Breaking the haze

[ Disclaimer: I don't own Korn in any way, shape, or form. Though, they can certainly own me. :)
This is complete fiction, and is only a figure of my somewhat perverted my imaginiation. ]


“You fucking pricks! This is fucking screwed up! Turn my mic on you mother fuckers!”

Jonathan threw his microphone off stage right; it flew through the empty space just past Fieldy, where Head would’ve been on guitar. His stand was then turned over on its side, hitting the hard floor with a large clank. From Jon’s left, Munky shook his head disgustedly, eyeing Jonathan and the peace of artwork as if he had just abused his girlfriend.

Luckily, this hadn’t been live. It was a practice run that had gone badly. There were too many technicalities, the band felt un-whole, and all the stress that should’ve been on James (who was doing back vocals for the first time) was on Jonathan, and Jonathan wasn’t holding back his frustrations for anyone. At the drop of a dime, he lost his temper.

“This is ridiculous, man.” David dropped his drumsticks and headed off stage followed by Fieldy, both in the opposite direction in which Jon had left. Munky stood there alone for a moment, listening to the squeaking and static sounds of the microphone that was finally turned on. Putting down his guitar he went and lifted the stand, gave the finger to the technicians arguing in the far back of the arena, and headed off behind Jon.

The pressure wasn’t something that they needed. It was just a great opportunity to set off their now sober lead singer into a drinking or drug spree to help numb the pain. And he was an adult now, wasn’t he? Suffering should be in the past. The pain of his childhood and teenage years were over and his early adulthood was spent drowning out those memories until his system went on overload and he had nearly shut down. Now, unfortunately, Head was a whole new chapter to be put into his souvenir of sorrows.

Backstage, it wasn’t very hard to find Jonathan; he had left a path of turned over objects like a trail of breadcrumbs to their dressing room. However, when Munky reached the door and put his hand on the knob, it was locked up tight. Quietly he stood up on his tiptoes, peaking through the small window just on the upper top part of the door. And there was Jonathan, stretched out along the black leather couch. He had his hand on his forehead with his face distorted in pain.

James slouched down against the door, knocking softly.

“What is it now?!” Jon called out with a horse voice.

“It’s me.” James knocked again.

“Munks?” The singer cleared his throat.

Jonathan rose to his feet sluggishly, and opened the door halfway, just enough to fit his head through. He stopped and stared at James, tangled dreads falling over his eyes, “Now’s not a good time, fucker.”
He spoke coldly, but then smacked him across the chest jokingly with a grin across his face. Munky laughed with relief, “Now isn’t, but later it will be.”

“And when is later?”

“Umm… now?”

“But now’s not a good time.”

“Now… that was earlier.”

Jonathan’s face went slightly blank, oddly not able to think of a good comeback. His mind was definitely somewhere else. He gave a small shrug to his shoulders, and forced another cheeky smile. Munky then took control of the situation himself by pushing the door further open, leaning forward and peeking in past Jon’s head. “Well? Are you gonna let me come inside or—“

“I usually don’t let my friends fuck me. I prefer strangers.”

“Fine. We’re not friends anymore,” James knocked his head against his, “Open the door.”