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Guitar Heroin	By : Saoirse Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Thin Lizzy Views: 924 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: While I love Thin Lizzy, I don't know them and am not in any way affiliated with them. Oh yeah, and I make NO MOOLAH off this and it's fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Guitar Heroin
- 1
A/N: This is a one-off that was kicking about the noggin as I’m writing Ballad. Popoff has published his second Thin Lizzy installment We Will Be Strong: Thin Lizzy 76-81. I want more info on their later years, so as I’m slapping some cash together to buy me a copy I’ve elected to take a brief hiatus. As you know this is complete fiction based on true events, my info dump is ThinLizzyGuide.com, Wikipedia, Byrne’s and Putterford’s books, and recently a Wild Horses Fuckbook page (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wild-Horses/259180840670). Just click on photos and there’s a wealth of articles (reviews and tabloid fodder) on Robbo’s post-Lizzy endeavor. Thanks Lee! Featured song She Knows written by Phil Lynott and Scott Gorham (Nightlife, Vertigo 1974).
Guitar Heroin
By Saoirse
Late December 1980, Glendale
An engine switched off and someone knocked on the back gate. Christine ignored Scott hobbling as fast as he could to the yard. The cast came off Boxing Day and he made her take a picture of the doctor putting the saw through it. He and Phil had the same sick sense of humor. Everyone applauded seeing Scott’s pale, skinny leg finally free, pretending the ribbon of brownish dots weren’t there.
Christmas padded quietly by because Scott and Bobby had a fuck up over why Scott hadn’t called some friends. Bill who wasn’t the talkative sort to begin with puttered about the garage with the VSOP. Mary, who only kept score with Gloria Applewhite, wished her a Happy Christmas over the phone and glossed over her diamond St. Bridget’s Cross. Christine decided to help Vicki with the dinner because she wanted to avoid the house fire that would make her first Christmas in the States only too memorable.
“What’s that?” Scott asked.
“What’s what?” Christine said. Scott gestured with his crutch to the tree. In the traffic of tinsel, half blinking lights, and glass bulbs, Christine spotted a black thing with a bow in the green pipe cleaners. Her mouth went all sticky. They were technically broken up; she walked when he opted to do a charity gig with the rest of the Bastards last Christmas.
“Y’know Phil can talk you into anything,” was his excuse.
When Sheila and Downey tied the knot in Ireland, she begged off the ceremony. Chris Morrison told her everyone made her to be the bad guy because she was taking everything out on innocent bystanders. Management were sleazy fuckers, but she knew who pulled the strings for that one. Scott took the stripper from Robbo’s stag party to his wedding to Dee Harrington.
“Why, because she undulated on a vibrator to bad pop music?” She asked him when he called the next morning.
“When was the last time you did that for me?” He slurred.
But she caved for Caroline and Phil’s wedding when they sicced Philomena on her.
“He’s in a bad way, Christine. He loves you so, you know that.” She said in her very Irish reproachful way. “He wants you to come home. Everyone does.” Pristine Christine. She’ll always be the bad guy. And Thin Lizzy was home until death do they part. Her black taxi pulled up to St. Elizabeth of Portugal, and in sub-zero weather Christine dressed herself in a satin cranberry red gold-trimmed qipao. In the courtyard the British entertainment establishment stood off to one side and hungover roadies in morning suits and groupies with runny noses were on the other. Scott was in his best grey suit kicking the dirt. It seems that he was just informed of a British best man’s duties.
“It’s best if you put Caroline’s ring in your inside jacket pocket.” Scott spun round; his eyes were so bloodshot she could count the veins. He threw his arms around Christine and smeared her face with his lips, tongue, and teeth.
And when Scott’s appendix burst that August, Christine delicately nursed him back to semi-health from one hotel to the other like gypsies. She drew smiley faces on the bandage round his midsection, and got the band and crew to autograph it. But D.C. was the worst. After doing their spot on Solid Gold, Phil and Scott got their hands on some Mexican black tar. They shot so much of it on the flight by the time they got to soundcheck they were nodding out. Phil sang a tangent about his marriage to Sweetheart; Darren was so uncomfortable he didn’t look up once from his keyboards; Downey tuned the world out; Snowy isolated himself; and Scott was on autopilot tapping his heel fingering the chords completely fucked out.
Putting it nicely, Chris O’Donnell was pissed to fuck. He turned over Scott’s and Phil’s bags and confiscated every bit of dope. One of the roadies raised the alarm, and everyone cleared the backstage. Christine heard the hell-raising from her hiding spot in the balcony. Scott was the most physically unaggressive person she knew, but junkies were capable of anything. Phil, however, was a different story…
When the dust settled Christine tracked down Peter Eustace and asked him where Scott was. He pointed to a storage closet. She tapped the door and Scott made a sound admitting her. He was sitting on a table holding up. The light was shit coming from behind piles of chairs and boxes. She squinted. He was in his stage gear, black jeans and a black silk shirt with white stripes, cuffs undone. He wore the same damn thing night after night.
“Same damn show, night after night. Think anyone gives a shit?”
Christine stood against the door like a schoolgirl at her first dance. She unbuttoned her blouse; he stopped her and pulled the tails from her skirt. Scott cupped her breasts.
“No matter what, I love my woman.” Plastic crinkled. “I promise, this won’t be forever.” He rubbed his thumbs over the bindles through the nylon. He pocketed her panties. Good luck charm. She lifted her right leg and he supported her with an arm around her slim waist. Not many chicks shaved but she kept it up long after she hung up her toe shoes. Scott rubbed her mons circularly and slid his longest finger in. Christine’s muscles tensed then rippled, she hissed loudly and whined behind grinding teeth. There was more than enough juice to go round, and he wiggled the tip of his thumb into her asshole.
“Fuck me-e-e-e…” She banged the back of her skull against the door.
“Fuckin’ brat,” he grunted round a mouthful of tit. Fed up Christine shoved Scott, pulled open his shirt, and unzipped him.
“You always do this!” She bitched yanking his dick out.
He gave her a shit-eating grin. “I love watching you cry.” Throwing a temper tantrum Christine knew how pathetic it all looked with her fighting naked in a closet with Scott who wasn’t so very tall and seemed to wake up a few pounds lighter every fucking morning. On the other hand this was also a man who ran up and down a stage every night with guitars that weighed a fuckload, and afterwards would lay waste to a pub.
Scott threw himself into a chair dragging Christine down with him, and wrestled his cock into her. She wouldn’t let up even when he spanked her with both hands. He hauled her up by the ass nearly pulling out but for the tip nestled in her cunt that was running like a faucet.
“You motherfucker!” She pulled his hair.
“Shut up you fuckin’ whore!”
“Who’s a fucking whore?!”
“You’re my fucking whore!” Scott pummeled her down slamming her clit against his pubic bone causing her to shout from the shock. Christine squeezed her tits determined to ride it out because he was useless to her stoned. If they were in bed, he’d suck her toes and lick her legs. He knew she was ready to blow when she got to flailing, then Christine squealed, tremored, and wet the seat. Scott braced her and shot his load, he sprawled back in the chair with Christine draped over him like a wet blanket letting the tension ebb. He put a hand on her sweaty back and hated himself for seeing this as normalcy.
She came back from the toilet with her hair straight and a cup of water. He took his shaving kit from her purse and she helped him set up. The spoon she ripped off the flight she washed twice. The medicine dropper she kept in a separate baggie. A few drops of lemon juice and water, and Christine held the lighter because her hands were steady. The gear dissolved into a puddle of shit-colored hell. Scott unwrapped a fresh syringe. Red plume, aspiration, and he hit the plunger. Scott staunched the bleeding with a cotton ball and Christine tossed the needle. She took care of him good; she had thirty more stashed in her bag.
They returned to the dressing room as everyone was getting stuck into the day-old catering and booze.
Not twenty minutes before curtain Christine helped Scott fix again. But half way into the set, something was not on. Everyone has off nights, and when Gary bailed in LA last tour there was no denying shit got bad. When Snowy joined, morale picked up a bit, but Scott was hitting too many bum notes for everyone’s liking, and she wondered at the heroin’s purity. When he and Snowy jumped up on the monitors, Scott was sluggish falling out of sync with their twin lead. Lizzy did their two encores, and everyone exhaled when the punters got off.
Now it could’ve been worse had the techs not relieved every one of their guitars, but when Scott took the first step off the stage his ankle folded taking Darren with him because he had to break his fall somehow. At the hospital Christine was impressed that the teen keyboardist escaped with some bruises and a headache, but felt sorry for the nurse Scott threw up on after being pumped up with more morphine as the doctors fitted his cast.
Christine turned off the TV she wasn’t watching. When she checked on Scott he was laid out on his bed. Panicking, Christine checked his pulse then sighed because his breathing was deep enough. The heroin on this side of the big river wasn’t as potent as Europe’s, and even with the pain killers Scott’s tolerance was through the roof. The one friend he did call was an old bandmate from RHS and he got him a connection that guaranteed ‘Grade A’ poison.
There was a bundle on the nightstand.
Christine kissed Scott, knowing he couldn’t feel a damn thing. She didn’t want him to either. She sat on the bed studying the empty bindle. Scott sliced them open from the bottom ensuring every molecule of smack ended up in the barrel. When Christine was dancing she mainlined speed because she believed it brought her closer to perfection. When they put her in the funny farm she got hooked on mandrakes. Then she went to work for Thin Lizzy and fell in love with Scott. One addiction after the next.
And now with a two-karat diamond Christine held tight as Thin Lizzy’s train swung on the rails.
Christine got her makeup case, took a bindle, and went into the bathroom.
Who's got the funk
When you're feeling low down
Who's going to love you
When there's no one else around
Who's going to help you
Especially when you're sick
Loving Mary
I need you quick
She knows and she gives her everything
She knows and she can do her thing
She knows and she tries her best
She knows, oh, you know she knows
Who's got the junk
When you're feeling low down
Who's going to give
When there's none to go around
Who's going to help you
When you feel you've had enough
Mother Mary
This child, this rose
But loving Mary
Do you feel the pain?
I'm falling down
And I can't get up again
Do ya, do ya, do ya
Do ya, do ya, do ya
Just a striped guitar reaction
Who's going to help you
Especially when you're ill
Loving Mary
I hope you will
But loving Mary
Do you feel the pain?
I'm falling down
And I can't get up again
Do ya, do ya, do ya
Do ya, do ya, do ya
Mother Mary, is there nothing you can do?
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Guitar Heroin