Hot one! From the starship over Venus to the sun!

[greedy fly]

<center>oh, i was moved by your screen dream
celluloid pictures living
your death could not kill my love for you
take two people romantic
smoky nightclub situation
your cigarette traces a ladder

ideal love flies away now
white jacket, black tie, wings too
you gave her away to the hero
words don't express my meaning
notes could not spell out the score
but finding's not keeping the lesson

here's looking at you kid.</center>


At nineteen, Gin Shock was the youngest ringleader of the glam rock revival-- not to mention the most barbaric. He thrashed his way into the underground scene, fronting Gin Shock and the Rats (named after ex-guitarist for David Bowie, Mick Ronson?s first band) milking his self-destructive image for all it was worth, often dressing in drag and re-enacting historic Iggy Pop stage antics. There were a heavy rotation of rumors floating around concerning his childhood, the most famous of which was the tale of how when he was twelve, his father discovered him giving his older brother oral sex in the upstairs bathroom and shipped him off for six weeks of electroshock therapy (to, of course, as Shock quotes: ?fry the fairy clean out of him.?) Gin was quick to claim that it had an opposite effect on him, and only made him become a lunatic whenever he heard an electric guitar. Perpetually delirious and heroin-addled, Shock wore the plum constellations of his track marks like jewelry, and chatted up old women on the street about his gay sexcapades. He was ready to ignite controversy wherever he went; he was involved in at least a dozen drunken bar brawls incidents, carved tally marks into his chest with broken beer bottles, was charged with various counts of indecent exposure, and had a tendency to start fires. Shock was stage diving headfirst into the tragic, self-destructive rock star role. That was, until androgynous European pop-sensation Jason Stride saw him perform at a New York club in ?97, and proposed to collaborate on a record with him. Whether they were truly in love or if it was a mere marketing gimmick is still unknown, however, the public bought it, and together, they went on to sell millions. Their legendary falling out came in the spring of 2000, and after tumultuous legal troubles concerning song copy writes, they both toppled off of their reign on the Billboard charts, and faded into the backdrop of the mainstream circuit. Although his whereabouts are unknown, Gin Shock, now twenty-six, is rumored to be reunited with the former members of the Rats and in the studio, cutting their forth album. But is the modern music scene prepared for another rude awakening?


<center>baby's on fire and all the laughing boys are bitching.</center>

name: gin basset.
alias: gin shock.
from: michigan trailerparks.
age: 26.
sexuality: gay.
status: single.
screename: satellite. (sateiiite.)
occupation: lunatic lead singer of influential garageband gin shock & the rats, which he traded in for two years of mainstream fame with jason stride-- and now, he's officially fading out fast. dying star.


"according to legend, when gin was 13 he was discovered in the family loo at the service of his older brother, and was promptly sent off for eighteen months of electric shock treatment. it was guaranteed the treatment would fry the fairy clean out of him, but all it did was make him go bonkers whenever he heard an electric guitar .."

ooc notes: the history is based on curt wild (lou reed/iggy pop/mick ronson) and brian slade in velvet goldmine. but the character is loosely based off of curt wild. character created in 2002.



<font color="#737371" size="1">[ January 03, 2005 08:52 AM: Message edited by: london's burning ]</font>

[greedy fly]

I remember once upon a time a year ago, smoking Newports through a golden filter, lying content with expensive wine and satin sheets. I didn't have a worry or care in the world--we were famous, the money was pouring in. We were sickeningly in love though it was rare we'd mention it aloud. Sometimes, we'd skip shows irresponsibly, just tangled up like completely nude statues in linen together. We'd lap off vanilla-flavored, smoldering candlewax off eachother's shoulderblades, and snort mashed cocaine and ecstasy lines from one another's stomachs, with hours of laughing in between. We were so young and careless; he was made of ivory and gold and me? I was made of comatose electric-shock therapy, sick religions and childhood, and I lived it out inside of him everytime I came.

Before I knew it. It was the end. No more love sonnets in his watery blue eyes. No more crippling bondage scenes. I still see him. All the time. He lurks in the shadows like a stalker--a panther on the prowl, but he would never hurt me physically. He knows he's torn me apart everywhere else. So I sing to him. I sing to him like acid, and he listens and leaves sulking and digesting. And I know that Jason Stride knows how it feels now. We cry alone.

[greedy fly]

It was more than a fable and dressed-up legends; it was the truth, it was non-fiction, it was his life. Gideon Basset was nicknamed at an early age after his father's favorite drink, butchered to nothing but a 'Gin' that seemed to roll easily off of the other children's tongues in his wooded trailer park. His mother wore bandanas and capris, loved her Valium, and loved her children. His father was an alcoholic who sometimes had to fight his wife away from the construction sight every Friday where she tried to grab his paychecks before he hit the bars to blow his family into weeklong starvation.
He had a big sister who had her own cramped room, a cracked landscape of Madonna posters, and an array of neon-colored clothes. Her name was Madeline, and she'd always been too good for her white-trash family. Gin used to sit at wall-hooked, sorry excuse for a table and color when she rambled on the phone with her friends, spiraling the cord around her index finger and cracking her gum behind fuchsia lipstick. He'd giggle at the bad words she'd use until she told him to fuck off, and he'd waddle into his room that he shared with his older brother and scribble until dawn.

Jeff had always been an athlete, and by the time he was thirteen, he visited his eight-year-old brother's mattress on the floor and spun his fingers over his mouth to keep him stitched in silence, as the tears spiked clenched eyes and his tiny body wracked with shudders and pain. Each time it hurt a little less.

By the time he was nine, school became a chore, and Gin lost his interest in everything but the mulch-laden playground, bulleting after little boys and trying to kiss their cheeks, whimpering when the teachers scolded him, and never understanding the derogatory remarks that fauceted in grunts from the mouths of the older boys. It was when he saw those three boys sulking in detention for calling him a 'fag' that he realized that there was something wrong.

Every night he let his brother take what he wanted, and every night his cries grew quieter. He knew that when the lights went out, he'd have to try to hold his tears back and act like a big boy until morning came again and he could run to school only to have pebbles pegged at him, and to sit alone red-headed and freckled, without a sandwich on the tire swings.

As his brother grew older, the nights were longer, the pain more intense, but the apathy and rebellion in the now ten-year-old was evident in every pore. His teachers noted his lack of progression and placed him in the special-ed classes, where he slumped indolent and ignorant in his fairy tale world (the spit balls were comets, and the rain splotches on the ceiling were occult, fireball stars.) When he raised his hand, they rolled their eyes. He never spoke, he never thought for himself; he did his (later red-lined) simple division problems with a bowed, concentrated chin and sounded out his words slowly to spell. In a way, he was even behind the special-ed students (and in his school they were dubbed the ?box kids? because their class room was an isolated asbestos cell at the end of the hallway).

Mom said he was dumb like his father. His father said he was a fag like his Uncle, and discolored his shallow blue eyes with a bruise picture frame. His brother said to get on his stomach and shut up. His sister said no, he couldn?t come to Janet?s house for a sleepover with her?it was for girls only.

There was nothing to be scared of at night. There was nothing to be afraid of. No ghosts, or boogeyman ? just Jeffrey.

No, I don?t have ADD. No I?m not dumb or hyper. I just don?t understand. I don?t get it.

It happened in August, Jeffrey and his friends doused him in the hose outside and left him in a fetal lock, shiver-wracked and wishing he had a towel. He took him to the bathroom to retrieve a towel and Gin thought he had locked the door. Jeff forgot.

Crumbling into a pew, knee-stab on the floor, he realized that he shouldn?t only be frightened of midnight, that this happened by daylight now, too. It had snowballed into an obsession, and the avalanche flung over their bodies in shock as soon as his father swung open the door.

Somehow, this wasn?t Jeff?s fault. This was Gin?s. Gin did this. So he stared at the fluorescent hospital lights overhead as his mother prayed that the treatment would work (?It?ll fry the fairy right out of him, Mrs. Basset?) his body erupting into tremors under the buttons of electroshock ?therapy? his mind buzzing, his nerves unplugged from their sockets.

As soon as he was fifteen, and the eighteen months of electroshock treatment had finished, he left the trailer slums of Michigan, and fled to New York to become like Iggy, Mick, Lou and Sid. He stayed with an older man that kept the lights on, and didn?t force him (but he had to pay up at least twice a week.) He ate, he slept in all day, he ran around with a bunch of boys just like him.

At sixteen, the Rats started. They were destined to say a garage band, but they just happened to start rubbing off rabidly on everyone that heard them. The electroshock made him a lunatic whenever he heard an amp screaming electric guitar.

And one day, when he was twenty---cursing his family onstage, spitting out the saliva-diluted bits of Jeffrey that he?d been swallowing all these years, Jason Stride saw him.

The rest was history.

<font color="#060101" size="1">[ March 28, 2004 02:06 PM: Message edited by: greedy fly ]</font>

[greedy fly]

Beautiful boys always want me out in the morning.

xx
Gin Shock


Messages scrawled from his writing utensil on the parchment of a potential one night stand lover's pale stomach -- a tube of vein-slit red lipstick, with a blotted kissing imprint punctuating his name just beside his navel.

The night had been wild; snapped pool sticks, stolen wallets, bar brawls, dirty dancing, bloody mouths, body spasms, cradling arms, detailed notebooks, screaming.

But that was what he lived for.

[greedy fly]

March 29th.
?
Hi. Good opening for journal entry. Got some shit to right down. I had the best night of my life I think 2 nights ago. I know I had Lots of good nights with Jason but I don't think they ever went to this exstent. Then yesterday was just as good with some ups and downs. This morning. Better.
?
Met some guy named Seven. 7. Not just some guy but a writer. His real name is Simon. He's got a beautiful face, blue eyes, pouty lips. Drives Me crazy. I sound like a true fag (which I am) righting this but I love the way he looks at me sometimes and calls me beautiful. Who has ever called me beautiful before? No one. At least if they did I wasn't paying attention or maybe?I wasn't sober. Don't know. Anyway. We met At a cafe. I thought He was a hot peese of you know what so I followed him out. Made him show me his notebook. A lot of righting in there about the people he's slept with. I saw Boys in there. Mostly boys. If not all boys. He has a nice style of righting. Discriptive. Flowry. Imajes.

Anyway he got a drink with me and I thought he was a snob until he got drunk. Then we danced we had our fun, got dirty. We Had so much fun on the street that I should be blushing about it. But I'm not. He even stole some guys wallet, and when we came back for his notebook he left behind the guy saw the Wallet in my backpocket and he attacked me. I almost broke a poolstick over his head when he shoved 7 but instead I just flew at him with my fists. It was hilarous. The next thing I knew the Bartender was calling the pigs and I was bleeding out my mouth but. No worries. I went back to his House and I slept with him and he Held me really tight. Even if I move Around when I sleep. I left in the morning Because I was scarred he'd kick me out.

I saw him that night with his friend though on the way to that queer club on 7th and I was wearing my hair down and my leather pants and I Ducked into an alleyway. He saw me. And we kissed. Then some Guy came over and Said that I was Gin Shock. I didn't tell 7 I was you know a formor Rock star or whatever and he got upset and ran away. In the end we had our drinks went back to my house and we drank, Got a shower, jumped on the bed, And Didn't even have time To get high. I know alot more about him now. I feel the Way I felt about Jason. My Main man. This is what Benny and Sammy lacked. This. Whatever This is.

"This" is probly bad.

[greedy fly]

Packaged in a white envelope slick with the afterglow of his saliva was a note scribbled in his font which switched rapidly between capital and lowercase letters (his writing utensil? A vivid sky blue colored pencil) and dead, frail crimson rose petals, sprinkled all over half-folded white computer paper:

[greedy fly]

Almost brown dishwater slices of vintage-retro hair sliced bangs over his expressionless brows, his eyes subject to hypnosis. A very thin outline of a starsky blue had smudged itself overnight, his bowl of cereal cradled over a silver-gaudy vinyl ?(unbuckled, with pants immersing so low on his defined hips it was on the brink of falling off) lap. Mighty Mouse cartoons thundered and thrashed animated noises in front of him. The hotel's televisions set still didn't impress him. BBC broadcasting wasn't for him. He wanted his HBO and Skinemax. Jason emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a blue, robe, daintily adjusting the dangling tie. ? He was beautiful; pale in the overcast drip of London light that bled smoggy mornings through the balcony window, his dark hair haloing hollowed cheekbone contours, his lips their perpetual shade of pink.

His regal tone scalded Gin's lingering cartoon-plastered attentin span. "Are yew watching those silly cartoons, again?"

Mr. Shock grunted his response, dishing in another spoonful of cornflakes. There weren't enough fucking raisins. No. He wanted marshmallows---Lucky Charms, oh but not here. Not in England. He bet that Germany had it.

"Giiiin..." He whined, draping himself beside him, his fragile arms giftwrapping his waistline, his temple wilting against a sharp shoulder.

"Whut..." mumbled.

"Are yew mad at me?!"

Gin looked over at him, utterly puzzled. "Why would I be mad at'ya?"

"I don't know."

Setting his cereal aside, he climbed out from under the mess of Jason-tangled bones, and stood tall like a king, before he craned over and grasped his arms, tugging him to a stance, as well. It soon morphed into an affection-furnished hug. Misting his sharp facial outlines with a plague of nicotine-fragrant kisses, he took his prince's hand, delicately, and marched him up to the balcony window. Splitting the pearl curtain, he twitched the handle and stepped into a chilly morning, goosebumps spiting his skin. Jason stood beside him, coyly, his features suddenly turning placid and complacent; almost bittersweetly frozen as they beheld the sight.

There were almost a hundred kids on the street below, jumping up to attention; glittery, excited, spellbound. Glancing to his side to his counterpart, Gin Shock whispered a sweet lullabye to his lover. "I could never get mad at you. Look at what you've done for me." He chased away heroin, his loneliness, his problems. He listened to him cry at night, and left the lights on. The fame meant nothing to him.

Jason's corpulent lips frosted over in a distraught, doting smile. He loved the adoration and the fame. Gin was in so many ways his key to it, without Gin he would've never made it this far. That wasn't why he loved him though. There were a thousand deeper reasons (need---he loved the way Gin looked at him the way you could read his adoration in his eyes.) Love was this. And image was everything.

And Gin of course, obliterated the moment, by outstretching his arms to the shriekings boys and girls; children of their sexual revolution.

"I GOTTA PISS SO WATCH OUT!"

[greedy fly]

"Whoa, fuck, wot happened to yew?" The Brit confronted Gin with a brow arching his forehead, caramel-locked hair dangling in front of mahogany-brooding eyes, his tattoos spreadsheeting all over tan-suede skin, bleached jeans drooping low. That always made Gin want to douse him in sugar and alcohol and leave him alive.

"I was in the hospital," gritted through his teeth, his bracelet was still cuffing his wrist, and he was fucking strutting the streets in a generic gown and leather pants. His feet were bare and crushed urban glass several times. He didn't care.

Solomon stepped away from the door, keeping it open at an inviting crevice. There was a joint curled between his almost nonexistant lips, folded paper protruding from his backpocket. "Let me get yew something to fuckin' wear. It's still kind of cold..."

"Nah, that's alright, Sol." Gin stared at the black cat who lapped past his ankles with a shakey tail, he leaned down, and grazed behind its ears. "Hello, kittaaay."

Solomon wouldn't take 'no' for an answer; he thudded footsteps into his bedroom, and let his freshly-rolled slice of Mary Jane decompose temporarily in a crystalline ashtray, sifting through his closet to pull out a frayed gray hoodie, which he soon tossed at the ex-glam star.

"So Sol...my question is..." Mr. Shock jammed his hands into his pockets, rocking from heel to toe. "Can I borrow your car?"

The other stared at him like he was dumb.

"Do yew even have a license?"

"No, but uh, I have a date."

That made Solomon pause and consider it.

"Who?"

"A guy I really like."

"Who?"

"His name's Seven."

"Who?"

"Shut the fuck up! Can I borrow it!?!"

Solomon laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. "Break it, ye'buy it." Chasing fingers to paint over his coffee table, he pawed jingling keys, and chucked it across the graffiti-swimming living room at the peroxide-lavished blonde. "There."

"Thanks a lot! And uhhh..yeh, you know, I'll ..like. I'll make sure to stain your backseat."

"GET THE FUCK--"

[greedy fly]

The resident chainsmoker chimney-blackened his lungs with his second cigarette, noxious shadows blanketing his insides, rupturing a string of congested coughing chokes, before his posture was regained. Carved over himself with hunched vertebrae (his vulgar silver lettered 'cocksucker' shirt wasn't even a funny joke to him right now) he stared into the mirror of the caramel ashtray, submersed in a smokey-rooted riptide of straw hair. The lemonade stubble latching to his jaw was gnawed at with blunt onyx nails, as the sound of the faucet in the other room cascaded against the corpse in the tub. He could hear the sickening splatter through the rice-paper walls.

Death. Murder. He was a witness (standing there with his jaw unhinged in disbelief, his rickety wooden rollercoaster ride of a life crumbling around him as he stumbled backwards only to be reassured that it'd be alright and he'd never hurt him) and he played the role of assistance (hunting out gutter dealers with him to prey on hydrochloric acid and cocaine avalanches.) Seven needed him, and Gin in his smog of naivete ignored the fact that there was a cadaver with a bruise necklace limp and caustically eaten away by hydrochloric tidal waves in lover's tub.

Why? Because with a pact of lover's mouths and crushing candied tongue, he told him that he loved him, and Shock swore he meant it.

[greedy fly]

Oh God. I've never seen a dead body before in my life. All these years Never once. Now that I've seen one I dont Want too again. It was by the hands of 7 to and I guess Im an acomplace because I helped him with it. We found a dealer he knows and we burned the body with acid And his roommate came home and We both panicked thinking that maybe he'd walk into the bathroom and see the tub but he didnt. For some reason that doesnt really Matter anymore because were both in love. We said it to eachother and he said He'd never hurt me. I wont let him get cawt. If he goes down so do I I dont Want to go anywhere without 7. I'd Die with him and I'd Die for him.

<font color="#060101" size="1">[ April 06, 2004 01:02 AM: Message edited by: electroshock ]</font>