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BK
By: Hetfield63


This whole miserable day was a test of Kirk Hammett’s even temper. A screwed up hotel reservation the night before found him bunking with Robert, an uncomfortable photo shoot with an incompetent photographer left him a bit cranky, severe turbulence on the plane didn’t help, and to cap to all off, somewhere between here and there, one of his guitars and a small practice amp was stolen. No one knew exactly what happened, but when the crew unloaded the trucks, his signature model ESP with the Karloff mummy graphic and tiny amp was unaccounted for. Everyone speculated it was an inside job since nothing else was gone. It was like the suspect knew what they wanted, and where it was. Suffice it to say, security around the band’s equipment and the band itself was heightened. And one has not dwelled in the realm of fear until they have seen Gio at def con 5.

Lars was busy interrogating crew members, drivers, and anyone else he could accost. James, who was all about what was his is his, and NOONE ever touched it, spent his day inspecting his gear for damage. Knowing James and his issues, he was probably dusting for finger prints too so he could track down the persons responsible himself and put a Maltese cross indent in their forehead. Robert, who was satisfied that his rig was unharmed went about his business. And Kirk tried to deal with it all as constructively as he could. Meditation, a phone call to Lani, but there was only so much he could take.
“FUCK, SHIT, DAMN, HELL, COCKSUCKING, MOTHERFUCKING, PRICKS!” He exploded in the tuning and attitude room. He didn’t expect any response, let alone one in the form of a riff from their song St. Anger. Hammett was so embarrassed. He always wanted people, even the band, to see him as a placid, level headed person, and he only let loose because he thought he was alone. When he pivoted in the direction of the sound, he saw Hetfield standing there looking so calm.
“This a change, huh? Me ranting like a lunatic and you standing there with all the serenity of the Buddha.” Kirk said trying to cut the tension. “Do what you gotta do man.” Was all he replied before setting himself down on one of the folding chairs.
“This has been one horseshit day, you know. One thing after the other.” Kirk started to vent.
“Granted everything that happened was minor and totally out of my
control, and I should just let them go, but.... AGGGHHHH!”
“No news on your axe then?”
“Not a fucking word. It’s not so much that it means a great deal to me. I mean it does and it doesn't. Hell, it can be replaced. It’s just...”
“The principle of the thing.”
“Exactly.”
“When my dad had his ranch out in Arkansas, he used to have kids come down and work for him. Most of them were fairly honest, but some of those fuckers.” James anger began bubbling beneath surface, but he caught it before it spilled over
“ Anyway, some of those kids would steal equipment and stuff, but my dad wouldn’t mad. He wouldn’t pound the crap out of them like they deserved, he wouldn’t even call the cops. He used to just stand there and say to me. Son, they’ll get what’s coming to them. That used to make me crazy, but he’s right you know? Whoever stole your guitar and amp, they’ll get theirs.”
“You’re talking about Karma, James.”
“Your stuff will turn up, I’m sure of it.” Although, it didn’t return
his gear any faster. Kirk did feel somewhat better after talking to James. He liked him so much better this way. Kind, compassionate, and a good listener.
“Well, I gotta take a piss before Lars and Tru get down here, be right back.” With that, James took his leave of Kirk.

  Kirk had nothing better to do, so it was time to tape up is hand and get some warm up exercises in while he waited for other 3/4ths of Metallica. It was while he was taping up his hand, Mike their sound guy came in to take his station to record riffs and what not. When Mike got the machine going, there was something already there. To both men it wasn’t anything but random chords. Perhaps the tale end of some session where either James or Kirk had just been strumming mindlessly. But each time Mike tried to fast forward, the tape always went back to those chords.
“There must be some kind of glitch in the machine. If you guys want anything recorded, it will have to be done the old fashion way.” Mike explained. Kirk couldn’t help but wonder what else could go wrong, but his concern was only fleeting.
“It’s just not worth it.” He sighed.
He picked up his Ouija guitar and began to limber up his nimble fingers. As he went through his paces, what he heard on the tape played through his head, and eventually his hand.
“That was weird.” he commented to himself, taken aback by the chords he had played.
D E A D.
“Hey check this out.” Kirk chirped as the rest of the band joined him. They of course thought nothing of it until Kirk had mentioned the problem Mike had and what those chords were. Then they all looked at him like he had seen one horror movie too many and it had finally nuked his brain.
“Well fuck you all then.” He exclaimed, rather irritated

 
A 2 and ½ hour Metallica set should have been enough to put Kirk out, but he was wide awake. Maybe the adrenaline rush hadn’t worn off yet. Perhaps he could shake the feeling he had been violated. Whatever the cause, it was 3:15 in the morning and he was he laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark and still save for the chords D E A D unexpectedly being plucked by an unseen player. Kirk would have staked his life that he was by himself. He snapped straight up, opening his ears, waiting for it to happen again. Sure enough, D E A D rippled through the black suite. Kirk’s hand darted to the lamp on the night stand. A pale light spread over a small area of the room, just enough for Kirk to see one of his picks free floating in no particular pattern over the body of his Ouija guitar. He had to be hallucinating, or dreaming. Something like that just wasn’t possible. He immediately reached for the phone called Lars. After a few minutes of neurotically begging the cranky drummer, Lars agreed to come to Kirk’s room. He had witnessed the same phenomenon.
“Call Hetfield.” Lars said in astonishment. James arrived in even more of a mood then Lars.
“Nice look.” Lars teased when James lumbered in wearing nothing but his underwear and his glasses. His hair in 100 different directions. He kind of looked a mad scientist without pants.
“Yeah, and you’re ready for the cover of GQ.” Hetfield snapped back.
Lars didn’t look much better with puffy eyes, a dropped jaw, and one leg of his boxers riding up his ass.
“So what’s the emergency that is so big that I had to be woken up at 3:30 in the morning?”
“Shut up and watch you dick.” Now three people had seen this unexplainable occurrence.
“It starts, then stops long enough for someone else to come in the room. And starts all over again” Kirk described the event.
“Right. Where’s the string Hammett?” James asked skeptically scrabbling around the guitar for the strings that pulled the plectrum.
“You think this is some kind of trick?” Kirk's voice sounded dejected.
“Objects don’t move by themselves.” James’ face contorted into baffled form when he failed to produce the strings. He seized the pick and closely scrutinized the thin plastic.
“Magnets!” he concluded.
“How the fuck can anyone put a magnet in a pick, James?” Lars disputed James’ revelation. James, irritated at being woken up and at Lars, tossed the pick back onto the guitar and pouted. All three men jumped about a mile high when there was a next from the adjoining room’s door.
“Guys, what’s going on in there?” It was Robert. Kirk flew to the door to open it, grabbing Robert by his well muscled arm, dragging him into the room. Four individuals had seen it.
“Is this some kind of trick? Robert asked innocently, leaning over the guitar. They all stood with their mouths agape as the pick moved itself towards “No.”
Kirk took a step closer only to be grabbed by the arm.
“I think it wants us to ask it questions. Is that what you want?” Turning his attention back to the instrument. Again, the pick sailed on it’s own. This time to “Yes” Kirk shrugged free of Lars’ grasp moving close to the guitar
“What do you want?” the pick glided from one letter to another
“H E L P.”
“Help. You want us to help you?”
Without aid, the pick wisped back to “No.”
“Who needs help?” Kirk pressed on. The other guys were clearly freaked. Kirk was too, but he was also entranced. They awaited the guitar’s response.
“Y O U.”
“Me?”
The pick flew over to "yes"
Kirk recalling the four ominous chords D E A D approached again.
“Am I going to die?”
“No”
“Is someone in this room going to die?” James’ face dropped and became devoid of all color. With his accident prone nature and family history of poor health, he was apprehensive the answer maybe yes and it would apply to him. Lars nervously fidgeted, what if the answer was yes and he’d be the one to go. He’s always had this preoccupation with his own death. Robert was wondering what the hell he got into joining this band, and hoped he wasn’t going to die as a result. Bass players in Metallica don’t have a great track records.
“The pick didn’t move, that means no.” Kirk was no stranger to a Ouija board. He knew what the pointers inactivity meant.
“Whose dead?”
The pick whirled around the board, as if whatever spirit they were communicating with was having trouble keeping up.
“PM” was it’s reply.
“PM?” Kirk raised an eyebrow quizzically. He didn’t know anybody with the initials PM, and judging by the looks on everyone else’s face, neither did they.

  The next morning, no one wanted to talk about what went on. It was all too creepy. As the band sat in silence a the hotel’s restaurant, they were approached by two uniformed police officers.
“Which one of you is Kirk Hammett?” The grizzled veteran cop asked.
“I’m Kirk.” He replied nervously, standing to shake the officer’s hand.
“I’m officer Michaels there was a report filed about some stolen equipment.”
“Yes, officer.”
“Can you describe the objects stolen, sir?”
“Yeah, a small practice amplifier that’s pretty old and beaten up. And an ESP guitar with a graphic of Boris Karloff as The Mummy.”
“We have good news sir, they were found.” Kirk and the rest of the band were relieved.
“Great!”
“Not so great, Mr. Hammett. They are being held as evidence.”
“Evidence, for what?” Lars burst out. Officer Michaels gave Lars a cold stare.
“Evidence in an accidental death investigation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“At approximately 3:00 AM we received a phone call from a Sharon Mulrooney, she found her husband Patrick Mulrooney dead in their garage. He appeared to have died of electrical shock.” “What does that have to do with my gear?” “He had your amplifier and your guitar. There was some kind of short in the amplifier, he removed the case to repair it, but didn’t unplug it first. There was some kind of power surge and he was electrocuted.” Kirk was stunned. No so much by the guy’s death, for that he was sorry, but because the pieces of the Ouija puzzle came together. The guitar was trying to tell him who stole his guitar and that person would die. PM was Patrick Mulgrevy. He was dead. “Sir, once the death is deemed accidental, your equipment will be returned.”

  Later on during an afternoon rehearsal at the arena, Kirk took a breather backstage over by his little corner of the world. He sipped in some water and tried to absorb at that had happened, his Ouija guitar right in his sight. Kirk was desperate for it to do something again. As if the spirit detected this, the pick being to hover. “Thank you.”But the pick remained still. “Oh yeah, you respond to questions.” Curiosity was gnawing at Kirk. “Who are you? He asked. The pick dutifully started moving. “B K” “B K, B K?” He didn’t know anybody with those initials. Just then his guitar tech had handed him another guitar that he had just re strung. When Kirk looked at that guitar’s graphic, it all came together. Staring back at him in the guise of Frankenstein was B K. Boris Karloff.

The End.