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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Marilyn Manson

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.


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The girls will never believe this
By Dark Lady of the Circus


“We're going out!” Emileigh's loud voice shatters my concentration. Not that I was solving cold fusion or anything, but I was trying to decipher the words in the screaming bridge of a Bullet for my Valentine song. I'm hardcore, if I do say so myself. And if I have to say it, that probably means that I'm not hardcore at all, but I'm much too hardcore to run crying to the Internet for my song lyrics.

“We are?” I look at her, disbelieving. I slept till three in the afternoon today just trying to recover from last night.

“Yeah!” agrees Katy, who follows Emileigh into my house, never mind that neither of them were invited. They have no idea what they could have been walking in on! I could be having an extremely torrid affair with an extremely hot guy…or not, cause I have no love life whatsoever, but they don't need to know that! But I know why they're there. Obviously they're cooking up another of their ridiculous schemes, with me as the victim.

“And we're making you over, too,” continues S?de, entering after Katy, her head buried in today's newspaper. I love S?de to death, but I will forever be jealous of her. You see, S?de is Finnish—by blood, if not by actually being born in Finland. And she has inherited the Finnish looks. Because, somehow, almost every Finn is incredibly good looking. I really don't understand how that one works, but I'm not complaining. Fantasies about Apocalyptica make for very pleasant dreams. She's incredibly beautiful, but that doesn't stop me from being irritated that she and Katy and Emileigh are just barging into my house.

Is there a procession lined up to come inside? A parade? Perhaps a band, too, and a couple of washed-up former beauty pageant contestants?

“3 Killed in Car Crash,” S?de announces, not looking up from the paper. She positively devours current events, and, while this is all well and good, she expects us to take the same interest. Which we don't. But she makes us suffer anyway. “Heat Index Over One Ten, Illegal Immigration Mounting Problem.”

“Thanks, Anchorwoman,” I remark dryly. “So why are we going out again? We were just out last night.”

“Exactly! We're going out tonight to celebrate you not getting kicked out of the concert!” Katy grins as my face turns red.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was young. You chicks are my best friends…”

“…which is why we're making you over and taking you out,” Emileigh says with finality. “Manson was awesome, but nothing compared to some good old fashioned bar crawling.”

I begged to differ. For one thing, the Marilyn Manson concert last night was not just “awesome,” it strayed into the realm of positively orgasmic. And secondly, I'd much rather wear the kind of outfits that were Manson concert-appropriate (Goth hooker, rather than just regular hooker) than the slutwear I was sure that they'd attempt to cram me into.

I was right.


I was watching the TV show “Burn Notice” one time, and the main character was trying to rent an apartment above a nightclub. The landlord (a Russian guy with a rockin' accent) was trying to dissuade him from renting that room. One of the reasons he gave was, “The club goes boom-boom all night long.”

That's what the present club was doing. And not even a good boom-boom. Like “The Beautiful People.” That is a good boom-boom. It has a great bass line, and a real heavy beat. It'd be perfect for a club. Too bad nobody besides me thinks that. Nobody here appears to be thinking much at all, frankly. If I thought I looked like a ho, I'm downright conservative, compared to some of these people. But it's probably because a) I'm not wasted, and b) my outfit is in the same position it was when I entered the club.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those weird ultra conservative people or orthodox Christian freaks. I love booze, I have the alcohol tolerance of the gods, and I'm not averse to experimenting with a few mind-bending illegal substances every now and then. I'm just not in the mood tonight. I grabbed a gimungous margarita when S?de started pestering me about loosening up and enjoying myself, and have been nursing it all night, until it's little more than a puddle of slush and salt. But, hey, nobody pays attention in here. I just say that it's my second, or third, or fifth, of these monsters, and Emileigh pats me on the back and shoves me out onto the dance floor to grind against some guy wearing way too much cologne. Not really my idea of a fun time right now. None of these guys are really my type, anyway. I prefer metal-heads to bros. You know, bros. The kinds of guys who always wear polos and sperrys and greet their friends, “Hey, bro!” They may call me many things when I'm not around to stab them in the face, but one thing they will never call me is a broho. (Get it…? Bro…ho…good, you got it) I've made certain of that.

It is obviously Katy's idea of a good time. I walk back to our booth after another one of these grope-fests to find her passed out, with S?de and Emileigh fussing over her.

“We gotta take her home,” Emileigh says. S?de and Emileigh and Katy all live together—I was the only one who moved out of our bachelorette pad into a rental house (shack, really, but it's home to me) of my own after college.

“Can you get back by yourself?” S?de asks, furrowing her brow.

“Yeah, I'm cool,” I assure them, grabbing my things and heading out the door. I paid the rent yesterday, so I'm way too poor for a taxi, and I just missed the last bus. Guess I'm walking. Oh, well. It's not much more than a mile back to my humble abode, I just have to be careful of murderers and rapists. My fingers tighten around the mace in my purse.

Usually when I have to walk for a long way or anything I'll pull out my MP3 player and jam while I walk. But right now, I'm a little too paranoid to render myself incapable of hearing, so I'm forced to just listen to the music my head provides.

Finally, though, I see it. My street. And two houses down from the corner, my house. Thank God. I'm so tired that my vision is doubling…tripling…just plain not letting me see what's in front of my face. If I hadn't, in a fit of inspiration, painted my door bright red (with black splatters… “I see a red door and I want to paint it black”) I don't think I would have been capable of finding it.

I sink down on my front step, grateful to have the weight off my feet. Hooker shoes are all well and good for some things, but walking is not one of them. My feet are literally killing me. They have each grabbed a chainsaw and are hacking me into little pieces. I need to rest here for a second to regain my energy for the Mount Everest-like climb up the four steps into my house. I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my knees.

It's so peaceful here. I could go to sleep right now. I mean, it's a pretty safe neighborhood. And the guy next door's wife is a really light sleeper, and he keeps a twelve-gauge by his bed. If anybody was gonna try something, I'd be okay. I'd just have to scream, and everything would be okay. Neighbor guy would come out with his shotgun to do battle and defend my honor. Sleep. That sounds so good. I lean over, intending to curl up on the little square of concrete between my stairs and my front door.

I don't make it. I bump into something first. Something soft and hard at the same time. Something warm. Something human. Fuck. I didn't even notice that someone was there. I really hope that Mrs. Ormond hasn't chosen tonight to take a sleeping pill. I turn my head slightly and crack my eyes open. Another set of eyes looks back at me. Dark eyes. I like dark eyes. They're sexy. And I'm so incredibly sleep-high that I might have just said that out loud. There's really no way to be sure. I scan my eyes over him (because it's definitely a him) and gasp. It's not just a him. It's the him. And I don't mean the Finnish metal band (though that would be awesome). This is an even better him. Then I realize that this kind of thing never happens in real life. I must be hallucinating. Damn.

I glare at him. When I pair this glare with a smirk, it makes my guy friend Marshall describe me as `a hungry shark who wants to rape and then eat' him. I'm not smirking now. The overall effect (I know—I've practiced in the mirror) is a glare scary enough to peel the flesh from the faces of lesser mortals. “If you're a cheap impersonator, that shit really pisses me off. Go away.”

“And what if I'm real?”

“And what if I'm George Bush?” There's no way the real Manson could be sitting on my front step like we're best friends and this happens every day. Then I take a closer look at him. He's got the hair, and the leather pants, and the makeup, but something's off. Then I realize: an impersonator would never let himself get this…I don't even know the best word to describe it…grimy is close. The hair is mussed, the clothes sag off his frame, and the makeup is a smeared by…tears? Has he been crying?

“I'm going to kill myself,” he announces flatly, without preamble.

“Don't,” I reply automatically, equally flat.

“What do you care, dubya?”

“Hardee har. I believe you now. Why?”

“My life's falling apart.”

I wait for more, for him to vent every pathetic problem that he's ever had ever (that's what I do), but it's obvious that he's not going to continue. I'm still leaning on his shoulder from my ill-fated attempt to nap, and I wrap my arm around his waist. “Don't you have Evvy to make you happy?”

A shudder ripples through his thin frame—too thin. Almost skeletal. He's been on tour, which means probably drinking too much and eating too little. “Don't even fucking bring her up.”

“Okay. Well I'm here for you…” a slight giggle ripples through me at the unreality of this whole situation. “I'm here for you, Mister Superstar, at four thirty am, on the front steps of my house.”

His eyes look into mine for a silent moment, then we're both hooting with laughter at this total unreality. He sobers first, his face returning to the creases of doom and gloom.

“I'm still gonna kill myself.”

“You don't have any reason to live?”


“Your millions of fans?”

“For every one person who loves me, a hundred hate me.”

“I could take those hundred bitches.”

“Ha. But no. Not even the fans. They'll survive.”

“Your family?”



No.” This `no' is by far the most final-sounding of any of them. This makes it one hundred percent clear. Evan Rachel Wood is the cause of my rock idol wanting to die. Bitch. Ho. Cunt. Ima beat her with a wrench.

“You don't have anyone to live for?”

“No, goddamn it!”

“What about me?”

“I don't even know your name.”

I grin. “You know, what should happen is this: I should do you to convince you to stay alive. You should realize that we're soul mates, but off yourself anyway. I won't be able to handle this, and off myself too, a few days from now, to be with you, even in death.” I belt a few bars of “Join Me In Death” by HIM to illustrate my point.

He can't but help to laugh at that one. I hope it's at the unreality of my scenario rather than at my terrible singing voice, but it's probably a mixture of both.

“Where did you even think of that?” he asks, clearly amused.

I lean my head back onto his shoulder and look across the street at all my across-the-street neighbors' boring beige doors. “I read a lot of fanfiction,” I reply with a giggle.

“You're kidding.”

“I'm kidding about the fanfiction, or I'm kidding about crap like that happening in fanfiction?” I yawn massively.

“You're tired. I should go.”

Whoa. Marilyn Manson is a gentleman. Who would have thunk it?

“No, you should stay. Sleep with me.”

“I don't even know your name.”

“I don't mean fuck me, man. Get your mind out of the gutter. Sleep in the same bed as me tonight. Let me snuggle with you. It's damn cold, and you're warm. I even have some man pj's you can wear…unless you prefer to sleep in leather.”

After we get into bed, but just before I nod off, I have to ask. “Are you gonna kill yourself still?”



“I promise.”

“Good. Because if you killed yourself, I'd never speak to you again.”


I wake the next morning to Sunday morning sunlight streaming into my face. Fuck. It's too early. Leave me alone, sun. And what is it about Sunday sun that's even brighter and more obnoxious? Even when you're not hungover, Sunday sun is just more annoying than other days of the week. Leave me alone, sun!

I give up the struggle to stay asleep and look around. No Manson. Guess it was all a dream after all. Makes sense. I mean, an industrial rock icon shows up on my doorstep (literally!) threatening suicide? Nope. Doesn't happen. Ever. I turn over. I'm majorly needing to get out of bed and shower, but I'm still tired as fuck. I feel nasty, with slut makeup still all plastered to my face from where I went out last night and was too tired and lazy to scrub it off before I passed out. That dream was so vivid, I can't even really remember where reality ends and where it begins.

Paper rustles. There's a note next to me on the bed. What the hell? I unfold the note, looking at the handwriting first. It's certainly not mine. It's a scrawl like mine, yes, and almost illegible, but it's a guy scrawl, not a girl scrawl.

I still don't know your name. But here's my number. Call me sometime. Since I'm still alive, you can speak to me again.


P.S. You're warm, too

Well, fuck.

The girls are never gonna believe this.


The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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