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The Farce (Should've given them the Donkey!)
Guns & Roses gen, slash fic by starpupil


Disclaimer: I declare ownership of nothing and no one. Daydreaming is my current occupation and it does not pay well.

Notes:
Written as a gift for Royo, as part of 2016's A Very Kinky Rockfic Ficmas Fest. The prompt was 'Slash,Axl, Duff, Steven, Izzy (Guns N Roses): The worst concert ever! (funny story).'
Happy Ficmas 2016! I hope this hasn't ruined it for you!
The venue is packed to capacity. The crowd is already both delirious and restless. The Gunners are completely off their faces on a variety of, er, 'things' and they haven’t even gone on stage yet.

None of this bodes well. At least, not for the behind the scenes crew, all of whom are nervous and hypertensive. The consumption of antacids has reached unprecedented levels. Roadies are wide eyed and babbling, grabbing hold of each other and speaking in hushed, terrified tones.

Someone, who is obviously based in the previously unheard of ‘I’m a Fucking Idiot’ department of the record company, had thought it would be a good idea to let Duff and Izzy write the backstage rider. When this fucking idiot is apprehended, he (or she) will be shot with a double barrelled shotgun filled with horse excrement, beaten with a length of copper piping, have their face used as a dartboard and then fired. Strictly as a reminder to everyone to never let Duff and Izzy do anything other than play their respective guitars again.

Their requests had included a donkey. Along with a lifetime’s supply of gin and tequila. Hopefully not for the donkey. Duff had asked for enough vodka to take down a herd of elephants and then some more, in case a second herd of elephants happened to wander past and wanted to get in on the act. He’d also requested a hot dog vendor with a thick Brooklyn accent. Apparently, this guy would give donkey rides.

They’d both decided that Slash would be needing a consignment of JD so large, it would necessitate the closure of the distillery while it’s owners frantically searched the entire northern hemisphere for much needed supplies. For Steven, they’d asked for a Speak&Spell and an umbrella so he could call home. Axl was getting an alarm clock the size of London’s Big Ben. And since he’s still not here, perhaps this particular request should have been given precedence.

Izzy’s pissed because the donkey part has not been fulfilled. He’d also asked for carrots and water because the poor animal would probably get hungry and thirsty after the hot dog vendor with the Brooklyn accent finished with him. His protests have fallen on deaf ears so he’s consuming copious quantities of giquila instead. He’s rather proud of his new cocktail. Even if it does make him so lethargic, he resembles a cadaver.

Duff has already started on the second herd of elephants vodka supply. He’s most annoyed that no one has seen fit to provide the chocolate raisins with the raisins taken out that he’d stipulated. Or the hot dog vendor.

Steven is frantically dialling on the Speak&Spell. He hasn’t managed to get through to anyone yet. Maybe he should open the umbrella. So he does. This time, he’s sure he’s got a dial tone.

“Chesoop,” Slash says, completely out of the blue. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night. Indeed, it’s the first time he’s spoken in almost three days.

“Say what now?” asks Izzy, channelling his inner dude.

“Chesoop!” Slash repeats.

“Hey, you! You with the fire extinguisher! Slash wants chicken soup!” Duff shouts at a slightly bewildered looking woman.

“I don’t have a fire extinguisher,” she says. “This is a clipboard.”

“Oh,” says Duff. “My bad! Where are we on the chicken soup?”

The woman walks away. And right out of the venue. She doesn’t stop until she reaches a fire house. She takes refuge there for the rest of her life.

Axl still isn’t here. Management type people are not happy about this. Izzy helpfully suggests that Duff should don a red wig and alternate between being himself and their front man. Duff thinks this is a wonderful idea. Management type people don’t.

“Mawhinny!” Slash shrieks suddenly and Duff turns to look at him.

“Mawhinnysere!” Slash says and grins delightedly.

Duff racks his brain. Has Slash started dating a girl called Winnie? More importantly, who the fuck names their daughter Winnie in this day and age?

A flurry of activity outside of their dressing room signals Axl’s arrival.

He stomps in, looks around and declares them all to be a bunch of utter fuckers who are incapable of telling their asses from their elbows.

“Fuck off,” Izzy mutters. “I know exactly where my ass is. I’m currently sitting on it.”

Axl glares. Izzy is not a bit perturbed. His giquila is almost as good as Xanax. He should tackle Axl to the floor and forcibly pour it down his throat. He just lacks the energy.

“Right!” exclaims a management type person. “Time to get this show on the road!”

“I can’t go on the road!” Steven screams frantically. “I haven’t managed to call my mom yet!”

Duff smacks him round the ear.

“You can try after the show,” he says and picks up his bass. The extra weight, in combination with the vodka, has him falling flat on his face.

Management type person bravely holds back tears of frustration and somehow succeeds in shooing them all out of the dressing room towards the stage. Steven brings the Speak&Spell with him in case his mom calls while they’re playing.

They take their places behind various mics, drum kits and, in Slash’s case, a stack of amps. Izzy then decides this is the perfect time to tell Duff he’s got a great ass. Delighted, Duff turns to hug him, misses him completely and ends up with his arms wrapped around a mic stand, nuzzling it and declaring his undying love. Izzy laughs like a donkey and is immediately pissed off again when he remembers he didn’t get the fucking donkey.

“Axsshhll!” slurs Slash from behind the amp stack. “Whyshherytinshhodak?”

Axl glares back at him.

“Probably because you’re a halfwit,” he snarls and then yells into his mic, “Hello, Pittsburgh!”

“We’re in Pasadena, you fuckin’ moron!” Izzy whisper shouts.

“Are we?” asks a bemused Axl. “That might explain why I was so late!” and then he turns back to the mic, loudly screaming into it, “You know where the fuck you are? You’re in the jungle, baby! And you’re gonna die! Although to be fair, Pasadena ain’t exactly the jungle. But then, I thought I was in Pittsburgh so what the hell!”

With that, most of the band launches into ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ except for Slash who is thoroughly convinced they’re starting with ‘My Michelle’ and so fucks up the entire intro. And also the entire song.

There is no going back from here.

‘It’s So Easy’ somehow becomes ‘Patience’ and ‘Rocket Queen’ fumbles into ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’.

This is solely because Slash is quite possibly the worst lead guitarist in the history of music tonight.

Axl is a nervous wreck. Aside from the fact that this gig is probably going to go down as the single worst thing ever performed in public, there’s a guy in the third row of the pit with what appears to be a pen. In Axl’s mind, this means the guy is either a music journalist or affiliated with the CIA. He wonders if CIA employees are allowed to attend rock concerts and somehow ends up singing lyrics from ‘Out Ta Get Me’ to the accompanying strains of ‘Think About You’.

Meanwhile, Izzy is doing his impersonation of a wooden doll. This basically means he is so out of it, he is nothing other than a puppet on a string. A puppet who is barely hanging in there.

Duff is sweating like a pig that’s just been told the truck pulling up outside of his pen is only there to take him and his extended family on a sightseeing tour of New England and definitely not to a slaughterhouse. He decides to take his bass from around his neck and pours a bottle of water over his head. Then he throws the guitar strap back around himself and is confused when it seems that the strings have vanished. Alarmed, he looks to Axl for help.

“You’re wearing it backwards!” Axl hisses at him, trying his level best to understand why Slash is playing ‘Mr. Brownstone’ when no one else is playing anything.

Steven is alternating between bashing his Speak&Spell with a cymbal and loudly yelling, “Mom? If you can hear me, scream ‘Uncle’!”

Axl needs alcohol. To this end, he grabs the plastic bottle Slash has placed on top of one of the amps. He looks into it and is disgusted to find it contains mostly snot and spit. Yes, he and Slash have been exchanging bodily fluids for a while now but swallowing this would be way beyond the call of duty. He looks at Duff.

Nobody takes Duff’s vodka. Nobody. Not unless they’ve got some sort of perverse desire to have their facial features rearranged. Tonight will be no different.

So he turns to Izzy who generously offers a full bottle of giquila. After all, he’s got at least a hundred more of this concoction.

Axl slugs down half the bottle, gags, wipes his mouth, blinks tears from his eyes and then slugs down the rest.

“This stuff is wonderful!” he thinks. “I feel like I’ve just taken ten Xanax!”

Slash has decided he needs a cigarette. He hauls a pack out of his pocket, taps one out and places it the wrong way round in his mouth. He tries to fire it up but succeeds only in lighting his hair on fire. Not that he notices. Although he does wonder where the pungent smell of singed hair is coming from.

Horrified, Axl frantically looks around for water. Well, not too frantically. The calming effect of the giquila he’s just consumed means he’s doing things in slow motion. With no water to hand, he sluggishly picks up a bucket of sand and chucks it over Slash’s head. It puts out the flames and also temporarily blinds Slash. Who resorts to screaming and clawing at his eyes.

Backstage, people are either rolling on the floor with laughter or sobbing and promising their first born to anyone who can get them out of being associated with the farce unfolding out front.

For their part, the crowd is trying to fathom why they’ve paid their hard earned money to watch what is basically an outtake from a ‘National Lampoons’ movie. They decide to start throwing things. All kinds of things. Things like bottles, cans, key rings, plastic cups, sandwiches and even a few misfortunate people who happen to be of short stature.

“I’ve got this!” Duff shrieks, wielding his bass like a bat. “I played baseball in high school!” and he begins wildly swinging at the incoming barrage.

Security men swarm the stage and start hauling the band off it. Slash throws up on one of them.

Axl is so chilled out, he has to be bodily draped over the shoulder of an ex CIA man in order to be removed from the stage. If he was any way with it, he might find this fact quite incongruous.

Izzy is eating sandwiches. Why shouldn’t he make some kind of gain out of this?

Duff is still violently swinging his bass. He manages to clock one of the security guys square in the face with it. Security guy retaliates by punching him. Duff drops his bass and punches him back. An all out, gloves off fist fight ensues between the two.

Steven pushes his way centre stage and grabs Axl’s mic.

“People, please!” he implores. “You gotta keep the noise down! I’ve been trying to call my mom all night and if she calls back, I won’t be able to hear her!”

The crowd finds this adorable. And so they stop firing random things and decide to leave to reconnect with their own parents.

Riot averted, security calms down. Except for the guy who got clocked by Duff. He’s insisting that his jaw is broken, even though it’s clearly not.

“Keep it up!” screams Duff. “Keep it up and I’ll crack your fuckin’ skull in two!”

Izzy offers him a sandwich. Duff stops punching his nemesis and gratefully accepts it. Then he pats security guy on the head, apologises and offers to bandage his jaw. Security guy backs away and decides there and then that he will immediately change his occupation and become a Tibetan monk.

Backstage, Slash is panned out on a stretcher, having the minor burns on his scalp tended to by a rather terrified looking medic. Axl is chilled out to the point that he’s smiling at people. These people are all utterly petrified. Steven has given up on trying to call home and is now programming the Speak&Spell to order Chinese takeout.

Management type people are standing about looking shellshocked.

Duff and Izzy decide to lock themselves in a storage closet and have loud, animal sex among some brooms and cleaning fluid.

“Just think!” exclaims Alan the tour manager. Or, 'Alan the Insufferable Asshole', as he’s known to the band. “This is only the third show on this leg of the tour!” he says. He is promptly assaulted by his own team.

Then a hot dog vendor from Brooklyn wanders by.

“Anybody seen a donkey?” he enquires.



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Recommend story
Comment by Marys - 01/10/17 - 04:55PM
" Izzy helpfully suggests that Duff should don a red wig and alternate between being himself and their front man. Duff thinks this is a wonderful idea. Management type people don’t." God, I almost fell off the chair! I laughed so hard with this!!! Brilliant!

starpupil's response: Hey there! Happy 2017 to you and thanks as always for reading, reviewing and enjoying. Love that it made you laugh!
Comment by xyliana - 01/07/17 - 10:30PM
I read this when it first came out and apparently didn't comment on it! I laughed so hard throughout this entire story! You got me curious to try giquila, I won't lie. Steve and his damn Speak&Spell were hilarious, and during the barrage scene all I saw was Duff hitting homers with a person of small stature instead of cups, keyrings and the like. This really was an outtake from National Lampoon, and the last two lines fucking killed me! Freaking great job and happy 2017 to ya!

starpupil's response: I should point out that while giquila really does make you sleep like the proverbial log, it also causes projectile vomiting so not advisable to try it!!! Thanks for reading and reviewing. Much love to you!
Comment by jules_ohara - 01/05/17 - 04:45PM
This is the funniest fanfic ever. I especially like the Speak&Spell and Duff hugging the mic stand. He does have a great ass.

starpupil's response: Huge thanks! Duff’s ass is an obsession of mine. An unhealthy obsession! Thanks for reading and sending feedback. Happy 2017 to you!
Comment by Royo - 12/27/16 - 01:29AM
Thank you for the story. It's great, funny, i love it :) *hugs* :)

starpupil's response: You're welcome! Delighted you like it!
Comment by envygreen - 12/26/16 - 12:18AM
Imagining Duff holding his guitar backwards while Slash is playing Mr. Brownstone all by himself really tickled my funny bone and I couldn't stop giggling.

starpupil's response: Thank you for reading and giggling! Have a great 2017!
Comment by CrazyInBC - 12/25/16 - 07:22AM
😂 this is so great!!

starpupil's response: Thank you! Hope you had a good Christmas and wishing you all the best for 2017!


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Oh dear😱 i'm dying, well not dying but this was so fsjsjsjjk 🤗 love it, maybe with Izzy's help can get over Stephen's memories. Btw it was funny the threesome idea 😂 —anonima, for Riguel*2000's SNAFU (Situation Normal All F@*ked Up)
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