<strong>Name:</strong>Terry Hunter (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=264761.msg13074475#msg13074475) and his Uncle Gavin Brightman<br/><strong>Time / Location:</strong>Evening - Brightman Residence<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Anyone within earshot (within a block or two)<br/><strong>Content:</strong>\m/ >_< \m/<br/><br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/Setting%20and%20RP/article-2217762-157F7C5F000005DC-127_634x823.jpg?1490487255041&amp;1490487257213&amp;1490487258722)</div>Gavin swore again as he examined himself in the mirror. He had forgotten to shave again. No doubt the two days old scruff would go noticed, be commented on, and judged. Not that he cared what most of the people in this neighborhood thought. He was just tired of the same old two-faced friendly comments.<em>Eh, Gavvy, lost your razor? Ha! So what did ya think of the Raiders game?</em><br/><br/>He didn't think anything of it. He was too busy shoving his dick down your daughter's mouth to be watching a shit team lose a shit game you sophomoric simpleton. Or, at least, that's what he wanted to tell these assholes.<br/><br/>With another heavy sigh Gavin held two ties up to the mirror. His white button down shirt desperately needed an ironing, but it was yet another thing he simply did not have the time for. He didn't wake up until two in the afternoon and after calming his hangover somewhat he had been preparing for his trip into the city. He finally had another script -- a<em>real</em>script for a<em>real</em>movie -- and had to be ready and present for meetings in the morning. Which meant as soon as this farce was finished with he was leaving. So... which would be<em>least</em>likely to get comments from the peanut gallery? Red? Or blue?<br/><br/>The thunderous roar of a rhythm guitar blew the thought out of Gavin's mind and nearly knocked him off his feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted a lack of rumbling bass or a calmer percussive presence rather than the typical ritualistic pounding, but all the forefront could gather was that his nephew was playing that damned music too loud again.<br/><br/>"God dammit, Terry!" he cried, turning towards the doorway of his bedroom. "What have I said about that bloody-"<br/><br/>As he opened the door to the hallway he was met with darkness. Terry's bedroom door was wide open, revealing a distinct lack of persons occupying it. The only light was a sliver of sunset through the thick curtain. With another curse Gavin realized why the bass was lacking.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/Setting%20and%20RP/black-metalhead-2.jpg)</div><em>Duh-nuuuuuh Duh-nuuuuuh Duh-nuuuuuuh</em><br/><br/><strong>"TALK SHIT! GET SHOT!" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzWdBczZAKo)</strong><br/><br/><em>Duh-nuuuuuh Duh-nuuuuuh Duh-nuuuuuuh</em><br/><br/><strong>"ACT HARD MOTHER FUCKER! GET SHOT!"</strong><br/><br/>Terry's fingers slid across the strings of his sapphire stratocaster guitar, hand cradling the ebony fret board with mother-of-pearl inlays. A loose t-shirt draped over his body, sleeves torn off, the bold and blue print stating "Odds are we are better musicians than you" (http://www.animalsasleaders.org/products/50251-odds-on-black). His jeans had holes in the knees and a studded belt wrapped about his waist, a pair of converse sneakers bouncing and skidding along his Uncle's driveway as he jumped with the rhythm of the song.<br/><br/>"Talk Shit, Get Shot" had been the first heavy metal song Terry ever heard. It was the entire reason he dove head first into the world of heavy metal, why he bothered learning to play guitar, and why he<em>wanted</em>to go to school for music. It seemed right to announce his presence to this boring and plastic neighborhood by waking them up with something real. Let the proverbial testicles drop as his rhythm guitar thundered between their McMansions, waking them up from their spray-on tans and caviar dinners.<br/><br/>He had two amps hooked up, but one of them was dedicated to a programmed bass and percussion line from his keyboard. Without his bandmates around it was the only way he'd get the full sound, but even as he strummed hard and screamed into the microphone he could tell there was something missing. It wasn't...<em>punchy</em>enough.<br/><br/>But after a week locked in this Hell of wealth? It was like that first step into the glow of a campfire after wandering a blizzard. It didn't matter what he lacked. What mattered was that he was<em>playing</em>.<br/><br/>Wait. Change that emphasis to<em>was</em>playing. Suddenly the pick struck nothing but acoustic twangs from his guitar and his screams carried no further than the cul-de-sac of 16 Acacia Circle, a little loop of houses branching off of Robinson Road.<br/><br/>"The fuck?" he asked, brow creasing, finger poking at the mic.<br/><br/>"What in the living daylights has possessed you to think this was a good idea?" Terry turned around, his Uncle a rather startling sight in nothing but a partially buttoned shirt, boxers, and business socks. He held in each hand the plugs to the amps. "James St. Clair, tightest arsehole in the whole fucking town, is<em>right out there</em>" his finger pointing some vague direction behind their own house, "setting up his uptight shmooze and booze, and you just went and disrupted it with your murderous melodies." With more than a little agitation Gavin tossed the power cables to the ground.<br/><br/>"It ain't noise curfew," Terry shrugged.<br/><br/>"Not yet!" Gavin grunted, instinctively reaching towards a pocket that wasn't there for cigarettes. "How much you bet this little noise incident is going to get brought up? Not just with me, but as a<em>whole new</em>consideration, to keep our peaceful little shit hole quiet."<br/><br/>"Sorry Unc," Terry said, kicking at the pavement with his shoe. "It's just... It helps me, y'know? It feels like..." Terry's eyes scanned the rooftops of the different houses surrounding their own. Did it feel like home? What<em>was</em>home to Terry? He hasn't felt at home since he left College and his friends behind. Movie nights, Xbox, and heavy metal. There was none of that here, though at least he felt<em>love</em>from his Uncle. That already made it a step better than what his parents would call a "home".<br/><br/>"That guitar," Gavin said suddenly, his eyes squinting as he stepped closer. "That's not..."<br/><br/>"It's the one Aunt Denise got me, yeah," Terry replied, giving the strings a couple of strums. "Why?"<br/><br/>Gavin's hand rubbed across his chin, gaze lingering upon the stratocaster for a moment. "Alright," he sighed, slowly bending over to grab hold of the amp's cables and plug them back in. "But<em>not so loud!</em>" He turned the dials down, below 9, below 8... below 7.... below 6.... below 5...<br/><br/>He set it to 3.<br/><br/>"There, that should be fine," Gavin nodded. "Just try and avoid the, um, language."<br/><br/>"You got it, gramps," Terry sighed, dissatisfied with the complete lack of<em>oomph</em>his guitar now generated. The only "shredding" that came to mind now was that of a tissue. He stepped back into the garage, searching for another program. Soon enough he was more quietly strumming a somewhat more peaceful number (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTbu5yMkOQ8).<br/><br/>Gavin, meanwhile, needed to get back to choosing a tie... and he supposed he should find an unopened bottle of scotch to bring to the HOA meeting. By God did he hate wasting the good stuff on that twat of a "president".