and number two, they were never awake for breakfast.

“Bring up the works,” Kirk ordered into the phone. “I want two Vienna omelets with sausage links, extra toast, and jelly. I also want a side of hotcakes, real maple syrup, a pot of coffee, real clotted cream, and fresh squeezed orange juice.”

Kirk was very proud of the breakfast that he had ordered. They brought it up to him on a little push cart. The table even had a vase with a red single rose in it, and a basket of fresh baked muffins and pastries. Kirk thanked and tipped the bellman, and then wheeled his cart of food into the hotel room.

“Looky here Cliffy!” Kirk cried. “I bought us some breakfast.”

Cliff was shoved way deep under his bed covers. He didn’t move.

“Cliff!” Kirk called again. He stood over Cliff’s bed, and watched as the sleeping bassist lay peacefully resting. “Get up Cliff!” Kirk tried again. Cliff opened an eye.

“Does this have to do with a vending machine?” he asked.

“No,” answered Kirk.

“Fuck it then,” Cliff rolled over and went back to sleep.

“But I bought us a room service breakfast!” Kirk replied. He took a pillow and began to whack Cliff with it. Cliff grabbed the pillow from Kirk, and ended up whacking Kirk upside the head with it.

“Die you fucker!” he yelled. “What the fucking hell is the matter with you? You wake me up over a fucking breakfast? How many fucking times do I have to tell you? Unless the Hotel Iroquois is blowing up, or the apocalypse is coming I don’t want to fucking me disturbed when I’m sleeping!”

Kirk burst into tears.

“I’m sorry Cliff,” he cried. “I just wanted to do something to thank you for all of your help on operation Cecily Ulrich, and for being my friend. I thought that you’d like a nice breakfast. I also wanted to make sure that your breakfast didn’t get cold!” Sadly, Kirk dragged himself over to his breakfast cart, sat down, and lifted up the cover that was over his plate. It looked like he would be eating alone. Kirk pathetically picked at his omelet.

“Fuck,” Cliff muttered. He was feeling hung over, and the last thing that he wanted was to be eating breakfast at seven in the morning. With a sigh, Cliff got up out of bed, and threw on a terrycloth bathrobe. He didn’t bother with his contact lenses. It wasn’t like Kirk was all that exciting to look at anyway.

Cliff joined Kirk at the breakfast table. He lifted the cover that was keeping his food warm, and frowned.

“Do you think that they put stuff in this food to make people fat and sedated?” Cliff asked. He lacerated his omelet with his fork. Mushrooms, Swiss cheese, and remoulade sauce oozed out.

“Why do say that?” Kirk asked as fished around in the pastry basket.

“Because,” replied Cliff as he sleepily drowned his coffee in sugar. “I feel so fucking tired all the time, and I’m always eating this room service shit.”

“I thought you liked room service,” said Kirk.

“I do, but we’re going to get fucking fat eating it all the time,” Cliff whined.

“Your not fat Cliff,” Kirk assured him. He pulled a powdered sugar puff ball out of the pastry basket. “Do you think that Claudia made this?” he asked as he examined it.

“I bet she slaved away on it with her own two hands,” Cliff replied as he too raided the pastry basket. “Hey! They only gave us one of those puff ball fuckers!”

“We’ll share it,” said Kirk as he carefully cut the puff ball in half. “So, what’s the next step in operation Cecily Ulrich?”

“This fucking coffee tastes like lighter fluid,” Cliff grunted as he took a swig of coffee. “The first thing that we need to do is get little Cecily to like us so that she’ll be hanging around us. It does no good to tell Lars that he has a daughter, and then not be able to have the daughter around to dangle in front of him as bait.”

“Do you think that he’ll actually take the bait?” Kirk asked as he neatly spread jelly onto his piece of toast. “What if he doesn’t care that he has a daughter?”

“That’s why we have to get little Cecily to like us,” Cliff replied. “If she starts to tag along with us then Lars will be subjected to seeing her all of the time. He’s not going to be able to deny some kid with big puppy dog eyes, and a sweet face. Especially, if he thinks that kid is his daughter.”

“How do we get a little girl to like three smelly long haired metal dudes?” Kirk asked.

“That my dear friend, you can leave up to me,” said Cliff. “You’ll see why they pay me the big bucks…”

***

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Cliff, Kirk, and James had been staked out in the lobby for the entire afternoon waiting for Cecily and her mom to walk by. They lived and worked at the hotel. Surely they had to go through the lobby at some point. They amused themselves by playing power and spit, and keeping the hotel bar in business. The hotel concierge dude kept eyeing them suspiciously, especially Cliff. Cliff lit up a cigarette.

“Just what do you have there young man?” The concierge barked from across the lobby.

“It’s just a fucking cigarette!” Cliff snapped. “Rest your nadlins dude! Jesus Christ!”

“I was just making sure,” the concierge replied. “We run a world class hotel here, not a commune.”

“Fuck you!” Cliff snarled.

“Hey look!” Kirk cried and pointed. “There’s Claudia and Cecily!”

Sure enough Cecily and Claudia had just came through the revolving glass door, and were now in the lobby.

“I won the last hand so that means that I’m the one who gets to try and distract Mommy while you two get cozy with her daughter,” said James.

“I know,” Kirk sighed. “Just don’t fuck this up for us.”

“Trust me,” James said with smile as he got up out of his chair. “Claudia is in good hands. She’s going to find out how to put the het in Hetfield.”

“Oh dear,” Kirk wailed, as James stumbled his way over to them.

“Hey baby,” James greeted with a nod as he approached Claudia.

“Excuse me?” Claudia asked.

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving me a cake decorating lesson?” James said.

“I think that can be arranged,” answered Claudia. “I can’t do it today though. I have to get to work.”

“Wait!” James grabbed her arm before she could leave. “I kind of need to have the lesson right now. It’s my friend’s birthday today.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cake picture that he had neatly clipped out of a magazine last night. It was an absolutely devastatingly beautiful cake with fancy piping, and fondant flowers.

“I want you to show me how to make a cake like this,” said James. Claudia looked at the cake picture and raised an eyebrow. It was an odd request from a longhaired dude.

“A cake like that takes years of practice. Why don’t you just call the hotel bakery and have them make you a cake?” asked Claudia.

“Because I want to learn how to decorate myself,” replied James smoothly. “It’s been a dream of mine to learn how to decorate cakes. My friend is really sick, terminally ill in the hospital. This will be his last birthday. I’ll pay you anything.”

“Oh,” Claudia gasped. She looked at the cake picture, and then down at Cecily. “I’d love to help out your friend, but I can’t give you a lesson right now. You see I have my little daughter.”

“She’d be plenty safe with us,” said Kirk as he came right up to them with Cliff in tow. He didn’t trust James not to say something stupid. “We’re just chilling out here in the lobby. You can leave her with us.”

Claudia looked at James holding his beer, Kirk in his Samhain shirt, and Cliff smoking a cigarette. A look of worry crossed her face.

“We’re friends of Lars remember?” James added.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“I can ask the concierge to keep an eye on her,” Claudia replied.

“Don’t!” Kirk cried in desperation. “Honestly, you can trust us with your daughter. We promise to keep a good eye on her.”

Claudia stared at Kirk’s pleading face. “I just love little kids,” he added. Claudia was about to say no, but there was something in Kirk’s voice that changed her mind. “Perhaps it is okay,” she thought. “It would only be for a little while, and it might be good for Cecily to be around a father figure for a change.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “But you are not to take her out of the lobby.” She turned to Cecily. “Cecily honey,” she said. “You’re going to spend the afternoon with these two gentlemen while Mommy gives a cake decorating lesson.”

Cecily took one look at Kirk, Cliff, and James and immediately buried her face in her mother’s side.

“I don’t want to,” she moaned.

“You know that Mommy could really use the money right now hun,” Claudia replied, stroking Cecily’s hair. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Cecily retorted, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. Claudia pried Cecily away.

“Be a good girl Cecily, and don’t give these gentlemen any trouble,” she instructed, and then she turned to James. “Are you ready?” she asked.

James nodded, and followed Claudia towards the hotel kitchen. He turned back to look at Kirk, Cliff, and little crying Cecily.

“Fuck yeah!” he mouthed and pointed at Claudia’s ass.

Cliff flicked him off. Claudia whirled around

“Are you coming Mr. Hetfield?” she asked.

“Yes baby- I mean yes Claudia,” James corrected, and stumbled on after her.

Kirk put his hands on his knees and faced the sobbing Cecily.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “We’re going to have lots of fun together, and your mom will be back soon.”

“No she won’t,” Cecily sobbed through tears. “Whenever she goes a place alone with a boy she’s always gone for hours.”

“Het will have her gone for days,” said Cliff. This instigated another fresh round of tears from Cecily.

“Big help you are,” Kirk snarled at Cliff. “Now we’ll never get her to shut up.” How will I ever handle being a parent someday? thought Kirk.

“Shut the fuck up!” Cliff bellowed at Cecily. Cecily did shut up, but it was only for a moment, then she went back into tears.

“Cliff, you’re wrecking everything,” Kirk moaned. “You must do something.”

“I don’t know what the fuck to do!” Cliff snapped.

“But you always know what to do,” replied Kirk. “Tell her one of your stories. Your stories are always the best.”

“Okay,” Cliff nodded. “Cecily, want me to tell you a story?”

Cecily calmed down, she looked up at Cliff and nodded.

“Okay,” she said.

“Which one should I tell Kirk?” Cliff asked as he fumbled for a cigarette.

“Anyone that you’d like,” Kirk replied, happy that Cecily had finally shut up. “They’re all good.”

“How about the one with that one chick from Jersey? The one who wanted me to cum in her eye so I did, and then it got all infected.”

“Cliff!” Kirk gasped in shock and horror. Claudia was going to be absolutely horrified at the shit that poor little Cecily was going to come home with. “You can’t tell Cecily that one!”

“Why not?” Cliff shrugged.

Just then, there came a few giggles from Cecily.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Cliff snapped at her.

“You’re funny,” replied Cecily sweetly. “I like you.”

“Really?” Cliff asked, amazed and amused as he took a drag on his cigarette. For the first time, he smiled at Cecily. “Hey kid,” he said, as he knelt down to Cecily’s height. “Want some candy?” Cliff pulled out a small paper bag. Cecily eyed the bag with interest. Cliff pulled out a caramel turtle candy made with real, Danish, chocolate.

“Jiminy!” Kirk gasped. Danish chocolates especially turtles, were so expensive. It was a way to rip the tourists of Copenhagen. “The other day you told me that you couldn’t make your car insurance payment,” said Kirk as Cliff unwrapped the turtle. “Where on earth did you get the money for candy?”

“Never mind where I got it!” Cliff hissed in annoyance. He handed the turtle to Cecily.

“Thank you. Mummy never lets me have anything with caramel or nuts in it,” said Cecily as she popped the turtle into her mouth.

“Well I ain’t your Mommy,” Cliff spat.

“You have longer hair,” said Cecily with a grin. “And you’re funnier. Do you think I could play with your hair? Mummy taught me how to make a braid.”

“Absolutely not!” shot Cliff. His hands flew to his hair. “No one is allowed to fuck with my hair.”

Cecily frowned.

“Want another candy?” Cliff asked, offering her another turtle. Cecily was about to reach for the candy when Kirk snatched it away.

“You’ll spoil her dinner!” he scolded.

“I will not!” Cliff snapped.

“Don’t subject Cecily to your poor eating habits,” Kirk retorted.

“There you are!” a voice yelled. “I’ve been looking all over the focking place for you!” Lars Ulrich came up behind them dressed in a warm leather jacket, and wearing a new pair of sunglasses. “I’ve been shut up in the focking studio for the past two hours alone slaving away at editing, while you two pansies are lounging around in the hotel lobby!”

“We aren’t lounging around Lars,” said Kirk. “We’re babysitting for Claudia.” He put his arm on Cecily’s shoulder. “This is Claudia’s daughter, Cecily.”

Lars barely even gave Cecily a cursory glance. If anything, he scowled at her.

“Another thing to put on the list of Claudia’s mistakes,” he scoffed sourly. “Come along now Hamster,” he barked at Kirk. “Flemming wants us to deliver baskets of holly to his mother’s house. I’m not carrying them by myself.”

“But I promised Claudia that I’d keep an eye on Cecily,” Kirk protested. It was a hard choice though. Kirk loved going to Flemming’s mother’s house. She made the best stolen in all of Denmark, and collected angel statues.

“I can keep an eye on her,” Cliff volunteered.

“Good,” shot Lars.“The last thing that Claudia needed was a daughter sucking off of her,” he frowned again at Cecily, who looked hurt and confused. “I pity you,” he said.

“What does he mean?” Cecily asked.

“Don’t mind him, his dick is out of joint,” said Cliff as he ground out his cigarette.

“His what?” Cecily asked.

“Never mind,” spat Lars. He tugged on Kirk’s arm. “We have to get going Kirk. We have a lot of holly baskets to deliver.”

Kirk grabbed his scarf and jacket, and followed Lars. He looked back just to make sure that poor little Cecily would be alright left alone with Cliff.

“Don’t give her anymore candy!” he shouted.

“I won’t,” promised Cliff as Kirk disappeared through the door. He turned to the rather confused Cecily. “Well,” he sighed as he fished through his pocket. “You’re stuck with me. Kirk says that I can’t give you anymore candy because it will spoil your dinner. But I can give you something that won’t spoil your dinner. If anything, it will rev your metabolism up.”

“Really?” Cecily asked taking interest.

“Yep,” he nodded and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Want a cigarette?”





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