Stigmata

Life had not been kind to him for the past few months, the tall tattooed man thought as he propped his feet on the edge of a shoddy folding table and utilized it to push his folding chair back on two legs. After a few successful seconds, both he and the table went flying in opposite directions, the resounding crash of an acoustic guitar falling face-up echoed through the room, and his black-haired head collided painfully with the wood floor of the studio he and his friends had taken over as their own. The solid crash of cranium meeting cedar was followed by a string of curses that any mother would find blush worthy from the victim of folding furniture failure and his four accomplices. Yes, not very kind in the least.

“What the fuck, Haner? Aren’t we the picture of grace today!” A clean shaven face with green eyes and a buzz cut-covering bandanna floated above the battered Brian Haner; Matt Sanders assisted his friend to his feet with an easy heave of his overly-tattooed, overly-muscled arm.

“Sorry man, all this interviewing shit is getting to me. We’re interviewing dancers today, right?” Haner rubbed the place on the back of his head where bone had become acquainted with the floor as he glanced at his friends and band mates, who slowly went about righting the upturned table and collecting the mess of useless papers they had placed upon it. Jimmy Sullivan, the blue-eyed devil, had called the addition to their “judging table” necessary, citing the fact that news anchors and the people on American Idol always had papers.

“Dancers. Right.” Johnny Seward nodded his blond head in acquiescence while distractedly gazing at the door behind them. “Speaking of,” Four heads turned to watch as an orangey-tanned, buxom blond strutted into the room, using all of her diminutive stature for said strut; and although the flier for the auditions had clearly stated that the dancers were to be of the exotic sort, this girl was clad in a velor track suit.

The first dancer of the day. Haner regained his seat and settled with all four legs of the chair on the floor and prepared himself for what he believed would be an awful day.

Avenged Sevenfold had been “prepping” for their stint on Warped Tour for nigh on three months - they had finally finished the rough record, and had been adding the finishing touches (such as backing vocals and misguided attempts at improving upon solos and such) to their City of Evil record. Auditioning dancers was more of a conceptual touch for the tour, and the day before the quintet had unsuccessfully interviewed a series of fat men interested in the place of Brian’s guitar tech. That had been a particularly painful day for the black-haired man, he mused as he watched Matt turn away yet another girl with far too much cellulite to be in the business of shaking her ass on stage. Seeing so many washed-up roadie types brought back a few none-too-welcome memories to the hat-wearing soloist, fat dancers were much easier to deal with than the pervious day’s tirade… at least to Synyster they were.

During a reprieve in the relentless onslaught, Matt turned on Brian, twirling a sharpie marker between his first two fingers.

“What’s up with you? You’re too quiet. This isn’t about Michelle, right?” Haner sighed at his friend’s jabs and shook his head so he wouldn‘t have to try and lie out loud. “Well then perk up, you dirty bastard. Some hot pieces of ass have marched through here today and I want to hear comments. Comments!”

“Whatever gets you hard, man,” The guitarist quipped as the door opened and an assistant provided by the record label asked if it was kosher if she began to send the girls in again.

“Hit me,” Johnny pointed a gun composed of his two fingers and thumb at his head and pulled the imaginary trigger, whilst illustrating his invisible brain splatter against the wall with a hand as the assistant rolled her eyes and left the room.

“This is like Chinese water torture,” Scribbling on the papers in front of him, Sanders resembled a kindergartner more than the vocalist of one of the most successful bands in America.

“Just try to be nice, it would be an experience for you, Shads.” Jimmy rolled his eyes at the six-foot-whatever five-year-old he sat beside before he yanked the blue sharpie out of the other man’s hands and began to compose a replica of Van Gough’s Starry Night with it and the other Sharpie markers which had been scattered across the table.

Haner let his attention drift from his miscreant friends to the light-eyed redhead who had just been sent into the studio as she glided across the wood floor as if she owned the place, arranging her curls patiently while Matt passed her information sheet - complete with a personal bio and Polaroid, as all the rest had been - down the long table. The four men beside Brian began to discuss her as if she wasn’t in the room at all.

“I don’t know, Jimmy, she doesn’t have one single curve.” Matt murmured at the drummer whilst he drummed his fingers on the faux-wood top of the table.

“I think she’s hot, look at that sex hair!” As Zachary spoke, the redhead began to shift uncomfortably from one foot the other, nervously twining her fingers in her ribcage-length locks. In an attempt to do the redhead a “solid” and to make the poor girl feel better, Brian glanced down at her sheet before asking;

“It says here you’re multi-talented? What does that mean?” She looked instantly relieved and relaxed her arms to her sides as she spoke in an accented tone slightly deeper than what Haner had expected of someone of her size.

“I’m actually a classically trained ballerina.” Well, obviously; Brian nearly rolled his eyes at the underweight, bony thing on display in front of the long folding table. She stood with her lanky arms crossed and a spindly, scantily-clad hip stuck out at a jaunty angle; the girl seemed to be judging the boys just as they were considering her. Matt turned and raised a hidden eyebrow into his bandanna, and silently Haner willed her to continue, hoping she had something better to say about herself than that tidbit. “Uh, I also play an array of instruments, and I’ve been told I have perfect pitch.” Now, that piqued Brian‘s interest.

“Vivien, is it? Where are you from, Vivien?” Haner asked, as he reached for the acoustic guitar case which sat beside the legs of the table, which had been knocked about and most definitely was out of tune after his folding furniture folly. As she answered, he set it on the table.

“I was born in Ireland, and moved here when I was about five,” Johnny’s eyes widened in interest at the way she pronounced the word five, almost as if it had a hidden ‘o’ in it; Haner knew they had stumbled onto a hidden gem of a girl.

“And could you tune my guitar for me? I fell on it earlier,” The brown-eyed heathen shoved his guitar case flat across the table as Jimmy and Matt fought over the poor redhead’s information sheet as if it were a piece of gold and Zachy eyed him as if wondering if he had suffered brain damage from his knock on the head. She shrugged and silently took a step forward to retrieve the guitar case before she retreated and sat on the floor cross-legged to open the case so she could more easily out the maple-top acoustic with a practiced hand. As she strummed the strings, Vivien frowned along with Zachary and Brian before she reached to the pegs with spindly fingers. Half a minute later, she handed the uncased guitar back to Brian.

“That’s it?” He asked, regarding the instrument like it might burn him if he touched its out-of tune body.

“That’s it.” Vivien flinched as Brian took the guitar by the body in one huge paw, and shied away as he set it in his lap and began to strum.

“It’s in tune! My god, it’s in tune!” Zachary mumbled, breaking his stunned silence as he regarded the grey-eyed redhead as if she were some sort of axe-wielding guitarist goddess from hell (with that hair, it would have to have been hell, Haner mused silently while plucking at the strings).

“Well, what did you expect?” She asked in her low brogue with a sarcastic half-grin. “I thought I was auditioning to be a dancer, what’s with all of this guitar codology?”

“What is codology?” Jimmy’s sharpie-covered fingers scratched at his five-o’clock shadow as he considered the lithe redhead as she smirked brightly. “Am I allowed to ask her to put clothes on? She‘s just so naked.”

“Excuse me?” The hip thing again. Haner smirked, and proffered her the guitar once more.

“You see, I need a guitar tech.”

“But, ah, I can’t fix a guitar. I can’t lift an amplifier. Don‘t you already have someone for all of that?” Vivien flipped her hair over her shoulder, partially covering her nearly exposed breasts in the lingerie she wore as she seized the guitar once more and set it on the ground, leaning on it with one hand on the stock of the guitar.

“She’s right, you know, she kinda looks like she can’t lift a paperclip. What are you getting at, Haner?” But Brian was already out of his seat before Sanders could finish his sentence.

“He did have someone for that. But we caught him sleeping with Syn’s ex-girlfriend, and my tech is tired of picking up the slack.” Zachy offered, and the light-eyed redhead placed her fists on her bony, purple lace-accented hips.

“Well if it was his ex, why does it matter?”

“Oh, does she have a sharp tongue on her!” Matt remarked as he whipped off his sunglasses and lay them on the table before he clasped his fingers below his chin. “I admire that in a woman. But she wasn‘t his ex at the time.” The redhead winked brightly as her attention turned to Brian, who approached with an arm out.

“All of that can be learned in due time. You can play and do a sound check, right?” She nodded as Haner swept her up with an arm about her sharp shoulders. “And I don’t do repaired guitars, all you would have to do is hand me a new guitar and order a replacement after the show.”

“Could you, uh, do me a favor,” Vivien asked, as she pulled Haner’s arm over her head and off her shoulders. “Can I have a second to put a dress on?” She could hear the remaining four men chattering behind the closed door as Haner allowed her to bend for her bulky black purse. She juggled it while she tried to pull what looked like a dress out of the huge bag for a moment before she pushed the bag into Syn’s arms.

“I don’t quite understand why you want me for this job,” Vivien’s voice was muffled as she pulled the black baby doll over her head and straightened its short hemline.

“I’m not sure why you applied, miss Prima Ballerina,” Haner shot back as he eyed the pair of pink pointe shoes hidden in the depths of the sizable purse. Quickly, Vivien snatched the bag out of his hands, and gave him a pointed look before she turned and began walking - in the wrong direction.

“Vivien,” She turned on her heel, with a hand on her hip.

“Yes?”

“The studio’s this way.”

“Oh.”