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The air in the room was heavy with the acrid smell of cigarettes mixed with a metallic tang, assaulting the senses of the curled-up figure huddled in the corner and accompanying a stinging pain in it’s chest, skin pale and covered in sweat as it’s own tired hand brought a dark brown glass bottle closer. The disgustingly bitter liquid inside sloshed around before it made it’s way down it’s throat as it’s head tipped back. Iggy never wanted it to come to this, despite what people might assume about him and his self-medication habits.
They’d arrived later than they had planned. Of course they had. Iggy had insisted they leave the hotel two hours before the show, to give them time to get drunk and to get ready comfortably, and most likely to give himself a window to indulge in his bad smack habit. Knowing Iggy's inclination towards certain… substances, Ron felt a growing concern for his bandmate's well-being. He had witnessed firsthand the toll that Iggy's bad heroin habit had been taking on him. He’d seen the glimmers of desperation in Iggy's eyes, the rapid decline in his physical appearance, and the toll it had started to take on his performance. It was no longer a matter of just arriving early to get drunk; it had become a dangerous game of balancing the line between self destruction and creative expression. Ron insisted an hour would be enough, and he got his way. Unfortunately, the band's perpetually bad luck should have forewarned them that one hour was far from sufficient. The tour van screeched to a halt in an alleyway, and Iggy stormed into the dingy New York club, his brown suitcase in hand, trailing the pungent scent of ammonia from his hair, disgusted looks being cast his way ."Fuckin’ told them, but no, NO, don’t fucking listen to Iggy, he’s just the singer! What does he know?" The man ranted to himself as he entered a small room, adorned with little more than a dirty mirror on the wall, causing him to catch a glimpse of his annoyed expression before he slammed his bag on to a table, zipper being tugged at before it finally gave in. Extracting a small compact, Iggy leaned closer to the mirror, applying eyeshadow to his widened blue eyes. Meanwhile, the rest of the band trickled in, placing their belongings around the room and engaging in conversation, while Iggy continued his meticulous preparation with only a few minutes left before showtime. Scotty would of described himself as one of the least confrontational of the bunch, which meant he was usually the one who had to try and tame Iggy. Sitting on a rickety stool near a coffee table, he observed the room, his pupils widening in the dimly lit space. He directed his visual attention to James, who aggressively tuned his trusty bass while smoking a cigarette, and posed a simple question towards the seething man on the other side of the room. "What are we opening with today, Jimmy?" Silence. "Search and Destroy. Don't feel like doing Raw Power today, getting real sick of it lately." Replied the blonde frontman, finally turning towards Scotty. His eyelids adorned with glitter and slightly smudged eyeliner, he moved his jaw side to side, gradually forming a smile. Igniting a cigarette from a crushed carton, he continued. "We'll keep everything else the same." — Ten minutes elapsed, and Iggy had barely finished zipping up his black leather boots, their constant creaking a testament to their wear and tear. The band members, unimpressed by the delay, stood ready with their instruments, silently watching as Iggy nonchalantly adjusted his clothing. Finally, Ron broke the silence, announcing, "We're late. Hurry up." Without waiting for a response, he walked out, prompting the others to follow him onto the stage as soon as Iggy looked over at them through his mascara caked lashes, not waiting for a response as they crowded on to the stage. Gritty and intimate; there was no other way to describe that room, with it’s dim lighting casting shadows across the space. The walls were adorned with peeling posters of past shows and faded graffiti, some dripping from how humid it was getting. The air was heavy with the scent of spilled beer and unnameable bodily fluids, but too with the passion of the fans who’d shown to watch the performing acts. The stage itself was small but well worn, it’s wooden surface showing signs of countless rowdy performances. Flickering lights, hung precariously above, looking as if thought they would fall down with the smallest tug. The stage backdrop was a tattered maroon curtain, adorned with frayed edges. It was sparsely furnished, with a scattering of rickety tables and worn out chairs, some of them patched with duct tape. A stool near James held empty beer bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, evidence of the previous act’s careless indulgences. To the left of the stage, a group of rowdy men stood huddled together, their alcohol fueled excitement evident in their boisterous cheers and gruff laughter. Clutching their beer cans tightly, they eagerly awaited the start of the show, their animated conversations blending with the thumping bass notes that resonated through the room. Amidst the crowd, a woman, her body adorned with numerous piercings, screamed into the ear of her heavily tattooed boyfriend. Her voice strained with excitement, she sought to be heard over the escalating noise. In a corner of the venue, a lesbian couple shared a passionate kiss, momentarily encapsulated in their own world of love and intimacy. The band members continued tuning their instruments, creating a symphony of disjointed sounds that gradually melded into a cohesive harmony. Fortunately, it wasn't long before Iggy emerged, brandishing a fresh beer bottle as he stepped onto the stage, instantly being bathed in red light from above. His pale complexion contrasted against smudges of black eyeliner and glitter, remnants of his hurried makeup application backstage. The smoky shadow around his eyes enhanced their intensity, giving him an almost feral allure. The aggressive shouting from the crowd assaulted his ears as he made his way to his spot, his disheveled hair falling onto his face as he flashed a toothy grin against the microphone's tip. Insulting words falling out as if by second nature "Good to see all your parents let you stay out tonight, you fucking pussies." He slurred, his voice accompanied by the resonating sound of Ron's guitar. A handful of crowd members cheered, and the mass of people began to inevitably sway in unison. Iggy grunted intermittently between sips of beer, his free hand clutching the microphone stand. "I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm!" He shouted, veins in his throat already starting to show as he bent his body to the side, still gripping the cold metal pole as his ribs seemed to become more visible with each shaky inhale he’d take. The microphone was being held to his mouth again, and hands were gripping at him wherever they could manage from below "I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb." The relentless pounding of Ron's guitar reverberated through the venue, adding fuel to the fire of Iggy's performance. The combination of Iggy's screamed words and Ron's electrifying riffs created a captivating atmosphere, charging the room, for good or for worse. His voice gravelly and filled with unfiltered emotion rung out once again. "I'm the world's forgotten boy, the one who searches and destroys!" His voice blasted through the speakers, bodies collided and louder screams emerged from the crowd.
Lou couldn't help but wonder what he was doing here. This wasn't his scene, and he knew it. He had been around the type of peculiar art kids who would listen to the same three chords for hours to "open their minds" and even the extreme rock and roll enthusiasts who prioritized music over everything else. But this was different, and Lou was beginning to realize that he might not have made the best choice. Resting his leather-clad back against a wall covered in aging and ripped New York Doll posters, his fingers fiddled with a half finished cigarette. Lips slightly parted, his tongue ran over the edge of his upper teeth as he observed the bouncing figure on stage, thrashing about and provoking the crowd's anger. Perhaps it was the sight of blood trickling down Iggy's chest from self inflicted wounds during the second song, or the reckless way he engaged with the audience, but something was unsettling Lou and ticking in his brain. He didn't like this, he thought. But he wasn’t sure if he meant the music, the frontman or the disgusting feeling of fascination beginning to consume him. Throughout the entire show, an uninterested expression remained etched on his face, the only change being the diminishing length of the cigarette in his hand as he chainsmoked through the entirety of the set. With each verse and song, Iggy became more possessed by the music, becoming far more ballsy and he further enticed those who followed the band around just to start fights to “come on stage and grow the fuck up’. Of course, Iggy knew, or hoped, this would likely never happen thanks to people’s preference to spewing words more than punches, but it doesn’t mean he hadn’t been knocked out clean a few times. Of course he had, he was Iggy Pop. As the final chords of the last song reverberated through the room, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of vulgar insults and cheers. Sweat soaked and exhilarated, Iggy leaped off the stage, body crashing into the sea of fans below as he kept a tight grip on a fresh bottle of alcohol. Lou watched from the sidelines, a mix of concern and intrigue etched on his face as he finally shifted and began moving to make his leave, weaving his way through the crowd, trying to navigate the chaotic scene. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap cologne, and adrenaline. As he pushed past rowdy drunks, his eyes kept darting back to where Iggy had disappeared into the mass of fans and tormentors. Curiosity got the better of him, and Lou found himself slowly changing direction, moving against the flow of people. He followed the trail of commotion, the room seeming to close in around him as he pushed through, his gaze fixated on the figure in the center of it all. Finally, he caught sight of Iggy, his small frame drenched in drying blood, his hair sticking to his shoulders, creating a sickeningly beautiful image along with his many scratches. It was like seeing a wild animal, moving with reckless abandon. Lou felt a strange mix of fascination and concern as he watched Iggy interact with the crowd, feeding off their energy and giving it back in equal measure despite how many people were there just to hurl abuse at him. Their eyes met for a short moment, and Lou could see something flicker in Iggy's gaze, a spark of recognition or perhaps a shared understanding of what they’d both just been a part of. It was a brief connection, but it lingered in the air, leaving an impression on both of them. The people surrounding them began to thin out, and the tired frontman finished up his conversations before making his own way out, body moving on autopilot as he entered the cramped backroom once again. Scott was seated in the corner, talking to a man with long red hair and a homemade Stooges t-shirt. The fan turned his attention towards Iggy as he entered the backroom. He extended a hand in greeting, a friendly smile on his face "Hey Iggy! That was a hell of a show out there. You really know how to work a crowd." He spoke in an almost flustered manner. Iggy nodded, a tired yet satisfied expression crossing his face. Thanks, man. I appreciate it." He replied, his voice slightly hoarse from the intense performance. He glanced at Scott, who was now grabbing a magazine, and a sense of relief washed over him. Scott had always been the steady presence for the blonde, a calming influence amidst the chaos. Lou, still feeling the reverberations of the show in his veins, approached the group cautiously. Staff members not bothering to question him as he’d played the same stage just days ago with his own questionable band. Iggy's eyes shifted to Lou as he approached the room, his tired gaze meeting Lou's inquisitive stare. The frontman took a moment to assess the newcomer he’d seen previously in the crowd, his expression guarded yet curious. The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, charged with an unspoken tension. Lou, undeterred by Iggy's initial guardedness, continued to make his way closer. He leaned against a nearby table, crossing his arms, and addressed the band with a hint of skepticism in his voice "So, what's the deal with the show? The chaos, the blood... Is that all part of the act?" His accent wrapped around his words, adding a layer of insult to the questions, and his monotone voice and expressionless face only heightened the effect. Iggy's eyebrows arched slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face. He exchanged a quick glance with Scott, who simply shrugged in response. Turning his attention back to Lou, Iggy pushed himself away from the wall, adopting a nonchalant posture, his voice carrying a mix of weariness and defiance. "The blood, the… Music. It's all part of the energy, man." Iggy replied, his voice carrying a raspy edge. "It's about like breaking boundaries, defying expectations." He slammed down his now finished bottle of beer and took a few steps towards the curly-haired man standing before him. His hand found its way to his hip, his defiant grin accompanying the gesture. "Who the fuck are you?" Iggy asked, his voice laced with defiance. Lou stood his ground, looking down slightly. "Name's Lou. Heard you put on an interesting show, so I thought I'd see what the fuss was about. Can't tell if I'm disappointed or not." The man huffed and helped himself to a can of beer from the nearby coffee table, casually opening it as Iggy stared at him with narrowed eyes. His grin faded slightly at Lou's response, but he maintained his cool and leaned against the wall, studying the annoyed singer. "You're not easily impressed, huh, Lou?" Iggy's voice held a tinge of amusement, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. "Well, I suppose that's a good thing. Keeps things interesting." Lou took a casual sip of his beer, a nonchalant expression still on his face. "Interesting is one way to put it. I'll admit that your performing is... different." the New Yorker mumbled. Iggy's smirk returned, a glimmer of satisfaction shining through. He grabbed a towel, silently wiping his chest and arms up with it as he turned his attention to the cheap radio placed near a dying potted plant. It was flicked on almost as soon as it was spotted, rattling out Motown music that seemed to instantly satisfy the adrenaline junkie begging to mumble along. The creak of Lou’s leather boots sounded as the man began inspecting Ron’s unattended guitar, lips pursed as he touched the strings in boredom "I’m heading out. Keep doing what you’re doing, though. You’ve got good stage presence." The stone faced figure glanced back at the now dumbfounded singer standing with towel in hand "Leaving? Nah, dude, come on. You made it all the way backstage, why are you leaving now? What do you take? I’ve got coke, i’ve got weed, i’ve-" "I’ve got my own stuff, i don’t need yours." Lou’s eyes attempted to break down Iggy’s walls from behind dark lenses, the sound of commotion in the nearby hallway merely a soundtrack to what was happening within the claustrophobia inducing room.
Scotty passed yet another page of Creem, finger quietly following along the insulting review that’d been written about an upcoming Seattle band. It was mean, he thought, these guys had barely even began to make a name for themselves and now this big magazine was so gladly making fun of them. The fan seated beside the drummer read along, eyes narrowing more and more at each word as he seemed too interested in reading that listening to the now flowing conversation between Lou and Iggy "Dude. That’s messed up. Those kids sound cool as fuck! I’d go see them." He shook his head and plucked a fresh joint from the pocket of his jeans, lighting it as Scotty exhaled "Exactly. It’s hard, you know? These magazines dig in to people like us without even giving us a chance. But… Whatever, bad publicity is still publicity, right?" He looked over at the smoking figure next to him, earning a agreeing nod.
Iggy huffed in realisation as Lou finished talking about how he’d heard of the show. "Fuck, I knew I recognized you." The blonde slowly placed his hand upon Lou's chest, his messy eye makeup shimmering under the cheap lightbulb above them. "You're in the Velvet Underground, right? You know, the whole 'Heeeeeroiiin' thing." He imitated the other's singing with a tired voice and chuckled. Lou huffed and watched as the intoxicated man touched him, before teasing "Is that what i sound like? What, are you a fanboy or something?" He asked in an almost serious tone. The frontman withdrew his hand from Lou's chest, taking a step back as he leaned against the table, his eyes fixed on Lou "Fanboy? Nah, i wouldn't go that far." Iggy said, his voice laced with a mischievous tone. "But I appreciate good music when I hear it, and the Velvet Underground, well, you guys definitely had something special." Lou arched an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity stirring within him. "Oh really? And what is it that you think we had?" Iggy paused for a moment, his gaze meeting Lou's. "Authenticity. There's a rawness to your music, an honesty that cuts through all the bullshit. It speaks to something deep inside." With that, he collapsed onto the small brown leather couch in the room, the worn-out piece of furniture creaking under his weight. The newcomer slowly sat down next to him, pushing up his sunglasses. "So, you're a fanboy." Lou spoke again, his tone condescending. "Fan, hater, listener, tomayto, tomahto. I'm a fan of your face though. What are you doing tonight?" The punk grumbled, messing with a piece of ripped denim hanging from the knee of his pants. The unamused poet watched the thin junkie, arms crossing in pure boredom as Scott continued ranting about the magazine with his new friend. Lou answered finally. "...Nothing, I guess. Why?" He shrugged and drank from the warming can he’d so carelessly snatched earlier, as if he wasn’t the one who had willingly made his way backstage; he was always so uninterested and dull, right? - Iggy struggled to get his words out for a long moment, mind too clouded from the lack of heavier substances in his system "Dunno, man… Thanks for coming to see us, appreciate it. You know, i used to listen to your shit a lot, i mean, i still do, don’t get me wrong. You still make music?" He turned his head slightly, body sinking further into the couch as he failed to acknowledge the fact Scott and the fan had left, and the different station now playing on the radio. A long silence held the room as Lou listened to the unfamiliar rock song rattling from the rusty radio "Yeah. I guess it depends what you call music though. Doesn’t it?" He shrugged, fingers running over the tab of his can. Amusement filled the Michigander, lips parting quickly to agree "Fuckin’ great answer, man. Exactly, what’s music? Like, you could call a car crash music if you really wanted to." His voice seemed to get more excited the more he went on, comfortableness around Lou growing.
Ron remained in the crowded hallway, hands free of alcohol as he wordlessly paced, movements being followed in a confused manner by James "…What are you doing that for?" He asked, brunette groupie still clinging to his arm as he addressed Ron. The guitarist slowed before coming to a stop, eyes shifting to the questioner "I want to go home. I want to take Scotty with me and i want to go home." He crossed his arms, with shoulder almost instantly being met with James’ comforting hand "Man, come on. Think about this, why? Why do you want to leave? We did fucking great tonight! You did right!" James smiled at the still unamused musician. "It’s Iggy. I don’t know. He keeps getting worse, he saw Dave deteriorating and he still doesn’t give a shit. I can’t just watch him destroy himself." Ron confessed, cigarette now between his lips and causing smoke to flow in front of his orange aviators. They all indulged, at least a bit, and Ron was no innocent man, but he did have a point when he said Iggy was getting much worse than everyone else. For the rest of the band it with more of an entertainment amongst friends thing, but with Iggy it was becoming more than that, substances were becoming his answer to everything. James stayed silent for a long time, groupie now frowning and messing with his hair as he thought "…I know, man, i get that. But he’ll get better, he will. He just needs time to snap himself out of it."
Iggy leaned forward as he ducked his head down, fine powder shooting up his nose as he sniffled loudly and scratched his scalp, dark eyes still being glued to him in a monitoring manner "Y’sure you don’t want any?" He asked and looked over. Lou lit a cigarette "Already did some before i got here. I’m fine." Iggy let out a strained laugh, the effects of the powder causing his voice to sound jittery. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, leaving behind a streak of white residue. "Suit yourself, man," he replied, his words slightly strained. "More for me." Lou exhaled a cloud of smoke, the flickering ember at the end of his cigarette casting an eerie glow on his face. His eyes narrowed as he observed Iggy's jittery movements "I’m the worst person to tell you this, but you really look like you should slow down. You look like you’ve been dead for a week." He sat back, face still void of any real concern. Iggy shrugged, his shoulders twitching involuntarily. "I'm just trying to escape, you know?" He muttered, his voice trailing off. "Life's been a real drag lately... These the only things that help me forget." Lou took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the smoke swirling around him like a ghostly apparition. "I get it, man."
Iggy went quiet for a long time, bathing in the now slightly tense atmosphere surrounding them and mixing with the smell of Lou’s cigarette. "You don’t really think i’m a fanboy, do you?" Iggy asked. "Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter what i think? Thought your whole thing was not caring about people’s opinions." "I never said i cared… ‘m just curious." "You care." Lou bluntly replied, arm resting on the back of the couch as he pressed the heel of one of his boots into the aging floor below. A disgusted look spread on to Iggy’s face as he snatched the beer can from his company, crawling into his lap as he drank from the container "I don’t fucking care." He narrowed his eyes in a playful manner, alcohol dripping down his chin before Lou slowly wiped it with his thumb. They paused, the Stooge’s eyes struggling to find Lou’s through his unmoving and douchey sunglasses, hand slowly resting upon his shoulder. Their lips crashed sloppily together, a primal instinct driving the impulsive moment. It was a collision of passion and recklessness, a momentary escape from the chaotic world that surrounded them. Their tongues danced, tangled in a rhythm fueled by alcohol and unspoken yearning. Lou’s calloused hand instinctively found its way to the back of Iggy's head, his fingers tangling in his sweaty, disheveled hair. The taste of each other’s mouths lingered on their tongues, only fueled their escalating desire. Iggy's body pressed against Lou's, their movements mixing with a desperate urgency. Restless hand wandered, exploring the contours of Lou's face, tracing the lines of his jaw, and gripping his shirt with a fervor bordering on desperation. The air around them grew heavier, charged with a mixture of lust and the lingering energy from the electrifying performance. As their lips finally parted, Iggy's heavy breaths mingled with Lou's. "...What are you really here for?" Iggy asked with an exhale, scratching at his arm needily as the symptoms of his heroin withdrawals began to eat at him. Lou watched him, his hand remaining in Iggy's hair "Nothing. But i know you’re looking for approval."
(CURRENTLY WORKING ON CHAPTER 2)