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Revenge	By : nenrekh Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Metallica Views: 1585 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Metallica. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Revenge
- 1
Disclaimer: I own not. I earn not. No harm intended. I only play.
The four guys, on the threshold of not being teenagers anymore, shoved each other playfully as they made their way down the street. Two of them carried brown bags, the last of their money spent on beer, of course.
Just a few blocks from the tiny house they called home, the dark haired one heard some plaintive crying and went to investigate the sound. In a box, under a tree, were 4 small kittens. Not being an expert on such things, he only knew that they were young. Cute too.
"Hey guys, come here!" Reaching into the box, he plucked one out. A black and white one. "Aren't they cute?"
James rolled his eyes, "Kirk, you pansy. It's a fucking cat."
Kirk pouted, his full lower lip suddenly twice its size. "It's just a baby, James!"
Convinced Kirk was loony, Jameook ook his head and walked off muttering about pansy, over-emotional guitarists.
A determined set to his jaw, Kirk placed the kitten he held back in the box carefully and picked up the box. "I'm bringing them home." His announcement held a hint of defiance.
Lars, so involved in his own chattering, didn't even realize the others had stopped and was almost a block ahead of them, still talking and flapping his arms. James hurried to catch up to him.
Standing with a cigarette in his mouth, Cliff just shrugged and picked up the other bag of beer Kirk had abandoned in favor of the kittens.
Once at home, Cliff started putting the beer away while Kirk carried his precious cargo to the living room, coo'ing and aww'ing over the kittens the whole time. He settled down on the floor and took each kitten out, inspecting it and cuddling it before turning it loose on the floor. All four tiny beings were out of their box and exploring when Lars suddenly popped through the doorway.
"Kirk, do remember that chick that you... WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" The look on his face could only be described as abject horror.
Quick to defend his new pets, Kirk stood, fists planted on his over-developed hips. "They're kittens, Lars. Don't scream, you'll scare them."
Lars was speechless. Kirk had done the impossible after all. After flapping his jaw up and down uselessly, Lars scrubbed his hand over his face, said some things in Danish that Kirk was sure weren't polite and exited the room.
Plopping back down on the floor, Kirk continued to play happily with his babies.
*****
Eight hours later:
A scream of fury followed by a rather long stream of Danish was heard coming from Lars' region of the house.
"Kirk! KIRK! You're fucking piece of shit cat took a shit in my bass drum! What the fuck did you feed it?" The voice grew louder and by the time he reached the living room, Lars' face was purple. In one outstretched hand, he held a curled up ball of grey striped fur by the nape of its neck. Thrusting it into Kirk's unwilling arms, he stormed into the kitchen for cleaning supplies.
"I fed it tuna! What else would I feed it?" Kirk dropped the kitten on the floor and followed Lars. Just then a cry of indignation came from James' room. Turning, Kirk saw a scowling James hop one legged from his room, his other sock clad foot held aloft.
"Kirk! Your god forsaken cat pissed on my floor and I stepped in it!"
"Kirk! We're out of toilet paper, paper towels and newspaper! How'd that happen?" Lars came storming back from the kitchen, holding an orange kitten and shoving it at Kirk as he went in search of something to clean out his drum.
"I used it all." Kirk was definitely sounding whiney and petulant.
James rounded on the poor guitarist. "How?"
Throwing up his hands and sending the orange kitten flying with a yowl, Kirk cried. "Cleaning up their messes!"
Just then, a loud crash was heard from the back room and a black bit of fluff streaked through the house followed by a rather large, blue-denim clad, walking mop of red hair in hot pursuit. "KIRK! Those fucking kittens of yours have shit up our house!"
On the verge of tears, Kirk's eyes widened when he saw Lars return with a towel and a vengeful smile on his face. "Here, its your cat, you clean it up."
Kirk looked from Lars to James, James to Cliff, Cliff back to Lars. Realizing he was outnumbered, Kirk took the towel and with head hung low, went to do as he was told.
The smell of runny, tuna induced cat shit assaulted his nostrils as soon as he stepped in the room and made his eyes water. He tucked the neckband of his shirt over his nose to try to muffle the smell as he inched his way to the drum kit, eyeing it with disdain.
He stood there, looking down into at the nasty, runny pile of liquid kitten shit and tried desperately not to puke down the inside of his shirt. None of the other messes had looked or smelled anything like this. If this was any indication of what was to come, he was going to die. If he was lucky.
Mustering up his courage, he said a quick prayer and closed his eyes as he dropped to his knees in front of the drum. As soon as his knees touched carpet, he shrieked and flew to his feet. Staring at his knees in horror, he saw twin dark spots. Cat piss. Without thinking, he clawed at his jeans, desperate to get the nasty feeling off of his skin. Cat piss. On him. Touching his skin.
He couldn't get out of his pants fast enough and when he had them off, flung them to the far corner of the room, shuddering violently. Taking the towel, he scrubbed at his knees until they were raw. Grasping the drum, he jerked it around so he could safely kneel down on dry, clean carpet.
It was while he was crouched down, head in the bass drum, legs spread to keep him from falling face first in cat shit that fate struck. Literally.
Later, he would look back and chastise himself for not listening to his mother and keeping his laundry caught up. If only he had done his wash the day before and had clean underwear to put on instead of kneeling there with his bits exposed to danger.
The devil, clad in black and white fur, cleverly disguised as an innocent kitten with wide blue eyes chose his prey and attacked with claws extracted.
James, Lars and Cliff paused their rummaging in the kitchen for food when they heard the scream. Or screams, rather. They didn't even sound human. Followed by a disturbing crash.
They spent a long moment staring at each other with wide eyes before breaking into huge grins and tip-toeing back to see what the ruckus was all about. Popping their heads around the door jam, they nearly toppled into the room at the sight that greeted them.
Kirk was flailing around the room, arms pinwheeling and shrieking like there was no tomorrow. The sound echoed from the confines of the bass drum that was covering his head and was accompanied by the wailing cries of the kitten that had a firm grip on Kirk's dangling balls. High pitched screams sounding a lot like, "Get it off!" resonated from the drum.
The three spectators might have beenckercker to respond to their bandmate's cries for help had they not been on the floor, laughing themselves stupid. Cliff was the first to recover and tackled Kirk from behind. The bass drum rolled off his head when they crashed to the ground and the kitten, with one last terrified cry, flewm thm the room.
Rolling Kirk over, Cliff shrank back with disgust at the mess that was spread over Kirk's chest and face. "Dude, you need a shower."
Incoherent with pain, rage and horror, Kirk could only stare up at him with wide black eyes and sputter before passing out.
****
Later, when he was clean, wrapped up in a blanket and looking like a victim from some horrible tragic accident, Kirk whined from the couch. "Cliff? I'm hungry."
Propping an eye open, Cliff peered at him lazily. "We don't have any food, Kirk. We bought beer, remember?"
Just then a plaintive cry rose up from the closed box behind the TV and an evil gleam entered Kirk's eyes. "Do we still have that bottle of grilling sauce?"
Cliff frowned, confused. "I think so."
Struggling to free himself from the blanket, Kirk snatched the box of kittens from behind the TV and rushed outside. "JAMES! Fire up the grill! I found us something to eat!"
****
That night:
The four friends sat around the table, leaned back in their chairs and patted their stomachs with glee.
"You know, they tasted kind of like chicken...."
THE END
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