Archive of Our Own

The phone rings, that damn incessant pinging slices through the fog of a throbbing headache and the gurgle from his empty stomach. Flinging the covers aside, he fumbles for the device on his nightstand, fully intending to fling it against the wall at full force.

Only thing that stops him from breaking his phone is the caller’s name flashed across the screen. 

Kerry. Hmph. Fucker knows better than to call him before 4 PM. He must want something.

Johnny drags himself out of bed, lighting up a smoke as he listens to the voice message. 

“Hey Johnny, got somethin’ that might interest you—

“Fuckin’ hell, voicemail again. Do you ever get out of bed before dark anymore? Swear you’re a goddamned vampire. 

“Anyway! Rainbow Cadenza is doin’ a drag show for Pride. They’ve just asked yours truly to be the headliner. Now that got me thinkin’... what would be better than a return-to-your-roots, one-night-only gig? Yeah, Johnny, I’m askin’ you to do this with me. It’s for charity—money goes towards housing for queer youth without a stable support system. Real preem cause. Somethin’ I coulda used when I was a baby queer, so it means a lot to me.

“Oh yeah, and you get to dress up and serve cunt to an audience of our most dedicated fans. I promise—no corpo sponsorships or media junkets. Just you, me, ten pounds of makeup, sequins, and rock ‘n’ roll. 

“You know you wanna!”

The message plays on speakerphone as he walks away, cig still smoldering between his metal fingers. He gets into the shower—hot rivulets of running water wash away the sweat and grime from last night’s bender.

It’s been about a week since they last talked. Kerry’s always had this annoying habit of ghosting off after an argument, then returning a few days later like nothing ever happened. Johnny doesn’t even remember the last thing that got them at each other’s throats. Probably some stupid attempt at getting him on board with the label’s latest play for Silverhand/Eurodyne co-headlining tour that would undoubtedly net them heaps of eddies.

Gonk couldn’t understand that it’s not about the money for him. Never was.

He stands in the shower until his cigarette’s burnt down to the filter and the hot water turns cold. With a grunt, he dries off, saunters towards the kitchen, and stares into an empty fridge while his stomach complains at him. Johnny tries to remember the last time he’s eaten an actual meal. His mind comes up blank.

Almost empty. A solitary beer bottle stares back at him until he snatches it up and pops the top. 

Beer is food, right?

Once he’s dressed and somewhat awake, Johnny grabs his phone and returns Kerry’s call.

“No corpo sponsorships, you say?”

He can clearly visualize the way Kerry’s big, baby seal eyes are lighting up right now. “You got it! The show’s for the community. Yanno, the audience that showed up when we were playin’ old warehouses and seedy dumps ‘round Wats and Santo.”

“All the cover fees go to charity?” He grumbles around the fresh-lit cig hanging from his lips. 

“Minus overhead, of course,” he clarifies. “Gotta pay the sound techs, security hustle, bartenders, buy industrial-strength hairspray… But I’m not takin’ an enny. Donatin’ my time.”

“Fuck it. Tell ‘em I’m in,” he folds, shrugging as he can’t find a good reason not to. Besides, it’d been a while since he’d graced the grungy dive bar with his presence. Place held a bit of sentimental value. Back in the early days of Samurai, it was a bit like a second home. The acoustics were shit, and half the toilets were always busted—but the booze was cheap.

“Fuckin’ nova! I’ll tell the promoter—show’s this Saturday. Be there at 5 so Linda has plenty of time to work her magic on you. Don’t be late!”

Kerry’s excitement oozes through the speaker, the same kind of raw energy that likes to wind its way around Johnny’s soul and yank hard. The kind of energy that’d been conspicuously absent after their band broke up and the corpo-run label sank its hooks into him. 

“Do I know this chick?” He wonders.

“Remember Larry? Yeah, she’s Linda now. Don’t fuck it up or I’m callin’ you Robert for the rest of the night.”

Johnny snorts. “Whatever. As long as she makes me look hotter than you.”

Turns out, his call time is 6, but Ker told him 5. Almost like he knows Johnny’ll strut in around late, already half drunk, brain buzzing on uppers. When he gets to the green room, it looks like a glitter bomb went off in there. Kerry is relaxing in a beat-up old armchair while a skinny young woman carefully applies his makeup. A faint cloud of talc powder hangs in the air—place smells like hairspray and grandma’s wet pussy.

“That you, Johnny?” He murmurs, eyes closed, while Linda dusts his face with a thick coat of powder. “I’d recognize the sound of those cunty biker boots anywhere. Almost done here. Then I gotta get into costume, glue the wig down, work on my strut—you know how it is.”

“Yeah, of course,” he deadpans, finding a perch on an old metal stool while he lights up a smoke. 

He has to admit, Ker looks good in anything—even with the overdramatic, theatrical makeup brushed over the contours of his baby face. Once the makeup artist is satisfied with her work, He gets up, does a playful spin, then admires his fierce new look in the clouded, full-length mirror.

“Fuckin’ preem work,” he beams, waggling his drawn-on eyebrows. “Now let’s see what you can do with this guy here. Johnny’s gonna be a challenge, I know. He doesn’t even moisturize.”

He rolls his eyes, flips Kerry the bird, then sinks into Linda’s makeup chair.

She’s a tall, slender young woman who can’t be any older than twenty. There’s an easy sort of confidence in the way she carries herself—a stark contrast to the shy kid she used to be. She’s wearing an old, beat-up Samurai tank paired with leopard print leggings. Her winged eyeliner is impeccable.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” He tells her, extending a hand. “I’m Johnny.”

“Everyone knows who you are,” she laughs, shaking his hand. “I'm Linda.” She smiles and looks him over. “So. Got any inspiration for me, or are you gonna be my blank canvas?”

“Just make me look hot as hell—but I’m not losin’ the beard.” Kerry had shaved that morning, which made him look like he just hit puberty yesterday.

A wicked grin spreads across her face. “How do you feel about glitter?”

“Got no problem with it.”

He relaxes in the chair while Linda works her magic. She starts by gluing his eyebrows down, then slathering his face with creams, gels, cleansers—girl shit he’s only ever seen on bathroom vanities that weren’t his. It’s strangely relaxing, being fussed over like this. He kinda gets why chicks are always having their spa days and getting their nails done. 

“When I started doing drag, I never thought I'd be here, doin’ your makeup.” She chuckles as she takes out a huge eyeshadow palette containing every conceivable color. Dabbing a fluffy brush into a vibrant shade of red, she adds, “Your music means a lot to me.”

Ah shit. She’s one of those fans.

So sue him. Johnny loves attention. He’s got a lot of important shit to say—shit the world needs to hear. Most people come to his shows because they like the music. Respect. But the biggest fans are the ones who really listen to the lyrics and feel themselves waking up to the reality of this fucked-up world.

But every now and then, some fucked-up kid living in a hellscape of a broken home would show up and do more than just listen to his words. They let those words marinate in their brain, soak up their meaning. They’re inspired to better themselves in spite of the trashfires blazing around them. The kinda fans that would say things like, ‘he’s an inspiration,’ or, ‘he’s great bisexual representation.’

Worse, he feels strangely compelled to be nice to these sorts of fans. Even Johnny Silverhand wouldn’t kick a cute puppy.

“Remember your face from the early days,” he answers, finally figuring out something to say that doesn’t make him sound like a dick. “You were different then.”

“Felt like a real fish outta water before I found a home with other Samurai fans. Seeing you and Kerry and Denny up there on stage—you were always so real. I thought if you chooms could be yourself in front of crowds, I could be myself in front of the world.” She grabs another brush. “Can you turn your head?”

“No love for Henry and Nance?” He tilts his head, and she sweeps her brush across his face.

“Nancy’s alright, but Henry’s a prick.”

Johnny tries to keep still, but he ends up sputtering out a laugh. “You’re a good egg, kid.”

“Roxxxy Coxxxoff has arrived!” Kerry proclaims as he bursts into the room. Johnny cracks his eyes open a sliver, trying to avoid getting stabbed in the eye with a makeup brush.

“Really?” Johnny scoffs, waiting for the artist to finish blending his eyeshadow. “Think of that one all by yourself?”

He spins around, showing off his outfit. He’s wearing a studded leather bustier and matching mini skirt. His well-toned legs are wrapped in fishnets and knee-high lace-up platform boots. A ripped-up, rhinestone-spangled denim battle vest completes the ensemble. 

“Almost went with Roxxxy Razor—has great alliteration. But I knew Coxxxoff would piss you off more.” Kerry grins and licks his red-stained lips.

Yeah. Gonk would look good wearin’ a garbage bag for a shirt. He knows it too.

Kerry sits down in front of the mirror and starts fiddling with his wig. It’s a bright red, fluffy hairpiece with silver tinsel streaks. 

“You got a name picked out, Johnny?” Linda asks him, digging through her kit until she locates the brush she’s looking for. Admittedly, he hadn’t given it much thought. 

“Not yet, but gimme ten minutes. Shouldn’t be hard to pick something knowin’ how low the bar is here.”

“Not everything has to be a political statement, honey.” Kerry flips the wig over his head, making him look like he just stuck his fingers in an electrical outlet.

He smirks. “Already thought up a name. Just call me Ms Cherry Bomb.”

Linda’s tryin’ so damn hard to not crack the fuck up. The choice was obvious, if a bit kitsch and on the nose.

“Of-fucking-course.” Ker picks up a curling iron and starts styling his wig. “But maybe I oughta be grateful you didn’t pick ‘Ms Burn Down Arasaka.’”

“There’s still time to change my mind, sweetheart,” he teases. 

The makeup artist pulls out a jar and opens the lid, a poof of glitter spilling over the top. She tilts it to show him a fine, black, shimmering powder that shifts between purple and gold as the light hits it. 

“Since you wanna keep the beard, we’ve got to gussy it up.” Linda’s grin lights up her face as she grabs a small brush and combs hair gel through his beard. “Might wanna close your eyes for this part. Glitter hurts if you get it in your eyes.”

He does, and this kid goes to town coating the entire lower half of his face in black glitter. She really lays it on extra thick. When he opens his eyes, she gives him a hand mirror and grins, proud of her work.

“Aren’t you just a snack, Ms Cherry Bomb?”

Johnny examines the kid’s work—yeah, he’s hot as hell. The look reminds him a bit of Joan Jett—legendary rockergirl and all-around badass. His beard glistens like an oil slick on his chin—blood-red lipstick on his overlined lips giving him a scourching pout. She even gave him a beauty mark on his cheek.

“Yeah, I’m fuckable as hell.” He declares.

Linda lets out a nervous giggle, like she was afraid he wouldn’t approve. “I love it when a vision comes to life.”

“Good thing you had Ker to practice on before creating this masterpiece,” he smugly remarks, looking over at his bandmate, who’s still fucking with his wig. Somehow, he’s managed to transform that shitty hairpiece into a fluffy, spiky punk hairstyle. Anything’s possible with enough hairspray and swearing.

“Or maybe you’re the sloppy seconds,” Kerry bites back, standing up. He wears his drag persona like a second skin, moving confidently in those obnoxiously tall boots. His skinny hips sway with each step. “Ready to don your battle dress?”

“Whaddya got for me?” Johnny carefully lights up a smoke, taking care to keep the open flame away from his glitter-encrusted chin. But fear of third-degree burns is not enough to stifle his addiction.

“I pulled out all the stops for tonight,” Kerry grins, then struts towards the bathroom, those fuck-me boots requiring him to walk with a sassy hip sway. That tight, leather mini skirt hugs his ass in a way that makes him wonder if he’d stuffed those cheeks with extra padding. “Rummaged through the back of my closet and grabbed whatever I thought’d fit you. We’re about the same size, I think.”

Johnny scoffs. “You wouldn’t be constantly stealing my pants if we weren’t.” Seriously. Johnny’s entire wardrobe could fit into a duffel bag. Kerry has enough thrifted threads to outfit an entire joyhouse for months. The fuck does this gonk need his specific pants for?

His eyes fall on the whole-ass suitcase full of shit lying open on the bathroom counter. Most of it’s black leather, sequins, lace, and vinyl. Laid out next to the suitcase are a couple of wigs—two blonde, one bright purple. 

“What? The wig store fresh out of black hair?” He glares at the other rocker.

“What can I say? Ya look good blonde,” Kerry insists. “Plus, I’m not letting you borrow any of my nice wigs, so these are your choices. Don’t like it? Get your own.”

Johnny puts his cig out in the sink and rummages through the suitcase. He pulls out a dark red, shiny, latex bodycon dress with a plunging neckline so low, he’s pretty sure it’d show off most of his chest tattoo. And most importantly, he’d rock the hell out of the dress. The play here is to be hotter than Ker.

When he looks back over at Kerry, the gonk is grinning at him with a godawful twinkle in his eyes. Johnny knows that look all too well—the look he pulls out whenever he wants something. Fuck, he's wielding those doe-eyes with the precision of a sniper. 

“What?” He half-growls.

“So tell me, Ms Cherry Bomb, you ready to learn how to tuck your dick like a lady?” He holds up his hand, a lacy little thong dangling from his little finger. The smile on his face is wicked, sadistic.

“Fuck that,” he spits, already stripping out of his clothes. “Not my kink.”

Kerry puts on an exaggerated pout while he spins the stupid g-string around his finger. “Spoil sport.”

Johnny rolls his eyes and reaches for one of the blonde wigs.

The club is so packed, they have to start turning people away at the door. Kerry knew that the two of them on stage together would draw insane numbers, so they didn’t announce the headlining act until the day before. Even with the lack of marketing, the show spread by word of mouth, and people turned the fuck up.

Johnny puts out his smoke, the butt of it stained the same red as his lips. Kerry fiddles with the tuning on his axe as they hang out backstage, waiting for their cue to go on. The last opening act is finishing up, and the crowd is losing it.

Kerry looks good in that get-up, Johnny decides—the fishnets and leather. Johnny doesn’t bother to disguise his leering—at this point in their careers, it’s all but expected of him. Fans eat this shit up—when Johnny and Ker get handsy with each other on stage. To the point the suits at Universal took notice and began filling their promotional material with homoerotic subtext. Not that he minds—they’re both hot as hell, and he enjoys the attention. Chicks love seein’ two hot dudes making out on stage.

And some guys, too.

The two session players Ker hired to be their backing band shadow them in the hallway. He never caught their names, and frankly, he wasn’t listening when Kerry introduced them. Rhythm section just needed to keep a decent tempo and stick to the back of the stage. 

When the opener finishes their set, the house lights come up for a brief intermission. Stagehands swarm the place to begin setting up for the headlining act. Kerry lights up a smoke and leans against the wall.

“Got big plans for the afterparty?” His eyes pierce the dark, watching him with curious intent. Hah. That’s Ker’s way of asking if they’re banging tonight. Johnny decides to call him on it. He doesn’t care they’re not alone.

“Not yet,” Johnny remarks, his blood-red pout curling into a smirk.

Kerry puts his hand on his hips, perking up his fake tits. “What, no plans for another mind-melting bender where we both wake up covered in puke, missing a few shoes, wallets stolen, and dicks drawn on our faces in magic marker?” 

“I’m down if you are,” he shrugs, earning him a huffy snarl. Shit, if that’s all that happens, it’s been a dull night.

Kerry lets out a dramatic sigh. “You know what I mean.”

Moving quickly, Johnny shoves the other man against the wall, pinning him under his metal arm. His eyes are wide and doe-like, surrounded by stage makeup and thick, false lashes. 

“If you ask me nicely, then sure, I’ll fuck your brains out after the show.” Johnny leans close, but not enough to smudge their makeup—not about to ruin Linda’s hard work. At least not yet. “It’s been a while since we last trashed a hotel room.”

Flustered, Ker shoves back and snaps. “Not right now.” 

“Not my fault your commitment to the bit includes cock and ball torture.” Johnny eyes his crotch, obscured in layers of leather and fishnets. He’s looking forward to the added challenge of unwrapping his skinny ass later.

Before he can voice any kind of protest, the house lights dim. The queen serving as the evening’s MC struts on stage, wearing enough sequins she could moonlight as a disco ball. “All right, you beautiful peeps! Give it up for the rowdy Ms Roxxxy Coxxxoff and the scorching-hot Ms Cherry Bomb!”

The crowd’s raw energy washes over him—no better feeling in the world. Tonight, they’re gonna rock this joint to the ground. In his high-heel boots, he has to walk carefully, one foot in front of the other, just like a field sobriety test (which he can perform just fine while drunk, thank you). Johnny pulls his axe over his neck and walks out on stage, grinning and throwing horns at the crowd.

“Happy Pride, motherfuckers!” He yells, grabbing the mic. They arranged the stage so that Kerry is set up right next to him, sharing the spotlight, so to speak.

They open their set with Chippin’ In because the fans expect to hear it. It doesn’t sound the same without Denny on drums, Nance on keys. But the guy they got on bass for the night is at least as good as Henry. The crowd sings along; a roar of rumbling voices hits him in a wave of sound he can feel in his sinews. One chick, already drunk as fuck, manages to climb the barrier and dive off the stage, crowd-surfing to the back. 

After the opening number, the setlist alternates between Kerry and Johnny’s solo work with a handful of old Samurai songs thrown into the mix. The crowd is eating them up. 

Sweat pours from his brow as he launches into a guitar solo, bracing his foot up on one of the amps, chrome fingers flying across the fretboard. It’s something he’s played so many times he could do it in his sleep. Or while Kerry is grabbing his ass. 

And the other rockerboy grabs hard—maybe enough to leave bruises on his asscheeks. Johnny grins, enjoying the attention from both Ker and the screaming fans. He doesn’t miss a note.

The setlist they agreed upon has them taking turns in the spotlight. While Johnny was born to be front and center, there were advantages to taking a step back, coming up for a breath. He struts around the stage, hips swinging as he strums the three cords making up the rhythm part while Kerry shreds through his solo. And holy fuck, he looks good while doing it. Somehow, the fake tits aren’t as much of an impediment as they look.

The moment he finishes and starts going into the song’s outro, Johnny grabs him with both hands and crushes a messy, open-mouthed kiss against his lips, smearing makeup, and giving the song a more abrupt ending. Feedback squelches from the amps when he presses himself up against Ker, his silver hand groping its way up the other man’s skirt.

The crowd loses it, screams vibrating off the walls.

Kerry retaliates, throwing his arm around the other man’s waist, the other hand still gripping his axe. Before he knows what’s going on, Johnny is staring at the rafters, draped over his arm. Kerry dips him low in his arms and grins before kissing him breathless.

It’s so loud with the screaming, cheering, and whistling that he can’t hear a damn thing. Kerry pulls him back upright and starts playing the opening riff for the next song, acting like he doesn’t have red lipstick and glitter smeared all over his face. 

They get through the remainder of their set, trading playful grabs, smoldering looks, and stolen kisses. Without fail, the crowd cheers and whoops each time they do it, clearly enjoying the show in more ways than one. And he’s gotta admit; it’s so much fucking fun.

Brushing sweaty tendrils of blonde wig out of his face, Johnny grabs the mic, then slings his arm around Ker’s neck. He pulls the man into a half-headlock, half-hug as he yells out into the crowd.

“Alright, you fuckers, listen up,” he begins, launching into one of his usual speeches near the end of the show. Johnny looks over the crowd—a rag-tag assortment of fans dressed for the occasion in bright, rainbow colors. He even spots Linda in the front, screaming and throwing horns. “They don’t like to tell you the first Pride was a fuckin’ riot.”

He crushes a smooch against Ker’s forehead, leaving him with an obnoxious, smeared lip imprint on his face. The crowd screams louder. “Corps and corrupt politicians runnin’ this country don’t give a rat’s dick about you, long as you siddown, shut up, consume their products, don’t make too much noise.”

The crowd boos. Johnny nods and loosens his grip on Ker. “Yeah. That’s right. Fuck’ em. Decades ago, the ruling class wanted to obliterate our beautiful, queer family. But they couldn’t take down all of us!” He pumps his fist in the air. “So they switched tactics. Now the corps slap rainbows on anything they can sell—t-shirts, coffee mugs, designer dildos, high-fructose scop candy in fifteen fruity flavors.”

Kerry makes a grab for Johnny’s arm, pulling the mic towards his face. “Don’t buy that shit—go check out our merch table instead.” He grins, the crowd laughing.

“Listen, listen,” Johnny continues, prowling around the stage like he owns the place—because he does. “Take a minute and look around you. These are the fuckin’ people that care. Everyone here, bein’ true to themselves, livin’ their best goddamned authentic life—I think that’s fuckin’ beautiful. Fuck the corps!”

For several minutes, he leads the crowd in chanting, “Fuck the corps!” Once the shouts die down, Kerry steps up to his mic.

“Think we got one more song in us. Whaddya say, Johnny?” Kerry shoots him a smoldering, sidelong glance, face streaked with sweat and smeared makeup. But his grin, man, not even that stupid wig could make him less hot. 

“What do you all think? Should we play another song?”

The crowd loses its collective shit, their cheers swallowing the rest of his words.

Kerry and Johnny close off their set with Never Fade Away. The crowd is singing and screaming along so loud, he can barely hear himself play. It’s all muscle memory, so it doesn’t bother him.

After they exit the stage, the MC struts back on to announce that they raised over a hundred thou for charity. His heart swells with pride. Walking down the steps, a stagehand throws him a towel and takes his axe. Without thinking, Johnny wipes his face, smearing the sweaty remains of his makeup. Half his face comes off in the filthy towel.

Fuck. Oh well. At least the show’s over.

Back in the greenroom, Johnny finds his chin’s turned into a sticky mass of glittery tar that’s gonna be a bitch to remove. Maybe he outta de-drag himself in a place with an actual bathtub. The latex minidress feels like it’s shrink-wrapped to his body, and he‘s been sweating buckets all night. At this point, might need a gallon of lube and the jaws of life to get him out of it.

He wipes off what he can from his face, but he’s not gonna get the job done without some kind of makeup remover. And with the way his wig is glued down, that’s gonna be a whole ordeal to divest anyway. Kerry slinks up behind him and slaps his ass, the smack against sweaty latex sounds wet and loud.

“Come on. I’ll take you back to my pad and we’ll getcha cleaned up,” he says, towel draped around his neck. He’s got his big, stupid suitcase packed up and ready to roll.

“Not getting in a car with you behind the wheel,” he protests. “I’ll dive.”

Kerry seizes Johnny by the chin and stares him down, glaring deep into his eyes, probing.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “You seem sober enough. I’ll allow it.”

 “You still owe us, bitch!” 

The parking lot is mostly empty by now, the fans having cleared out a while ago. A swarm of insects buzzes around the only working streetlight, flickering hazy yellow. Johnny follows Kerry out the back door, still a bit unsteady on his sky-high stiletto heels, but getting better with every strut. 

He lays eyes on the guy who just yelled, a Tyger Claw with a shaved head and subdermal horn implants on his forehead. He’s there with two of his chooms—typical ganger trash. Wouldn’t even be worth a second glance if they weren’t crowded around Linda, who’s slowly backing away, clutching her makeup bag and glaring fire at the men.

“Paid you back last week,” she shoots back. “Lemme the fuck alone.”

“You take out a loan, you pay it back with interest,” the ganger snarls, closing in, getting up in her face, though she’s got at least three inches of height on him. “Still owe us another five hundred eddies.”

“Look, just give me another week,” she bargains, stepping backwards across the pockmarked parking lot until she nearly bumps into Kerry, who reacts by putting a protective hand on her shoulder.

“Got a problem with our choom?” Kerry drops his tone, low and menacing, towering over the would-be assailants. Normally, Ker sounds gay as hell, but he’s got the power to drop his voice an octave and a half when he needs to sound mean.

Johnny reflexively reaches for his Malorian, but he has it stashed in his duffel bag, outta reach unless he wants to go dig it out. So he waits and watches, expecting these fuckin’ leadheads will give him an excuse to bash in their brains any moment now. 

“Not your biz, choom,” says the guy with the stupid implants. “Keep walkin’.”

Johnny folds his arms across his chest, for a moment, forgetting what he looks like. “You made it our biz when you decided to shake down our friend.” He steps forward, invading their personal space with his towering presence, the heels giving him at least another six inches of height. As he walks, the stiletto point catches on a crack in the pavement, and he stumbles. 

Flailing his arms, he grabs onto Kerry, who nearly goes down with him. Fuck these shoes.

One of stupid-horn-guy’s side chooms cackles obnoxiously, then utters something he’d most definitely regret later.

He deadnames their friend.

When Johnny yanks his boot free from the pavement, the heel breaks away, revealing the long, serrated blade that’d been sheathed within the entire time. Yeah. Only Kerry would have fuck-me boots that come in handy in a street fight.

Pivoting on his left foot, he swings his right leg in a low arc across the ganger’s midsection, slicing through his leather jacket, his shirt, and at least a few layers of flesh. Goddamn thing is sharp. 

Not even a second later, it’s an all-out brawl.

Johnny hikes up his dress before going in for another heel kick. The Tyger Claw catches his ankle, grinning and shit-talking like that’s gonna slow him down. He pulls his leg out of the boot, then punches that asshole in the face with his metal fist. The guy’s jaw cracks audibly, spitting blood while he screams.

Kerry pushes Linda into cover behind a dumpster and lunges at the leader, landing a solid right hook on the side of the dude’s face, then follows with an uppercut to the jaw. Fucker howls, a geyser of blood pouring from the ganger’s face.

Goddamn. 

That’s fucking hot.

Kerry might’ve never seen front-line action, but he’d gone through basic, and he knows how to throw his weight around in a fight. He’s rung the guy’s bell hard enough that he stumbles. Johnny kicks with his bare foot, launching the dazed idiot into his friend. The impact sends both of them sprawling.

Johnny yanks off the other boot in time for the third guy to try and grapple him from behind. A half-psychotic grin spreads across his face seconds before he buries his elbow blade between the ganger’s ribs.

As he’s doing this, Ker’s got their leader in a headlock, using that guy’s body as a shield while his choom throws wide punches. That’s when the third guy somehow manages to make another grab for Johnny while bleeding profusely from his midsection. Fucker must be on some crazy stims—maybe blue glass, PCP, or someshit—to ignore that kinda trauma. Johnny’s boosted reflexes are enough to dodge the incoming blow, but the ganger’s chrome fingers grab onto Johnny’s wig and rip it off his head.

“Oh hell no!” Kerry shrieks, throwing the gonk he’s got grappled into the wig-snatcher, sending them both careening toward the asphalt. This gives Johnny enough time to retrieve his gun from his duffel and brandish it.

But there’s no need to shoot. The three Tygers are bruised and bloodied, collapsed on the pavement, and deeply regretting their choices. Kerry struts over to their leader, the one with the stupid horns, stuffs a wad of eddies down his pants, then pats his head.

“The money she owes you,” he remarks, ice cold, still using his mean voice. “I catch you within a city block of our girl, you’re gonna spend the next month in the hospital watching your body heal.” Then he perks, his voice taking on its usual lilt. “Have a nice day.”

Holy shit. Johnny’s practically half hard from watching Ker dispense street justice as easy as styling his wig. Kerry’s usually the less volatile of the pair, but damn, he really outdid himself this time.

Johnny finds Linda still crouched behind the dumpster, bawling her eyes out, her makeup streaked and runny. He kicks off his other boot and walks barefoot across the parking lot, then squats down next to her.

“You ok?”

The kid’s shaking and scared, but she nods and scrubs at her eyes. “I… I coulda died. If you hadn’t…”

Next thing Johnny knows, Linda’s thrown her arms around him and breaks down in tears, her slender body wracked with choked sobs. He lets her cry it out for a moment or two before Kerry walks over.

“We gotta delta.” He tilts his head toward the car. “C’mon, we’ll take you home.”

Linda nods, numbly, and follows them to Johnny’s Porsche.

Under normal circumstances, he’d bitch and moan about getting blood on the upholstery, but he'll get his ride detailed later. Right now, they’ve gotta get their choom home. After they get their shit packed into the frunk, Johnny tears out of the parking lot.

“Address?” He asks.

Linda gives it, voice quiet as she curls up into a tight ball in the backseat. Her eyes are glazed, fully aware of the bullet she dodged. She’s probably worried the Claws’ll come after her again. Probably a good thing Ker paid ‘em. Hopefully, that’ll be enough to keep them off her back. The gangers know now she’s got a couple of crazy rockers watching her back. They’ll think twice before fucking with her.

“Listen,” Kerry tells her. “Those gonks so much as look at you wrong, you give us a call. Lemme give you my personal number. Don’t care if it’s 4 AM. You fucking promise you’ll call me if you’re in trouble.”

She nods, probably shell-shocked from the scrap. Johnny gives her his number too. Fuck, that means he’ll have to quit ignoring his incoming calls when he doesn’t feel like answering.

Johnny drives them up to northside, where Linda has a shitty basement apartment in some run-down brick building with bars on the windows. Looks about as homey as the roach-infested slum he and Ker usedta share back in Arroyo. This neighborhood is the sorta place you can’t order delivery because the drivers don’t wanna get jumped, the kinda place where you fall asleep to lullabies of gunshots and screeching tires.

“This where you live?” He asks, his frown pulling at the dried glue covering the lower half of his face.

“Yeah.” She’s exhausted, adrenaline worn off, and the weight of the long day settling heavy on her shoulders. “Best I can afford.”

“You decide you don’t wanna live here anymore, I got a place for you,” Johnny continues. “Silverhand Studios. While ago, I renovated an old warehouse. Rent’s whatever you can afford, even if it ain’t much. Aim to get artists back on their feet so they can focus on their craft without worryin’ about bein’ homeless.”

“I’m not really an artist,” she weakly protests.

“Bullshit,” Kerry groans. “What you did for us tonight was fuckin’ high art, honey. Well, before we trashed it. You got talent. Mean it.”

Then, for the first time since their ordeal, she smiles.

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t owe us a thing,” Johnny insists. “Go get some sleep, then call us when you feel better. Get you set up with a new pad in a better neighborhood.”

“Oh, and Linda?” Kerry adds. “You need money, talk to me. Doin’ biz with the Tygers is like drinking poison.”

They help her carry her things inside, and Johnny puts on his usual boots before he cuts up the bottoms of his feet on broken glass. By the time they’re back on the road, heading toward Ker’s place, he can’t help but grin like a fuckin’ gonk. They did good today, AND there was a parking-lot brawl. Hadn’t had one of those in a while, though the heels did complicate things a bit.

While stopped at a red light, Johnny reaches over, rummages around in the glove box, and retrieves a plastic baggie full of bright red pills. He rips it open with his teeth and pops a few down his gullet before offering some to Ker. He’s in a good mood, good enough to share his stash. Kerry shrugs and takes one without asking what it is.

Kerry’s got himself a nice place in Westbrook—not corpo nice, but a significant upgrade from the last dump he was renting. His building is nice enough to have underground parking and a disinterested security guard at the door who doesn’t look twice when a pair of bedraggled, dragged-up, rockerboys roll up to the elevator.

Place is a two-bedroom apartment, extra room serves as a home studio and a place to pile up all the crap he’s accumulated over the years. Through the open door, Johnny can see the stacks of cardboard boxes Ker’d been hauling around for years, following him to each new pad, still unpacked. He knows without lookin’ those boxes are full of unsold Samurai merch, old records, old sound equipment, and who the fuck knows what else. Fucker’s a hoarder, never was able to let anything go.

Ker tosses his bag down on the floor by the door and thunks down on the couch, ready to unbuckle his ridiculous boots. He shoots Johnny a deadly glare, or at least as deadly as the man could look caked with smeared lipstick and glitter.

“Fuckin' take your shoes off, Johnny,” he pouts, probably not expecting the other guitarist to give two shits.

“What’s the point? Place looks like a shitsty,” Johnny scoffs, but he moves a stack of empty boxes before joining Ker on the couch. He kicks off his boots, then smokes through half a cig in the time it takes the gonk to unlace those ridiculous knee-high boots to the point he can wriggle out of them.

Kerry’s pad is as messy as Johnny’s would be if he bothered to hang onto things. He doesn’t keep useless old shit, and he burns his fan mail. The mess and the clutter never bothered Johnny so long as he was sky high and skezzed to the point of seein’ stars. But sober Johnny had to fight hard not to toss shit out the window. Probably best they don’t live together anymore.

“Speak for yourself,” he groans, throwing a boot at him. Then he stands up and displays his leather-clad ass, bout three inches from Johnny’s face. “Get the zipper for me?”

Johnny rolls his eyes and unzips him, but not before slapping his ass, the blow softened by layers of lacy underwear. Christ, this is gonna take all night, isn’t it?

Kerry shimmies his narrow hips out of the skirt like a snake shedding its skin. And while Johnny’s glad he told Ker to fuck off about tucking his junk, there’s still the matter of extracting himself from this latex dress, all but vacuum sealed to his body. He reaches behind his back, his fingers struggling to grab hold of the zipper.

“Here, lemme get that for ya.”

Johnny gets up and lets him pull the zipper down his back, air cooling his sweat-slicked skin. Now he’s gotta figure out how to peel himself outta this thing. Christ, how do chicks deal with this bullshit? He ends up rolling the damn thing down his torso, nearly ripping the glossy material. Briefly, he wonders how much trouble he’ll be in if he goes for it and rips it off him and calls it a day.

With a huff, Johnny decides not to risk not getting laid that night and keeps up the struggle.

Ker sighs out a relieved groan when he pulls off his underwear, letting his cock out of its prison. Thankfully, everything looks intact.

“You just gonna stand there, holding your dick, or ya gonna help me out of this?” He snaps.

Fucker’s laughing at him. Asswipe. It’s his fuckin’ dress—probably knew this was gonna happen when he offered it as an option.

“Here, lie down on the couch, and I’ll pull it off you,” he offers, waiting for Johnny to quit staring at his dick and do what he says.

“You’re enjoying this.” Johnny parks his ass back down on the couch and leans back, this deathtrap of an outfit getting more uncomfortable the more he struggles. And Ker’s standing over him, watching with smug satisfaction.

“You’re goddamned right I am.” He watches Johnny squirm a few more seconds before bending down and yanking the dress down his legs. It lets go of his skin after a few sharp tugs.

“Fuck doing that again,” he complains. “Scrap with the Tygers took less work.”

“Quit yer bitchin’. It was for charity.” He glances toward the bathroom. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Usually when the clothes come off, they’re ‘bout two seconds from fucking, but both of them are still wearing a fuckload of makeup. He can feel the dried-up crust of glitter, hair gel, and makeup clinging to all the crevices of his face. He scratches his chin, dislodging chunks of sparkling gunk, getting that thick, sticky crap underneath his fingernails. He follows Kerry into the bathroom.

Ker’s main bathroom comes equipped with a giant mirror and two sinks. Now he gets why the man rents this place. But under the harsh fluorescent lighting, Johnny can finally see how gross he looks. For starters, he’s got his splatter of someone’s blood crusted across his forehead—a quick scrub of his hand confirms that it’s not his blood. The glitter sludge from his beard has migrated down his neck, flecks of it cover his shoulders and chest. Lipstick’s mostly gone, the remnants of it ringing his lips like the stain from suckin’ on a half-melted cherry popcicle.

At least Kerry looks ‘bout as wrecked as he does.

Johnny takes another swat at that tight little ass when Ker bends down to get something out of a bottom drawer. Hard to be patient starin’ at his sweaty, naked body.

“Here, close your eyes,” Ker tells him, holding up some kind of spray bottle.

Kerry applies a whole bevy of cleansers and other shit to his face—kinda crap that smells like his dead grandma’s sock drawer. He tries not to gag on the cloud of spray. Then comes the very unsexy process of scrubbing his face raw, going through piles of towels and wipes.

“This bullshit always take forever?” Johnny gripes.

He grimaces when Ker massages some kinda shampoo into his beard, which is holding onto the crusty hair gel like a clingy ex. The guy looks about fifteen years younger without the moustache and patchy beard. Ker always had a baby face. Back when they first met, shit, fucker got asked for ID at the goddamned movie theater. He looked so fresh-faced back then, gonk at the door didn’t believe he was old enough to see a flatvid with potty words.

Of course, Johnny’d already been sneaking into R-rated movies since he was 12. Stealing beer since he was 13. Yeah, Johnny was somewhat of a mentor to the other man, even though Ker’s technically older.

“You’ll thank me later,” Kerry sasses before giving him a condescending pat on the head. “Now let’s wash all this shit off in the shower.”

“Finally talkin’ sense.”

The two of them crowd into the small shower. Icy water spurts from the shower head as the old pipes groan in the walls. Then after about forty seconds, the spray heats up hotter than Satan’s taint sweat. Johnny stands there, watching Ker struggle with the shower knobs until the water is at least tolerable. They rinse off until glittery water rolls down the drain.

“Least your shower here is bigger,” he remarks, snaking his silver arm across Kerry’s chest to pull him flush against his body. “Bet you keep lube in your shower.”

“You don’t?”

Kerry hands him a bottle, mostly empty, of some boutique brand of waterproof lube. Man, what luxury. Back in the day, the shower was half this size, and the lube was a fraction of the price. Aren’t they moving up in the world?

The pills he took earlier finally kick in—he’s not too sure what they’re supposed to be, but the choom who sold ‘em said they’d give him a floaty kind of high. Johnny definitely feels it now.

“Made me stare at that ass all night,” he hisses into Kerry’s ear, standing behind him, trapping him close with his chrome arm. “Knew damn well what you were doin’.”

“Yeah?” He tilts his head back, all but purring as Johnny tightens his grip. “Take you all night to figure that out? You gonna fuck me or not?”

Johnny barks out a laugh, then shoves him up against the shower wall with a hand between his shoulder blades. “What kinda gonk question is that?”

It’s been a month or two since they fucked—something Johnny plans on rectifying immediately. He squirts a generous glob of lube into his ‘ganic hand and starts working on that tight little ass, pushing his slick fingers past his tight ring of muscle. Kerry groans, rocking back against his touch.

“Missed your cock, missed you,” Ker admits, his dark hair plastered against his head as the water rolls down his neck, down his back.

“In that order?” Johnny teases his hole with one hand, uses the other to grab a fistful of waterlogged hair, pulling taut, holding him against the shower wall. Ker always likes it rough.

“Depends how long you keep yappin’.”

Johnny rewards his sass with biting kisses down his neck, across his shoulder, sucking bruises into his well-moisturized skin. The other rocker squirms and tilts his head back, letting out a soft whimper while Johnny marks up his shoulder.

Taking a moment, he wraps his hand around his cock, getting himself good and slick. Then he buries himself balls deep inside that tight ass, still keeping his grip on the other man’s hair. The ancient fiberglass wall creaks as Johnny fucks him against it, all while Kerry pants out mouthfuls of incoherent syllables in between the occasional “fuck” or “oh yeah.”

Johnny grips Ker’s bony hip, giving it to him hard as he can. He catches Kerry reaching down to play with his own cock. With a grunt, he lets go of his hair to grab his wrist, then twists his arm behind his back. Kerry whimpers, but allows it, giving in as Johnny fucks him into the wall.

Yeah, Ker’s always loud during sex—moans like a whore. Holy fuck does he look good, flushed and panting, bent and pliant to Johnny’s demands. Fucking him’s like coming home. No matter what other bullshit they have goin’ on, they’re always down to fuck each other.

And whatever the fuck they took back in the car, it’s hitting just right. He feels nice, relaxed, chill. So he takes his time with Ker, denying him the ability to touch himself while Johnny pounds him, nice and slow.

He keeps his pace controlled and steady till he comes, groaning, shuddering as he unloads. But he doesn’t let himself get too lost in the haze—he’s still got work to do.

With some quick manhandling, he takes Kerry by the shoulders and turns him around. A second later, Johnny’s on his knees, swallowing his cock. Kerry whines softly, resting a hand on Johnny’s head like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to grab his hair. The man’s head thunks against the shower wall.

“Fuuuck,” he whimpers, caught off guard by the whiplash of the moment. It’s what Johnny likes, keeping Ker on his toes, giving it to him good. He grips Johnny’s hair when he starts playing with his balls, taking that cock down his throat.

If his mouth wasn’t otherwise full, he’d be beaming with pride at how fast Kerry busts.

By now the water’s gone cold. Kerry smacks at the knobs, cutting the shower. He pants, dripping, catching his breath while Johnny climbs to his feet.

“You’re so dramatic,” Ker rasps, pulling the shower curtain back and climbing out of the tub. He tosses Johnny a towel.

“Is that a complaint?” He smirks, wringing the water from his hair.

“No, just sayin’ you’re practically made to do drag.”

Johnny snorts and follows Ker into the bedroom, still dripping wet. He catches a look at himself in the mirror—there’s still faint smudges of eyeliner under his eyes, and he’s got a few scrapes from their tussle with the Claws, but he can deal with that shit later. Right now, only thing he wants is to sleep. Seems like Ker is of the same mind.

After he finishes drying off, he sinks into Kerry’s bed—fucker has satin sheets that feel nice and cool against his bare ass.

“Get over here,” he demands.

“You had a good time, admit it.” Kerry climbs into bed beside him as Johnny drapes his arm around his waist.

“Heh, yeah, that crowd was loud as hell. Even had a back-alley brawl. Had a great time.”

The other rocker kills the lights, and for a moment, they lie there quiet in the dark, the dull noises of the city murmuring outside the windows.

“We’re doing this next year, right?” Johnny asks him through a yawn.

“‘Course,” he chuckles. “But bring your own wig this time.”