Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā š¹Ā Ā -----Ā Ā Ā continuedĀ Ā fromĀ Ā hereĀ Ā /Ā Ā @guitarismĀ !
āGREAT. Good goinā SLASH.ā Gruff voice coming out in a severely agitated tone, saying the guitarists name like he could gnaw it into pieces itself.Ā āI really canāt fuckinā believe you canāt do ONE simple thing. Tell the guy weāre going to Break Hotel not fuckinā Brooklyn Heights!ā He knew it was taking too long to reach their hotel their manager had supplied for them, he fucking knew it.Ā āIf you hadnāt had one too many beers, maybe youād gotten it right, fuck head.ā Slamming his fist into Slashās arm, rings on all five fingers really driving into his skin at the burning rage he feels. He could strangle Slash himself, before any freak or mugger does. āWell, Iām gonna need a cigarette before our last moments happen here, in the shittiest HELL hole in New York.ā Yelling at Slash does feel a lot better than focusing on their surroundings, however. A dingy neighborhood barely lit with the broken lamps, prostitutes on whatever corner, gangs hoarded up in the run down apartments, swamped with criminals lurking almost anywhere, loud music that definitely isnāt rock or pop blaring from one complex and yelling coming from the same building. An eerie looking person in a beat up vehicle passing them occasionally while they never fail to eye the two boys since they stick out like two sore thumbs. Digging into his leather jacket pocket for his Marlboroās, heās pissed the fuck off but ironically staying as close to the other as close as possible with his back against Slash while Axl searches his other pocket for a lighter.Ā
