#rtl era

Metallica photographed backstage at Metal Hammer festival at Freilichtbühne Loreley in St. Goarshausen, Germany.

1985

"James, I'm just saying that maybe it's not a good idea to take so much—" Kirk said, following him through the kitchen and down the hallway like a lost puppy, his shoes crunching from stepping on the remnants of however many beer bottles smashed. The concern in his voice was evident, but James disregarded it completely, dismissing him.

They'd been arguing for close to an hour now. James shamelessly drunk beer after beer and took any and every drug offered to him by those fucking tweakers that'd overstayed their welcome from earlier's party. It had long since died out, but there were people passed out from who knows what, and Kirk was sure he heard at least three couples fucking somewhere in the background that he couldn't quite place.

Vomit, shards of glass, and an abundance of bodily fluids coated the grounds and wall – a mess he knew would probably be cleaned by Cliff and him later.

He vaguely noticed the bassist watching the whole ordeal, probably too high to care, and Lars passed out on the couch - his mouth wide open snoring while drool seeped out of it onto the couch below him. He was always able to sleep through just about anything going on around him, like he couldn't be bothered.

Kirk paid them both little mind. That wasn't the matter at hand.

Without turning, James responded, "I don't want to fuckin' hear it, Kirk! And, the fuck're you high on, huh? Don't act so uppity, you fuck! You're not better than me!" he slurred, stopping to put his hand on the wall and steady himself – his head was swimming, and it was killing him. He shot a glare at Kirk, just as mean as it'd be if he was dead sober.

"Yeah, from weed, James! You know it's not the same! That's snow, tabs," Kirk listed them off with one finger hitting the others aggressively. "Crank, smack, fucking ecstasy! All of that on top of alcohol—!"

James whipped around, a little too quickly for Kirk's liking, his hand reared back and balled up. Kirk flinched away, but that did nothing to stop the punch from hitting his face. James saw the fear in the other guitarist's eyes. He sobered quickly as what he'd done dawned on him. Kirk held his cheek, his face flushing, his neck and ears turning bright red.

Tears gathered in his eyes while his face scrunched up with a pending sob.

"Kirk–" He reached out to touch his shoulder, only for him scramble away. Kirk's back hit the wall, his brown eyes wide. "Kirk c'mon, man! I didn't mean to!"

"You hit me!" He exclaimed, in utter disbelief. Cliff appeared behind Kirk, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips and smoke trailing behind him.

"The fuck is going on here?" He said, towering over Kirk just enough to make him feel ... overwhelmed. Cliff touched Kirk's jaw, turning his face from side, checking him over - simultaneously taking a drag and blowing the smoke out of his nose.

The curly haired man winced as Cliff's gloved hand touched his cheek."That's my bad, Kirk." he whispered, continuing to prod at the growing bruise - however, gentler this time.

"I didn't mean to, Cliff!" James rushed to explain himself, "We were yelling, and—"

"James .." Cliff said, like he didn't want to hear a word of what the blonde had to say - leveling the him an equal parted stern, and knowing, glare. If looks could kill. "Did you punch him? Seriously, you fuckin' punched him?"

"I swear I didn't mean to!" James said, stepping back slightly, feeling intimidated. Every part of his rational mind told him Cliff might just fight him for messing with Kirk, if need be.

Cliff turned to look at Kirk, urgency clear in his voice, "Kirk, go. Me and you will talk in a minute." he left no room for protest or argument.

The shorter man wasted no time at all, walking as fast as he could towards the bedroom he'd been sharing with Cliff, still clutching his face. He didn't need to share, as the mansion was big, but Cliff was comfortable - he was like home - and he also had the biggest bed because he was the tallest. 

   "I hope you're real fuckin' pleased with yourself, dipshit." Cliff scolded. "The hell is wrong with you, huh?"

"I don't understand why you're making such a big fuckin' deal of this!" James fired back, still slightly slurring. He scrubbed his hand across his face, squeezing his eyes shut.  

"His father beat him, dick. It's like you're being deliberately obtuse, when it was obvious! And I'll make a - big fuckin' deal - out of what I damn well please!" He raised his voice, not exactly shouting, but enough to get his point across. "You've lost sight of everything, James! You're actin' a whole lot like Dave, you know! Remember? The asshole who punched you in the in the face because he was so hopped up on drugs he could barely think! That's what the fuck you're actin' like!" Cliff shook his head, shifting his stance. "Fuck, man! You got me all fuckin' riled up, I was tryin' to wind down!"

"I didn't know about his dad, Cliff! I'm sorry!" James looked more and more guilty as the minutes passed - feeling like a kid getting chastised by his father after getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He's ashamed. Good. Cliff thought. 

 He spoke again, this time his head leveled, and his voice calmer. "Don't tell me that sorry bullshit, James. It wouldn't have made a difference, and you know it. You weren't sober enough to give a shit. Besides, I'm not the one you punched in the face. Talk to him, not me."

"But that's totally not fair!"

Cliff raised an eyebrow, taking another long puff of the tobacco, this time letting it leave through his nose and mouth as he spoke. "Do you want me to kick your pasty white ass, James?" He whispered, just loud enough that James could hear. James felt more scared than he logically should've been - but Cliff was walking him backward, firmly poking the blonde's chest to punctuate himself, and he was terrifying when he was angry.

Every poke sent an electric jolt to his very core. James was way too high for this. Cliff looked down at him menacingly, reminding him of his own father when he got in trouble.

"That's what I'm hearin', yeah? That you want me to tan your hide into next fuckin' year, right? Since you can't keep your damn hands to yourself, right? I have to talk to you like the fuckin' child you're actin' like?"

James shook his head quickly, eyes wide."No, Cliff! I'll get better, honest!"

"Yeah, that's what the fuck I thought. Get your shit together, you're a god damn mess." Cliff turned to go into his room, he had one foot in the door and one foot out. He'd stopped, though, with the beginnings of an afterthought.

"You need'a find out who the fuck you are, Hetfield, and find out who you wanna be, quick, before I become your rude fuckin' awakening." his voice rung out through the hallway. It was lower than his usual tone. Though, it didn't sound angry this time. It leaned more towards indifference, resignation. 

James didn't know what scared him more. 

That was the end, leaving James standing dumbly in the middle of the hallway - feeling like an utter jackass, through and through. He knew the bassist had no qualms following through - It meant Cliff would absolutely beat his ass if he didn't get his act together, and soon.

Cliff Burton & James Hetfield, 1985.