Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2133 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Title: KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17/AU
Pairing: everyone and then some more
Disclaimer: I was smoking some really good stuff when I came up with this. Betas: Ketene & Hannelore_K

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Part II. The Mark Has Been Made
Chapter 16.

The silence covers us again, bit by bit, and the ruins of this town torn by the war.

“Oh, no!” Christoph bursts, panicked, like pulled out of a trance. “Don’t stop! Keep playing!”

But the three men rest the cellos beside them; they stand up and start shaking each other’s hands and patting on the shoulders.

“Magnificent!” They congratulate each other. “Exquisite!”

All three guys, young men, wear suits, as if they were at the King’s ball. First one is wearing a dark red velvet suit, with a top hat to match, and blue, square lenses sunglasses. The second one, in the middle, looking very young, has this incredible long and very blond hair, and wears this black suit and impeccable white gloves. Only he knows how he can play with them, but I don’t waste much time to wonder as I look at the third guy, brunette, dressed in a black velvet suit too, but wears these welder glasses.

“This was so beautiful,” Christoph tells them.

“Thank you, sir!” They reply to him.

“What piece was that?” Christoph asks. “Forgive my ignorance, but it wasn’t anything that…”

“Oh, this is our own creation, our own fight,” says the youngest of the three, a blond longhaired guy.

“They sing their symphony of destruction; we, our rhapsody of hope,” adds the second one.

“How come you’re playing here?” I ask.

“Where should we, then?” The older one says, and makes a wide gesture as if showing us all the ruins and the debris around.

“They destroyed all the places where someone could play. They and their fucking war!” The blond intervenes.

“Who’s fighting?” I want to know.

“Like anyone remembers anymore,” states the second one, while arranging his long black hair.

“It feels as if it’s been like this since the beginning of times,” says the older one. “It’s just another war like all wars; everyone dies, no one wins, the children continue the fight of their fathers,” he explains while arranging the book of notes in front of him.

“But you are still alive,” says Christoph. “Aren’t you afraid that you might get hit by a bullet or a bomb while you’re sitting here and playing? You should go to a safer place…”

“Where?” The dark longhaired man shrugs.

“Why aren’t you fighting to defend yourselves?” I ask.

“We are musicians, not soldiers. This is our fight, these are our weapons,” says the youngest one, pointing to his cello.

“Where do you live then?” I wonder. “I mean where do you guys sleep, eat, and all that stuff?”

“Catacombs. There used to be a graveyard...” The one with the welder’s glasses starts, but the one with the top hat interrupts him.

“Shall we start the next piece, gentlemen?”

“Oh, yes please!” Christoph says, seeming all excited and eager to listen to them more.

The other two nod in agreement.

They all three seem to freeze for a second, taking position, getting ready. Then, in unison, their cellos resound on firm, deep-pitched tones, the music starting to rise again like a lively creature with an immaterial serpent-like body, emerging among cadenced barks of guns and cannons.

“Here you are!” I hear behind us.

I turn and see Flake coming over to us.

“Let’s go!”

But Christoph’s arm stops him. We remain there for a few minutes watching the guys playing this soft melody, a song so sad that it seems that even the cannons, after two or three blasts, silence their dark mouths. The guys are so wrapped up in what they are doing, and into their song, they seem to not feel the earth shaking when bombs explode not too far away from our place, nor hear the lethal whisper followed by the deafening “bam!” as more bombs are dropped from planes flying above this rotting city. The three men’s song increases in strength, becomes full of force and powerful, a furious voice against all the destruction, a voice that, after saying what it has to say, it lowers and mellows its tone, becoming softer and softer, until it disappears back in the wooden, lacquered bodies of the three cellos.

It is as if the whole Universe ceased rotating and revolving.

“This is amazing,” Christoph whispers, finally.

“Thank you,” says the one with the welder’s glasses, but when he notices the glare the one with the top hat throws him he stops, again.

“I’m sorry, I guess our presence here makes you feel uncomfortable,” I say and turn to leave, hoping that Flake and Christoph will follow me.

“We didn’t mean to be rude,” I hear the blond guy’s voice, “But these days it’s hard to trust anyone. Especially with that Beast...”

“We are going to find it and kill it,” Flake replies. “As soon as we find the others,” he mumbles.

The three guys look back at us in silence for a couple of minutes.

“Well, we’re in for a coffee break. Will you join us?” The one with long blond hair invites us.

“No, thank you,” I refuse. “We have to get going,” and the threatening buzz of a plane covers my words.

“This is going to be close,” the one with the welder’s glasses says on a calm tone. “We should take cover.”

“Ah, the hell with them!” The one with the top hat replies, remaining sat on his chair, as the other two throw themselves on the ground, grabbing their cellos and trying to protect them with their own bodies.

Christoph, Flake and I throw ourselves to the ground too, as the Universe shakes with us all, grunts and moans; I sense the dust filling up all my holes, I can taste it deep in my throat too. For a few minutes I’m deafened and blinded by this boiling hot yellow mist. Then, as the dust settles back, I can see that the others are still alive; they rise on their feet, wiping the dust off their clothes.

“This was a big one,” the two guys comment while taking their seats back on their chairs. The third one pulls out this ridiculously long handkerchief and starts cleaning the dust of his glasses first, then his face.

“You could have gotten killed,” I tell him.

“We all could,” he sighs. “They destroyed everything, there’s no where to go, there’s nothing to do. All we have are the catacombs under a graveyard. What can one do there?”

“Just sit in the dark and inhale all that fungus growing on the walls?” The one with the long blond hair completes him.

“So here we are,” the one with the welder’s glasses adds while uncapping what seems to be a thermos, but covered by dust too. “So, do you want to join us for coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Flake replies. “We have to go get the others.”

“Suit yourself, then,” the blond one says.

“Thank you for the songs, they were great,” Christoph says and we all start walking.

“Good luck in finding the Beast,” the three guys tell us as we pass by them.

We keep walking on the empty streets guarded by the scarred ruins; after a while, between blasts and explosions, my ears catch that by now barely audible song. I’m thinking that the three finished their coffee break and now they are singing again. It seems that a fight is taking place, between the growls, grunts and barks of guns and the three cellos, in a shattered nameless town, under a fierce sun melting the asphalt we are stepping on.

As we go further, the sounds of the war and the music fade slowly behind us; ruins get scarcer, as a field, with yellow, burnt by sun grass, is taking place of the streets. We still get to see guns and tanks rusting under the sun, and scattered human bodies and limbs decomposing in heat.

“I’m going to puke soon,” I hear this whisper, but I can’t realize who spoke. Maybe it was my own thoughts.

The field we’re walking in has this dry grass, almost brown, but glittering like bronze in the afternoon sun. In the middle of the field, in front of us, still afar, I spot the dark silhouette of a wooden barrack that seems to be the point we are walking to.

I would really like to know where are we going now, I’m thinking. And what is that about the others?

“Olli, Paul and Richard have been caught by the Beast’s servants, and we have to rescue them,” Flake answers me as if he’d read my thoughts.

I touch the barrel of the flamethrower I’m carrying as I realize now why.

“We are almost there,” Flake whispers near me. Olli, Richard and Paul are in that shack??? And, how and when did they manage to fall prisoners into the Beast's claws, after all? But I refrain myself from asking about all that.

~ To Be Continued ~
- 15
- 16
- 17
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)