#uurtai

Metalcows: 80’s Rise To Fame Chapter One

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“ You’re really cruisen for a bruisen, Chad. ”

The back room of the bar echos as two loosers hash it out. Two fools that consist of Chad, a bratty washed up and late guitarist. And Mike, a delinquent drummer who keeps his body full of a bad attitude and liquor cocktail.

The irony isn’t found in what divides them. They are both two dumb splotchy bulls in tight bellbottom. Both on their high horses with a beer in their hands. They were a copy and paste image. And yet, they loathed one another.

“ Shut it, dickweed. ”

A quip shoots from the tan and white peppered Chad.

“ If you weren’t so fuckin’ plastered all the time, we wouldn’t still be dragging our asses around small bar gigs. ”

plastered? A twitch of irritation pulls at Mike’s eye.

“ Homeboy I wouldn’t be so plastered if that guitar of yours didn’t suck the fart out of a riff. You can’t play, I told you to let me on that thing. But noo, you want that dusty ass small-town spotlight.”

Mikes hoof bounced along with his sassy tone, taunting Chad, who snapped back.

“ Small town? We’re in Denver, idiot. And shut your fucking mouth, My riffs can play circles around your fat hooves. Don’t even try me when you can’t distinguish a violin from a banjo you fuckin hick. ”

“ that’s it!”

A short warcry rang out as the chestnut coloured bull tackled chad to the ground, and the boys began to scrap it out.

“ Hey, hey !”

Uurtai shouts as he enters the room, having to rush over and yank the trembling Mike off of Chad. The large dusty colored bull stepped between the two. And shoved them apart with his behemoth arms. And two shrewed tattooed eyes would gawk back at Chad.

“ What the fuck is your problem? You’re fuckin late to a gig again. I just had to beg the owner to change his mind about canceling , because the crowd is dippin’ on us. ”

Chad opened his mouth to speak, but Uurtai raised a hoof to stop him.

“ I don’t want to hear it. And you. ”

The green-eyed bull turns to point at Mike, and continues his ranting.

“ You’ve been causing nothing but problems with your inability to hold your liquor. I could hear the two of you arguing from the other room. you damn well know that everyone else in there heard your stupid asses. ”

“ Tai, man, cool it. We got this, so what if they heard our scrap? Once they hear my sweet ass bass they’ll forget all about it.”

“ Oh shut your trap, assface. You think it’s all about you !”

Mike cut back at Chad, and Uurtai finally shouts.

“ Enough! I have fucking had it with you two. Play the fuckin gig yourselves, because I bail. You two wanna act like rockstars, but the moment it comes time to play like a band, you wanna pull this shit. I quit, find another lead. ”

Uurtai steps away and storms for the door, but Mike calls out

“ Tai, come on man-”

Uurtai raises a hoof as he leaves, he has nothing else to say. He disappears out of the back room, then exits the bar.

“ let him bail, dude. We don’t need him, anyway.”

Outside, Uurtai leans against a light pole and drags his hooves down his face as he sharply inhales.

’ What am I to do, now? ’

His head fogs with self-doubt. And as his anger subsides, hopelessness began to engulf his windpipe. He had spent so many years perfecting his act. Despite his efforts, his dreams still felt unreachable. It broke him, living each night at the bottom of a bottle in a greasy hotel room. A taste was all he wanted. He figured it’d be a chance to sink his teeth into the meat of success, lock his jaw, and never let go.

His thoughts are disrupted when he hears a flyer flapping against the wind. The evening breeze gently attempts to pull it away from the staple that binds it to the wooden pole. The sound caught Uurtai’s attention. His curiosity bested him, so he ripped the violet-blue flyer free from it’s confinement.

His eyes danced across the flyer. Which proudly bore an image of a little brown bull with the top of his hair bleached. It was the icon himself, Funzen Funashi. Standing beside his fellow bandmates. Robbert Heartman on bass, Eric Estric on drums, and Randall Maull on guitar. Above them, the infamous title ’ Metalcows ’ sat in a unique white font. Tour dates listed below them; ’ July fourth to August ninth. ’ They had finished a show in Denver a few days ago and were already set in their last location.

“ I would be the one stuck with an incompetent band. ”

He mumbled. The bitter acid of envy singed his throat. If only life had blessed such luck upon him, he’d be the one on that poster.

He balled the flyer up and tossed it aside. The disgruntled bull walked the road, letting the streetlights take him for the night.

Dallas Texas, the most American show Funzen has booked yet. He had just rocked a crowd of thousands. And now, the doom bringer lie face down on the front seats of the bands small RV.

And just as the lad flopped down for the knock-out nap of a lifetime, the passenger door opened. The disturbance was none other than his egotistical drummer, Eric Estric.

“ Aw, no. Come on Lil man, you can’t do this to me. ”

Eric breathed out his words in a bargaining tone of desperation. Only to face the rude bird gesture that sat upon Funzens lazily raised hoof.

“ Not cool, man. You know I promised these girls that they can see the inside of the RV. Crash somewhere else. ”

“ Crash somewhere else?”

Funzens voice muffled back from its grave within the seat. And he turned to rest his squishy cheek against the leather.

“ I’ve been trying to sleep in motel lounge chairs for the past three years of our touring. I’m comfortable right here.”

The small bull raised his brows as he stood his ground but his baggy eyes still rested shut. Eric complained ;

“ You could have slept in the RV while we were on the road, man. It’s not my fault you didn’t think to do that.”

“ Didn’t think to do that? ”

Funzen hissed as he opened his eyes, he had to look up at Eric to face the idiot before him.

“ I did try to sleep while we were on the road. ”

The small bull sat up, and would lean towards Eric as he continued his lecture.

“But you three wouldn’t shut the hell up for two seconds. Always ’ Robby this, oh Randall that, aw dude did you see that billboard? Let’s blast some rock, man. ’ How did you expect me to sleep? Blow my ears out? ”

Eric threw his hands up, the poor bovid just wanted to get laid.

“ Dude, ok, I’m sorry. But just… crash on the roof or somethin’. I really scored this time-”

Eric suggested boldly, and met his final answer with the door slamming shut. Funzen gave the peg on the passenger door a push, locking it as his eyes kept contact with Eric’s.

“ Fine! I’ll just go book a fukin hotel room, jackass.”

Eric would shout before storming off. Funzen lie his head back down carelessly. He sandwiched his hooves between his cheekbone and the warm seat. And the small lad would wiggle his body snugly into the leather.

“ You go do that ”

He mumbled.

It’s been miserable, sharing small motel rooms with three other sweaty men. The manager of the band pocketed extra expense costs. And gave Metalcows the lowest possible motel rates.

Had the band realized how big they were, they’d kick his ass.

The driver door to the RV opened, and Robert sat down next to his tuckered out brother.

“ Ball game comes on in thirty minutes. ”

“ That’s nice.”

Funzens voice crackled in response.

The Funzen they see on stage isn't the Funzen you see at his home.