It was always the same for the world renowned five at the end of the tour. Their bus, their surrogate entourage—their home—for the past however so many months, yawned open for a final time and regurgitated its weary travelers. Oftentimes, they simply clambered into rented limos, each too spent to mutter more than "Cya." On this tour, however, they had been tested, and the obligatory "Cya" was insignificant. Luckily, the last three shows received their usual excellent reviews. KoRn pulled through. The achievement warranted more than three letters.

Their struggles and eventual perseverance assured that them they could overcome anything. Instead of just "Cya", they huddled together like football jocks, just being silent, just hugging. They got homesick for their L.A. beach houses and Huntington ranches, yet sometimes they also desired being on the road. As much as Head longed for 1050 Tinkerton Boulevard—his home—he knew he would yearn as well for the nights of playing, the nights of snuggling with Munky in his cubby after Munky finished his journal entries.

Head always made sure to leave Munky’s cubby before the others awoke for their morning routines. Munky took it upon himself to leave before, but now that Head visited him, it became his responsibility. Though Head slept like a baby (with no dreams, surprisingly), it just wasn’t the same as waking up with him. In a real bed. All through the night, just slipping into each other’s arms and slumbering. As if it were nothing. As if they’d done it a trillion nights. As if it would be a chore—if they weren’t so deeply impassioned.

After the others pulled away in their black limousines, Munky waved Head over. Head solemnly promised to call him.

"Alright."

Head hid the painfully apparent sorrow in his voice. "We’ll go to Tuna Town sometime. This weekend. I’ll drop by, and we can go."

"Yeah."

Head turned to leave, but Munky added, "Hey, say hi to Jen for me. And Bekkah."

And Bekkah. Ouch.

Until they moved to Arizona temporarily to record the next Korn album in a month and a half or so, Head would have to find time to chill with Munky. Finally, the stuff of dreams was happening to Head, and he couldn’t enjoy it.

But, oh, he wanted to see Jen, so he clambered into the back of his limo. The drive home was about an hour away, and he gnawed on his already short fingertips on the way. A nervous tic he’d had for quite a long time. The confident driver was quite carefree, doing 90 in the stretch and outracing a Porsche. Of course, Head couldn’t tell all this from his tinted window, but the sudden swerving of the long vehicle gave him an idea.

They eventually pulled into his driveway and the chauffeur –only about eighteen, go fuckin’ figure—offered to take his bags to the front door for him. Head refused nicely. He tipped the juvenile well and thanked him. He lugged his own stuff to the front door. Contrary to what he hoped, no one rushed into his arms on the way there. He tested to see if the door was locked by testing the knob.

It was.

Had he told Bekkah the wrong date? Had Bekkah gone to run an errand or do some shopping before he came? He checked his watch: he was half an hour late. Besides, he insisted that he told her the right date. Disappointment.

Then, fear. Was something wrong? His shoulders tightened.

Head didn’t have a copy of the house keys; he had assumed

(ASSUME makes and ASS out of U and ME)

they would be home.

So, he was stuck there for a little while. The missing would continue for just a bit longer, more painful and impatient now that he was actually in his own doorway. Sketcher barked just inside the door. It did nothing to unnerve Head. He knew that if he said anything, Sketcher would just bark louder, so he didn’t talk to him through the door, even though he wanted to. Eventually, the dog gave up with a discontented snarl.

Head couldn’t make a phone call, but even if he could, he didn’t know who to call.

(Munky)

So, Head did what any intelligent person would: he pulled his beanie over his head and got "comfy" on the cold stone steps. Checking his pocket for a smoke, he remembered that he had smoked the last one the night before. Where was his family? The peepers began to call. Soon, his hope of a warm welcome home dissipated. His butt got sore and the smog of L.A. cast iridescent rainbows that surrounded the sun like some Technicolor flower with multi-hued petals. It was the gallant death of the California sun. Head knew more than felt that something had changed in his absence.

……………………………………………………………………………….

To fuck Kaitlin or not to fuck Kaitlin: that is the question. Actually, it was more of an obligatory request, because it was apparently the only way Munky would get her out of his life. Permanently. Without any kicking, screaming, fussing, bitching, crying, throwing things, etc. etc. he knew refusal would spawn. He must fuck her one last time. She told him so. She wanted one last night of "love making" (the girl version of what Munky translated to "booty call"). Munky watched her at a safe distance, her smoking a cigarette daintily, her body so thin that her back arched, catlike. She leaned against the kitchen island. Her heavy breasts firm and erect beneath her white shirt. Pale skin, blonde, shoulder length gold. Tan skin. She was the picture of warmth. Only until looking into those eyes did he remember just how critical his EX-girlfriend was. The lukewarm hurt in her gaze was nothing compared to the cold cynical ice of her baby blues.

You can imagine how the black Lexus convertible in his driveway shocked him beyond belief. He’d expected to return to an empty, perhaps trashed house, all the valuables and/or possessions taken or demolished. He knew Kaitlin’s temper; therefore, he didn’t put such things past her. Many weeks of the few he’d been home in the last year had there been heated nights, violent days when she chucked things at him and shrieked until eventually they both gave in to their fury. They attacked each other, tumbled to the floor, wrestling, Munky letting her hit him. And before they knew it, they were kissing, undressing, having sex, their faces still hot with rage. Their best nights always started with an altercation: it was almost a rule. She was a fireball, and though Munky took her shit, now that he thought they were over and done with he was determined to no longer tolerate any of it.

Kaitlin was confident.

"I’ll be waiting." She walked up the spiral stairs to his bedroom, taking off her shirt before she reached the top of the stairs. She threw the small shirt carelessly over her back, and Munky watched the small yet toned muscles flex beneath her skin.

Instead of going up to her, he grabbed a beer. Sat down, popped it open, and threw himself a private homecoming party. "You are one awesome son of a bitch," he told himself. He laughed before he chugged it down. He pulled out another one…and another one. Kaitlin was just as stubborn as he was. She would stay in his room until further notice. If this was a deadlock, then she would wait for him to give in to his temptations and join her.

As he got more and more progressively drunk, the thought of going to her darted through his mind a couple times. But when it actually became appealing—he was that drunk—he opened the fridge door again…for a soda. Oooh, yes, welcome home.

He fell asleep on his couch. Sleeping with a chick didn’t disgust him…he wasn’t sure yet if he was 100-percent completely homosexual. Let’s just give this is as the reason that he refused to sleep with Kaitlin: he would rather bust a nut in a dog than in the bitch he’d put up with for the past couple of years.

(Love is next door to hate)

Goddamn, she hurt him. Even if their entire relationship was a subconscious diversion, he’d still been attached. Maybe her dumping him—or their problems—were what made him have that dream…made him go through this crisis. If he never broke up with Kaitlin, maybe he never would have had that dream. Maybe he’d live his life feeling deep inside that something was missing, but never pointing it out. That uncomfortable feeling he sometimes had had with Kaitlin he’d passed off with plausible excuses at the time: no unsafe sex, no anal, no quickies (well, there were a few premature ejaculations, but he did his best to last so she wouldn’t get mad), no blow jobs, no handcuffs.

He slept like a baby. On the couch. Kaitlin passed out in his room. Munky visited her first thing in the morning. Everything in his room was still untouched. Two packed suitcases propped by the wall next to the door. The bitch had never left. She told him that she was leaving, and yet she had stayed right where she was. All the time he thought she was in Connecticut, she was actually still in this house, living alone, just like before she knew he cheated on her.

Which made him feel slightly terrible for a moment. The notion passed before it made him too numb.

She was a light sleeper, and stirred when Munky opened the door. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her to wake up. Five minutes later, she did. Even in the morning, her stare was treacherous. Unforgiving. It was disconcerting how she could wake up with such a chip on her shoulder. It caught him off guard.

"Look, I don’t expect you to trust me anymore."

She sat up. Her bare breasts slipped from beneath the covers, revealed to him. "I don’t trust you at all." She got out of bed, but didn’t get dressed. She was tempting him.

"Then why don’t you get the fuck out of here?" he cried.

"Because. I want to fuck you."

"What the hell?" He was confused. He stood up, and almost grabbed her. To physically chuck her out of the house. He wanted nothing more than to just seize her by her naked arms, and sling her over his shoulder, her breasts smashed into his back. He ached to dump her onto the cement of his driveway in broad daylight and hear the thud. It was the first violent act he considered committing against a woman—he always made a point to respect them—but Kaitlin was no longer a woman to him. She was a naked, blithering

bad memory. "Just get the hell out of here." He turned towards the door. "Here, I’ll carry your luggage out for you."

"Don’t you touch my fucking shit."

"Oh, suck my dick! I think I at least deserve that after all these years!" Her nose wrinkled in distaste. He laughed, this time evilly. He was so numb, he didn’t even give a fuck anymore. The reason she never blew him was because when she was in middle school she went out on a date with a high schooler and he made her suck him off. She’d vowed never to do it since.

If the cunt only knew how many times Munky’d done it, she would be down on him all the time in pity. Munky privately thanked his lucky stars for, even after all these years, never ever telling her about Hodge Podge.

" Okay."

"What?!" What was this?

"I said, alright, alright. I’ll do it." Tears welled in her eyes, crystals melting from ice and flowing down her face. The suitcases dropped from his hands, two heavy weights, as she got down on two knees before him.

"I’ll do it. I’ll do it," she choked. She clutched two fistfuls of his boxers in her hands, and, instead of doing it as Munky looked on, shocked, she pressed her forehead into his groin and full out wailed.

"Whoa." Munky didn’t know what to do. His "whoa" wasn’t a good one. It was from a sudden epiphany: she was pathetic. So pathetic.

When her tears subsided, she reached into his boxers. His legs bent immediately and he turned away from her, tucking himself back in. She hugged him from behind, still on her knees. Munky’s head lowered. His dreadlocks covered his face. He couldn’t walk; her arms stretched around the area between his belly button and his groin. "I’m telling you one more time, just get out of here."

"James, I don’t want it to end like this. I want it to end, but not like this."

"Sorry. It has to. I

don’t want you anymore."

Her reaction was somewhere between a snarl and a sob. When she didn’t move away, he threatened to throw her out. Only until a tear splattered onto his toe did he realize that he was crying, too. Finally, like unbuckling a belt, he undid her intertwined fingers, and pulled her arms away from him. She crumbled onto the floor like a corpse. He dropped a pair of pants and a tank top on her…but gently. He took a shower, but when he came back, she hadn’t moved at all. Her eyes were glassy.

There was no way. She wasn’t leaving until he did it. Did her. She just wasn’t going to go. "You’re an asshole, you know, Munky. I pity

the one you fall in love with next." Empty, such an empty tone, as if she just told him that they were out of dishwasher solution. Her legs were spread, the muscles tired and flaccid. His pride caved in.

Ouch.

The towel was gone. He got on top of her. He didn’t stroke her—touch her—he refused to. That could come off as caring. Or tender. She searched his blank eyes in the wan light spreading shadows across the wooden floor they sprawled on. Her touch was as frigid as her stare. She hugged him, but only whimpered helplessly when he gently tucked her hands behind her head. His grip was light, so that if she wanted to pull them back into her control, she could. But she didn’t. She’d let him do whatever he wanted.

Munky figured it out as he tried to arouse himself with his own hands, his eyes focused on the wood to the side of her face. This was like paperwork, like he was donating sperm—not as if he were about to get sex. Why didn’t he see it before? Kaitlin thought he cheated because she didn’t completely satisfy him. They had had some of the best sex of his life. Some. What he did with Hodge Podge—or Ethan, for that matter—meant so much more to him than what he did with Kaitlin. Because he eventually forgot a lot about Hodgkins while he was with her, he came to think the intimacy between him and Kaitlin was as good as it could get.

But now Munky knew and remembered that it got better.

Kaitlin was no prude, but she had some strict rules in bed. Now, she just wanted to go out showing him she could please him…and when Munky asked her to give him head, she would, because that’s part of the reason, as far as she’s concerned, that he cheated on her. She thought, Munky realized, that she had limited their relationship with moral obligations, rules and sexual limitations.

Munky suddenly wanted to make love to her on her own terms, just to make her happy. She’d suffered in the past few weeks.

Instead, he focused on just getting aroused. It was very difficult. Kaitlin wouldn’t insist on using a condom. If he wanted anal, she’d do it, though she’d shake and shed tears in agony. She’d be quiet about it all. He knew that now. It made him wince. He didn’t want to corrupt her. What happened to him as a kid was unfair…and what happened to her was unfair. She deserved someone who respected her values and her conviction, because he couldn’t. He had done too much, experimented too much and been corrupted so completely that he couldn’t go back.

She was scared; he sensed her trembling beneath him. He managed to become aroused…and when he did, he got up for a condom. She snatched him back onto her. "Don’t," she said. "I won’t make you. Munky, I don’t want to stop you from doing anything anymore. I know you always wanted to do it without a condom, and I should have let you, so just do it now. Please."

His predictions about her reasoning were right.

"Kaitlin, you were always good to me. Just—please—just stop it. Don’t think that’s why I cheated on you."

"Why did you do it then?"

He sighed. "I was drunk." She already knew that.

She was dressed when he came out of the bathroom with the condom. He’d lost his erection during that time, anyway, so it was really no use. He dressed, and Munky carried her things out to her car. Silently, Kaitlin climbed in, slammed the door, and rolled out of his life.

……………………………………………………………………………

"So where’s the asshole?! Fuck," Head spat at his teary eyed wife. Sketcher yelped behind the child partition that blocked the kitchen from the living room, where they were. The packet trembled in ‘Bekkah’s hand, covering her slightly swollen stomach. Denial came and passed quickly as she told him her new motherfucking (literally) young lover was in her Nissan. That—and that alone—kept Head from falling into begging mode. Now, he was in ass-kicking mode. Jen was in the car seat still, with the cocksucker who was fucking his wife. He didn’t want his daughter alone in a car with a man he didn’t know.

"I can’t take this anymore, Brian, that’s all there is to it. Richard is—"she started, but he pushed past her and slammed out the door. Out into the cold night sky. The sun was dead, and so was his heart. He whacked the car window with his blunt fist, hard, half-hoping the glass would smash and rip that fucker’s face to shreds. Perhaps the only reason he didn’t send his knuckles through the window was because he knew his daughter was in the backseat.

Come out, fucker, and let’s see who’s the better man! You want my daughter and my wife?! Gotta get through me, asshole! He voiced his thoughts.

The door cracked open. Head reached inside and yanked him out. Pinned him against the side of the car. Richard reached small, delicate hands to cover his oh so precious baby face. Jennea was in the backseat still, just a silhouette, and even then Head longed to just touch her shadow, instead of holding this man. Bekkah was in the doorway, rubbing her stomach. The womb where another man’s seed was planted and growing. She’d come into the house with the papers alone… Head didn’t give points to Richard for having balls. He didn’t give Bekkah support. She’d obviously thought long and hard about telling Head, and when Richard wasn’t there with her—just wimping out in the fucking car, Head knew what kind of a man he was. Richard wasn’t better than Head. No way.

They’d planned to tell Head, make him sign, and bail.

Head was a real man. A real man stood up to his enemies.

But these thoughts never synthesized in Head. Only pure instinct, in all its raw juices; he was a male, and his family was being taken away. Robbing a parent of a child transforms them completely (especially when they’re under a lot of fucking stress to begin with). Head would give his life for Jen. He spat in the fucker’s face. Oiled black hair, young, with milky white skin, pussy-ass Docker clothes, and large, watery blue eyes. Skinny like Jon, but with a small cock.

Another blow to Head’s well equipped manhood.

But then again, maybe Richard’s balls sensed danger and had retreated in fear. Rightfully so, because they were in danger. Head kneed him in the groin and satisfaction warmed Head’s belly. The knee squashed soft tissue between Richard’s legs. And stayed there. For about ten seconds, Richard straddled Head’s knee, cowboy style, his throat grasped tightly in Head’s hands. He would have stayed there longer, his mouth an astonished O, but Head socked him hard. He slid off sideways and smacked his head on the side view mirror on the way down to the pavement.

Jen began wailing in the back seat, loud, healthy yelps (which nearly matched in pitch to Sketcher’s muffled cries), and it brought Head back down to earth. Bekkah’s piercing screams filled the night air. Fucking great. The neighbors would call the cops. Aggravated assault. Big fucking deal.

Jen was crying. It’s all he cared about. Let his wife run to the man who’d been sticking his teeny weenie in her for the past six months. He cared about what mattered: his child. Bekkah stroked Richard’s head and slapped him to revive him. As the loser sprawled like an Egyptian dancer on the dark sidewalk, Head craned his head in through the back door.

Jen!

With abrupt gentleness he unbuckled her from her car seat. She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then started crying again, only this time it was frantic. She didn’t recognize him.

Head went from ass-kicking mode to mush mode.

Despite her screams, he pulled her out of the seat, and cuddled her, crushing her into him tenderly. He brought her into the house. She wouldn’t stop bawling. Bekkah sprinted inside with a limping Richard not far behind. Head’s sorrow jerked him into a cruel reality. His one-year-old didn’t recognize him. Thought he was a stranger. He had never expected any of this. A lot had gone on, he saw. A lot he should have been there for. This was all his fault.

"Hi, Jen, remember me? I’m your daddy," he managed in a sweet yet choked voice. Her well-formed eyebrows turned up in confusion and mistrust. He sat her on the kitchen table so that he could turn away from her for a moment. He felt a tap on his shoulder. From her scent, he could tell it was Bekkah. She smelled like baby wipes.

"Da-da! Da-da!"

Richard had entered the room.

Head turned around. A smart smack on his face wet Bekkah’s hand. Head cowered away after the blow. Obviously, Richard, from his body language, wasn’t up for another brawl. He looked like a wounded dog. His tail tucked between his legs, his head down. He leaned against the table. Finally, he cupped his crotch, hissed, and readjusted. No one spoke for a few minutes as Head curled into a kitchen seat and completely lost all composure. Bekkah held Richard’s hand for support. They watched him mourn. Head was the centerpiece of a picture of despondency: his fine braids quivering as his head lurched in despair between his knees, the young child amidst the adults probing her bottom lip with one chubby finger. As if she was suddenly undecided about this gentle, mourning stranger, darting eyes from him to her "Da-da" and back again.

"Bekkah, can we talk about this alone? Just us?" Head finally asked. When he saw her full lips tighten, he insisted, "Look. I’ll sign the papers. I just want to talk to you without Fuckface here."

"Hey!—‘

"Shut up!"

Jen screamed in fear. It reminded Head to use a calmer voice. He touched the soft spot on Jen’s head, and this time she didn’t flinch. Her soft hair gave him strength. "You broke up my family. How do you plan to support them?" Touching Jen let his twitching muscles relax. Yet it pained him deep down. Someway, he knew she remembered him from somewhere. That he was safe.

"—He works for Rolex," Bekkah interrupted. Why didn’t Richard say anything? Why couldn’t he speak up for himself? He was Bekkah’s bitch. It was almost kind of funny, if it weren’t so positively clear. Bekkah wore the pants in this relationship. She hurried to keep on explaining herself, gesturing fast. "He’s doing well in executive management and should be making his way up pretty soon. Right, honey?" she added to exemplify the sting. Though her tone was bright, her eyes weren’t happy.

Head glanced at her stomach: the biggest blow to his manhood.

Bekkah and him finally got into what had been their bedroom. The light cranberry walls were decorated with some kind of pattern Head hadn’t seen before, twisting around the room like vines near the white ceiling. An air conditioner hummed, blocking half their window. Head shivered. He was cold. The nights for her must have been so cold without him there with her. Oh no, wait a sec, Richard had been there to keep her warm. He wondered if that hideous stencil pattern at the top of their room had been Richard’s idea. If so, it succeeded in making Head feel like even more of an outcast.

Head locked the door. Bekkah sat on the bed, but when he locked the door, she tensed and stood up. She thought he was going to hurt her. Or rape her. Give me a fucking break…then the ache. Did she think I would ever do that?

Head sat on their canopy bed (with new, dark satin sheets), and as "Da-da!! Da-da!!" echoed up through their floorboards. "So, she’s calling that buttfuck her father, is she?"

"His name is Richard." She ignored answering the question.

"—I don’t care what the fuck his name is! Why did you do this to me? I go out there and I work hard. For us. I miss you everyday, so much, you don’t even know—!" he protested, rising. The anger filled him again. But anger at himself. As the words came out, they sounded all wrong and twisted.

His thoughts flew to his nights with Munky. The sticky backsides of his pictures of his family…some residue now stuck to the cover of Jon’s favorite Playgirl. Even as he professed his love for Bekkah, the magazine hid between two pairs of boxers in a suitcase on the front steps.

She freaked out on him. "You think that me and Baby aren’t suffering? You leave us all the time, and she doesn’t even remember you because you don’t even seem to fucking care anymore. You just leave—like it’s natural to disappear for months—and then you expect me to pine away for you like I’m some kind of fucking single mother or something." She stopped when she saw regret in his eyes. "Look, I know you love Jen. I’m just not sure you love me anymore.

"I just want to start over. When I met Richard he was always there for me—still is. He has a normal job with a normal life. It’s pretty nice, you know. Being normal. I didn’t go out looking for someone, Brian—he found me. I realized that he’s the one. You’re not the one. I’m sorry."

Whoa. She was sorry? That was nice to hear. Head’s body was gone; his airy head floated in a cloud of mist on top of his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say. Bekkah grew frustrated at his helpless silence, and it infuriated her. She chucked a pillow at him. Her violence worried him. She’d always been gentle. Did she really have so much hate festering inside of her? And if so, for how long?

"You’re just foolish, Brian! You always were! Nothing is good enough for you! Being just normal isn’t good enough for you! You don’t want to have just a family…you want to have it all…and excuse me if life doesn’t let you have both at the same time! God, do you know how many nights I’ve cried for you and wanted you and you were nothing but a cold pillow next to me!? I just got fucking sick of it…got sick of you and your dreams! I gave up mine to be with you.

"I’m in love with someone who respects me. I’m going to start over." The quiver in her voice expressed the regret over everything in her relationship with Head. The lovemaking, the house, the lonely nights, the silent phone calls, the empty stares, the queasy awkwardness, the emotional distance…

The baby?

"I want to start over," she lamented again. She rubbed her stomach, and Head knew for sure. When she said that she wanted to start over, she meant it, in every sense of the word. Their baby—the main link of their relationship—was a part of that regret, too, though she refused to admit it. She yearned to start a new family. Completely over.

Had she lost her mind?

"If you want to ‘start over’ with him, so you say, I’m taking Jen with me," Head said simply.

She lowered her eyes. "No." She still rubbed her stomach. She lost her composure. She wasn’t forceful in her refusal.

"I’m taking her with me." Head stood up. She looked at him again. Her eyes were dark.

"But she doesn’t even know you! She doesn’t even remember you—"

"Yes, she does."

"How do you know?"

"Because. She knows. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows. I’m her father, and she knows that. She senses it."

Bekkah had turned this scenario over in her head millions of times—or one like it. Even while she was pregnant with Jennea. She’d considered getting an abortion before she started showing. She hadn’t been happy with Head for years, and when she became pregnant with his child, her worst fears had come true. She was finally breaking away completely. Yet she never thought giving up something she regretted hurt this much. "I know what it’s like to be on tour…I don’t want her to go on tour with you. I don’t want to expose her to things like…what you do. The environment. It’s not good for a girl."

Head considered this, then said to her solemnly, "I never cheated on you, Bekkah. Never. I’ve had the opportunity to almost every night, but I never so much as touched another woman. I love you with everything I am, and if this will make you happy, I’ll let you start over. But I’m taking Jen with me. I know I haven’t been around, but I’d still die for her.

"And what’s more," he added, a bit bitterly, "I don’t regret her. I love her."

Bekkah sobbed into her shirt. This was what she hated to want. What came out of his mouth was bittersweet; it was exactly what she wanted to hear. "I have unlimited visitation."

"Of course. You get everything. The house, everything. I just want my baby."

"Oh, Brian! I love her, I love her, I love her so much, but…" She flew into his arms, and she cried, shaking and him comforting her. Closing his eyes into her blonde locks of hair, he took in her scent. He’d cried all his tears; now that he had Jen that’s all that mattered. The woman in his arms was the greatest gift giver of all, and he respected her for it. But that’s all…and a pinching twist of guilt traveled up from his groin to his belly button. He swallowed hard and pulled away from her. There. The divorce was finalized in that quick, abrupt movement. It was the last time they touched.

All four of them stayed there that night. Head and Bekkah called their lawyers. They would go to court as soon as possible. For that night, Head had a spot on the couch, but he crept up to Jen’s bedroom and watched her in her slumber. Jen looked so much like Head it was uncanny. Whenever Bekkah missed Head, looking into Jen’s eyes never helped, because they were the same green as her father’s, their thin smiles completely identical. Bekkah wanted to give her to Head because with Jen there, bearing those features, she would never fully move on, and she knew it yet hated it at the same time. For the first few days, Jen would cry, call for her Ma-Ma. But that would pass. At first, Head knew Bekkah would visit her daughter everyday. But eventually, she’d come every other day, then a couple times a week, then once a week…then maybe not at all. Bekkah wanted to pull away. Her new family was enough to occupy her. And she wanted to forget not being normal. If that meant giving up her first baby, then so be it. It was a sad truth.

"I love you, baby. I’ll bring you up right. I promise." He touched her, and her miniature munchkin nose sniffed. Head sat heavily down at the side of her cradle and fell asleep to the rhythm of her soft snores.

………………………………………………………………………….

"Where are you two going to stay?" Bekkah asked the next morning as she cooked them all a heap of pancakes and simmering bacon.

"Munky’s," Head said soberly.

"Head’s friend," Bekkah explained .

Bekkah fixed Head some food, but he pushed it away politely. He didn’t want anything to do with her; not even with her cooking. Good thing he was already packed; all that he had to pack were Jen’s things.

Bekkah’d spent most of the night mourning over Jen; the circles under Richard’s eyes and her baggy cheeks told him all. Something closely resembling a father-child attachment had happened to Richard for the first time in his life. He wasn’t pleased that Jen was leaving with the deadbeat today. The man who never came home to his family—who was too busy out being cool and some tough-ass rock star.

"I’ll tell you everything you need to know about taking care of Jen after I clean this up," Bekkah stammered. She would have started crying, but she was far too tired. Her slender knees weakened and she collapsed while draining grease out of the bacon over the sink. Richard immediately ran to her aid. She fainted. He slapped her tenderly, a fork still in his hand.

"She ok?" Head asked when Bekkah finally stood up.

"Now she is. Thanks for helping."

Head chose to ignore that. He left. Walked into the other room as tired wails emitted from Bekkah’s mouth. The two lover birds hugged in the kitchen. Jen was amidst her toys, which consisted of chewing circles and stuffed animals and a worn Tickle Me Elmo. He kinda hoped he wouldn’t have to take all the toys with him, but if he did, then…oh well. The next few days would be tough, but he would pull through them with Munky’s help. When he’d called Munky that morning, and asked him if he could stay with him for a while, Munky yawned and said, so lightly, "Sure". Munky was always there for him. Head understood then what Bekkah had gone through, and how important having someone there for you is. Head promised himself that he would always be there for Jen.

He sat down next to her, and reached out to touch her gently. He melted when she looked into his face plastered with her version of his goofy smile. She giggled. High pitched, whimsical. She didn’t call him "Da-da!", but if she had, it would have been the perfect moment. He wanted to teach her that he was her Da-da, but he didn’t have time. Bekkah came between them and snatched Jen up so fast she gave a whoop of surprise. She beckoned Head to follow her.

For the next few hours he was taught everything he should have learned about Jen by now. How to feed Jen, how to bathe Jen, how to change her diaper, how to put her correctly into a car seat, how to burp her, how to make sure she won’t choke in her sleep, her favorite TV programs, what hours she should sleep, how to troubleshoot what’s wrong when she starts crying and, finally, Bekkah warned him to watch her at all times. She gave Head a list of emergency numbers, her birth certificate, social security number, medical insurance forms, the child proof locks and gates set up around the house, books about child-raising and college plans, and her regular babysitter’s number. But above all she was adamant about him watching Jen at all times. If anything ever happened to Jen because of negligence, she would never forgive herself. Just what a responsibility this was dawned on Head, and just how much of a burden Jen had been to Bekkah for this past year.

Richard disapproved more and more as they went from lesson to lesson and Head watched on as an eager yet frustrated student. For the most part, Head knew the basics of caring for a child. He’d been around when Jen was first born and the first three months after that, but during that time Jen had mostly slept the day away. She was a quiet child; she only woke Bekkah up once or twice a night—three times max on bad nights—and Head remembered that, too. Yet from then until now he’d never stuck around for long. And when he did, Jen was already taken care of and playing quietly. So she was pleasant. Head had only taken minimal care of her, and for that he was now honestly sorry.

This was a full-time job. It crossed Head’s mind as to how he would write music for a new album and take care of this child, but he pushed it away.

They left that night. When Jen saw that Mommy and Da-da weren’t coming with her and the kind stranger, she began to bawl hysterically. She reached out pudgy arms for Mommy behind Head’s bag. Mommy turned around and slammed the door behind her. But Richard stayed, fighting himself. His fists clenched. Jen’s reaching tugged on Head’s braids, and Head winced in pain as he struggled to get her in her car seat as she kicked. She sounded like she thought she were about to die, and it irked Head to put her through this pain.

Head’s red Lamborghini wasn’t dusty; Richard probably just loved driving around in it. Ugh.

Head pulled out of his driveway and got used to the feel of being behind the wheel once more. As he pulled away, all he took with him was what he had in his bank account, this car, his baby, and their stuff. Good thing he’d signed a pre-nup. But all the same, he left his house, his other cars, his pool, Sketcher, his basketball hoop, his trees…his wife. Everything. Well, in a way, he left nothing, because he had his shrieking daughter.

Thank God he didn’t need to get on the highway to get to Munky’s house. They both lived in Huntington settlements, though Munky’s was nicer than Head’s, partially because Munky didn’t have the expenses of a kid or any pets. It was very close to a stretch of beach. Hell, Munky didn’t even have a girlfriend now. Munky’s mansion was huge; Head’s throat tightened and his head ached as Jen drew in a harsh breath and all was silent for a second. Then a shriek so piercing he had to pull over and catch his breath. It was very stuffy inside of the sports car choked with their possessions. He accidentally pressed on the horn with part of his arm, and someone flew past him with their middle finger extended.

Oh, fuck you, he thought tiredly as Jen continued to wail. He turned around and tried to comfort her, only to find her face a hideous red. Tears made rivulets on the sides of her cheeks. She kicked and punched the car seat. When he tried to comfort her by touching her, she turned her head and screamed "Da-da! Da-da!". She wanted Richard to come save her. Head gave up and pressed on the gas very hard, squealing onto the road. This is what he had wanted after all. This screaming, this expensive, this tiny little human being he’d made. Who could blame her for being scared, pissed off? Not Head. She should know he was her Da-da. She should know.

Because he should’ve been there for her.

She was still yelping when he pulled into Munky’s driveway. Already, Head was overwhelmed. Jen’s voice had grown hoarse, so much so that he might have to bring her to the doctor’s tomorrow. She knew she was being taken away from her Ma-ma. Head felt so foolish, and yet so confused, that when the light to Munky’s porch flicked on he stumbled out of the car without getting Jen out. His ears rang. Nails pounded in his head. Munky came out asking him a question, but he was so deaf he didn’t make it out. Instead, he simply stumbled into Munky’s house and up the spiral staircase to Munky’s bedroom, where he laid down and stared up at the ceiling blankly. Cries filtered through the house. Jen was obviously inside. Munky’s soft voice tried to calm down the baby, but Head doubted it would make any difference.

Yet, it did. Slowly, Jen’s screams were interrupted by coughs. She finally fell silent. Oh, sweet, forsaken silence! Head’s ears buzzed. Not another sound ripped from Jen that night. About half an hour after the cries stopped, Munky cracked open the door to his bedroom. "Bri?"

"Mmm-hmm?"

"You gotta watch it. You were lucky she didn’t throw up in the car."

"What?"

Munky took off his shirt and his pants. He was turned away from Head, toward his dresser. Munky’s tone was very serious. A tone he’d adopted over the past tour. "How long had she been crying?"

"About fifteen minutes."

"Jesus!" Munky muttered as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and opened the door to the connected bathroom. Before he went in, he turned around. The clothes he took off were in his hand, and they were heavy with vomit. "Childrens’ hearts beat twice as fast as ours. When they scream as loud as they can for that long, their hearts beat even faster. They fucking hyperventilate, Head, and it’s only a matter of time before they throw up. Then they can choke on it."

Tears crept into the corners of Head’s eyes. "I didn’t know that."

"I spent the last ten minutes scraping up-chuck out of her throat with my fingers."

"Oh my God. Is she okay?"

"Luckily, yes. Now, she is. I’d go check on her if I were you." Munky slammed the bathroom door behind him, leaving Head to his own guilt. He visited Jen as she slept, her breathing somewhat ragged. He wiped some excess drool off of her mouth. Munky had set up a guest bedroom. She was face down on the queen-sized bed, her head turned to the side. Patting her little back, Head apologized to her. He sat there for a long time in silence before he felt Munky’s hand on his shoulder. His tone was softer this time.

"She’s a good kid."

Head avoided his eyes. "And I’m a bad father."

"No, you’re not." Munky helped him back into Munky’s room, where he flopped back onto the bed.

The springs bounced. Munky landed on the space next to Head. Munky folded his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles, kicking his Vans off. "She’s not as loud as Trixy was."

Munky knew how to take care of children. After his mother divorced, Munky’s mother brought home man after man from the bar (with Hodge Podge the resident babysitter while she was gone, as aforementioned). Sometimes the man and her would date for a week, or sometimes a month, but of the many she’d had, three had resulted in children. Joshua was born when Munky was five years old. Two years later, along came Munky’s youngest brother, Kyle, who Munky loves like a son and a brother at the same time, considering he practically raised Kyle all on his own. Then, when Munky was eleven, Trixy. Of all of his siblings, Trixy was the most precious to him. She was frustrating as a baby, but as she bloomed into a hidden beauty—disguised by her tom boy ways—she was the one he spent the most time with until he moved away. He felt like he could talk to her, though she was too young to understand most of what he said.

She had caught him and Hodge Podge once. One of the last times they were together. Hodgkins came over to visit Munky’s mother, and after tea, Munky’s mother left for the bar, and he gladly watched over the children. Munky never warned Hodge Podge to keep his hands off the kids, but he didn’t need to. Munky was the only one he wanted, and Munky was fine with that.

Anyway, they were together, in Munky’s bedroom after the others were put down. Munky was allowed to take control. As he got older, the privilege came more and more often. Hodge Podge realized it was the only way to keep Munky coming to him. Literally. The door cracked open, but neither noticed at first. Munky pushed Hodge Podge’s head down to his crotch. He moaned as Hodge Podge gave him what he wanted with a vigor that tore his bottom lip in ecstasy. It’s coming it’s coming, he’d thought so eagerly, and he let loose a clipped sigh.

"Jim, whatcha doin’?"

Shit!

James promised her never to tell Mommy about what she’d seen that night, and Munky knew she kept her promise. She’d been terribly young when it happened—six—and now, she was in her teens. They were all in their teens still. Thinking of all this reminded him that he would have to pay them a visit. With Head, maybe, for moral support. He rarely went to Bakersfield. As far as he knew, Hodge Podge was still alive and kicking.

Head asked Munky a question, but Munky didn’t hear it. He was too busy thinking about what his siblings looked like since the last time he’d seen them. It had been about a year, and Munky knew that things changed fast.

So did Head.

Munky caught him the second time. "—How do I stop her from crying next time?"

"Talk to her. Little girls love to be talked to." Head seemed hurt for some reason, jealous, maybe, and Munky added for comfort, "Children can sense if you’re mad, angry, sad, etc. etc. and they react to it. You’ve been angry, and it made her know that something was wrong. They react negatively to anything but peace and happiness."

"Great, then I guess I’m fucked," Head whined in a high voice. What had he gotten himself into? Munky reached over and took him into his arms. This is where Head wanted to stay, all night long. He felt safe. Munky’s heart caved in for his friend. The man who had been only his friend for as long as he could remember, at least. They’d become something more, a bastardized interim between friends and lovers. And now they had a baby. It was almost as if, by bringing in Jen, Head wanted them to be a family. Not a normal family, but a family all the same. Bekkah told Head that he wasn’t happy being just normal, and Head saw the truth in that. Though twisted into his own version of "normal", it wasn’t what Bekkah meant.

"Thank you so much, you don’t even know how much, Jimmy," Head muttered into his neck before fatigue eased him into oblivion.

"I’d do it again in a second," Munky replied. Head was here instead of Kaitlin. Come to think of it, the little touching with Head meant so much more to him than even his most intimate moments with Kaitlin. Holding Head brought him close to a piece of heaven. He felt secure and comfortable as he stared at his white ceiling. Before he fell asleep, he went into the guest bedroom and picked up Jen. He brought her into bed with them. Head, now on his back, watched as Munky laid her on his stomach. Her legs straddled him and her head moved up and down against his chest as he breathed. Her dilated eyes, which had been open slightly, flittered closed.

When Munky was sure Head was asleep, he kissed Head’s forehead softly before placing a hand on Jen’s back. All three fell asleep like that.

Munky had prepared a guestroom, but looked like they wouldn’t need it.

……………………………………………………………………………

Fast forward a month.

Fast forward to Arizona.

Arizona was a hot hell for Munky and Head. Jen loved it, however. Luckily, the guys had found a reliable babysitter for the girl, and she thrived under all the attention everyone showered her with. For the most part quiet, her large green eyes attracted strangers. The compliments Head got while wheeling Jen around in public pleased him to no end. The guys secretly wanted to rent their own condo, but the living space they had to reside in didn’t tolerate it. Jon had to stay with them, considering that Fieldy’s entire family and David’s entire family already arranged to stay together, and their record company was paying for two houses. Though Jonathan was gone most nights, they just couldn't sleep in the same room or anything.

Head flew back and forth between home and Arizona, especially near the end of the six months of recording. They finalized the divorce and had a custody trial. Bekkah stuck with her conviction. She passed the mandatory psychological test mothers take when they willingly relinquish custody of their children. She wanted a new beginning, and the hard days with Head’s spitting image tortured her. The guilt of cheating would be less if Jen wasn’t around to remind her of it, and she told the psychologist that. Honest and composed, she passed the test, though she tearfully gave up all responsibility of her first child while very pregnant with her second.

Head was grateful for the divorce, though unsure of his love life. Sometimes during the month before they left for Arizona, Munky had put Jen into the guestroom and tried to make moves on him. An extra caress here, a soft kiss onto his back there, but the point was made. They got along well, sure, and they both loved Jen, okay, but that didn’t mean they had to be lovers. Munky seemed fine on the outside with being gay, but sometimes Head found him crying, and he was frankly in no better position to ease Munky’s torment. So he always walked out. Munky wanted to talk to him about how he felt, though he never confronted Head about it. From the look in his eyes sometimes, Head could just tell. They loved each other, but neither said anything.

Sometimes when Munky was in public with Head and Jen, people gave them looks. Of course, the two men were incognito, lest a fan recognize them and incur a frenzy—but Head knew what they thought. He wormed his way through several parenting books Bekkah gave him in his spare time in Arizona. He’d read half of them the first month at Munky’s; the first one he sat down with had been to a beer and a cigarette. He promptly put out the butt after reading the first ten pages. He’d put the book down and jumped into his car. Running to the nearest pharmacy, he bought enough Nicotine patches to keep a chain smoker dizzy for six months. Him and Munky now piled them on their arms like war bandages as they struggled to kick their addictions.

They also wrote the guitar music for the album together, as always. They were determined to write their best stuff ever. They accomplished that with flying colors. Partially, it was because they were closer and more connected than ever, but it was also mostly attributed to the frustration they felt towards each other. What they conducted was dark and angry—especially if they were alone in the house and they wrote it late at night. Through the notes of the page Munky wrote "Why can’t you love me?" and Head answered back with his own set of notes "I don’t know." Back and forth, back and forth, the dueling guitar masters really were dueling, though it was a sorrowful, deep resonance that talked for them.

They spent some late nights at the studio, and from time to time, as they were putting a part together or experimenting with a new pedal, they would just look at each other. Just looking. All alone. No security cameras in the studios; Fieldy had asked. No one there. No words. Just looking, until Head broke the gaze and continued pressing buttons harshly. When they finally left and packed up, in silence they walked to their rented condo, each itching to hold the other’s hand. Half the time these thoughts didn’t run through Head’s mind on the surface. He didn’t articulate them, like Munky did. He just felt them distantly until the urge grew stronger and stronger. Then, they came to the "homey" little condominium that wasn’t their home. With the tan tiles and cacti and sandy colored furniture, surrounding an unused and unnecessary fireplace. There, they parted, even though Jon wasn’t home, and Head went to Jen. She slept like a stone. He lay down beside her. Gently, he picked her up, and lay her on his stomach, where she fidgeted around until she was comfortable and fell asleep, just how Munky had put her that first night.

Jen was a full time job, yes, but with the babysitter always there and Munky too, the load was considerably lessened. Because she was always under a watchful eye, nothing terrible happened, much to Bekkah’s relief. Sometimes, about once a week, she called. She had her new baby, and the phone calls eventually became even less frequent than that. On the first week at Munky’s she didn’t come at all, much to Head’s surprise, but throughout the rest of the month she came about every three days. Head knew there would be more visits when they came back—or maybe not, because she was tired from her new little boy—but he could handle Bekkah with Munky around. Munky made him strong, yet so irreversibly weak at the same time.

Always, on the tip of Head’s tongue was "I love you," but he never said it anymore. Munky never found a lover in Arizona, and neither did Head. Head hadn’t had sex in close to ten months by the time he returned to Huntington with Munky. It had been about seven months for Munky, and both of them were somewhat anxious. The tension between them had built in Arizona, and as their record was being mixed they had nothing to do but the occasional TV appearance, the random radio interview. The pre-release media frenzy was still a couple months off, and until that time, they were sitting ducks.

Oh yeah, and now Head was the man Jen rightfully called "Da-da." She called Munky "Minkay" because it was all she could manage with her tiny mouth. She also took her first step in Arizona, her first walk, and Head was so pleased that Munky was taking onto her as if she were his own. He’d been there, encouraging her, kneeled down, as Jen waddled in her Pampers toward his outstretched hands.

Fast forward to Huntington Beach.

Safely alone at last, and Head was finally so vulnerable. Part of him wanted to make love to Munky, and the other part repulsed it. It was the only thing he wanted, and the last thing he wanted at the same time. Luckily, Munky never caught Head crying. Because he did it often. If Munky knew about that, he never showed any sign of it.

It was about eight, after Bekkah was put down, and Munky had put the last dish in the dishwasher after Head rinsed it off. They were a team; they did everything together; if someone walked into their relationship and silently observed, they would have been stumped, because neither were the dominant partner. They simply coexisted like two heterosexual males. No crossdressing, no femininity, no nothing but two men. The only difference between two normal roommates and Head and Munky were that they sometimes slept in the same bed holding each other. And the looks they sometimes exchanged—those weren’t normal. And that, in public, all Munky wished to do was grasp Head’s hand and not let him let go. To sweep him into his embrace and kiss him passionately and make onlookers’ mouths drop.

Like I said, completely normal except for those aspects.

Head cracked open a beer. He sat on the couch. Munky pushed the dishwasher button and it hummed as warm water washed over the dishes.

A game was on. 49ers versus the…Head didn’t know. He despised football. The television rested on VH1’s tearful account of Vanilla Ice’s rise to fame. What a pussy. One wigger hit single, then reviving as yet another Jonathan Davis/Fred Durst front man of a copycat hybrid band. It was actually kind of sad. All Korn did to get by now was make innovative records and perform shows that made people marvel: "That’s why they started this genre!" Korn’s sound simply wasn’t special anymore, so they had to keep changing, keep evolving, if they wanted to stay on their throne as Kings of Metal.

Munky dimmed the lights and popped open an aged Chardonnay. It had been a long day; they took Jen to the playground and afterwards to see "Shrek". He poured himself a glass and offered Head one. Head was fine with his beer, but he wanted some Chardonnay too, so he took it and they both sipped. "Oh God, change the channel. I can’t stand him."

"Yeah, but you used to like him."

Munky laughed in admittance to that sad truth. "Yeah, the first hundred times I heard ‘Ice, Ice Baby,’ I thought he was alright, but…"

"More like the first five hundred times! That’s how many times you made me listen to it," Head muttered under his breath. He received a friendly blow to his shoulder. He cried out. The liquor foaming to the top of the crystal glass spilled over onto the area right above the knee of his right pant leg. "You’ll pay for that."

"Will I?"

"Yes," Head laughed. He punched Munky back, a smart blow to his left shoulder, and Munky cried out, laughing. The drink spilled all over his pants, considering that Munky had his Chardonnay in his left and the remote in his right as he channel surfed. He cried out in surprise and full out tackled Head, tickling him. He poured Head’s beer onto his sputtering face as Head struggled to get Munky off of him. Their hands, arms, and chests slick from drink, they wrestled like two kids until Head rolled Munky down to the ground and straddled him. He pinned Munky hands against his chest.

"Don’t tickle me," he sputtered. He licked the liquor dribbling down from his now sticky hair. The smell of it was so sharp his nostrils tingled. He lifted a hand to wipe his nose and brought it back down to hold Munky tight. He realized then that Munky could have escaped, but didn’t. No, he laid there, right as he was, even as Head loosed his grip and wiped the side of his agitated nostril again. Their breaths slowed and deepened as seconds ticked away. The air became heavier and thick.

The TV glowed with a white screen. Head got a good view of the look in Munky’s eyes. They were both shirtless; Head’s pants stretched tight around his thighs sitting like this. Head knew it was his choice. If he walked away, Munky would get up, brush off, and go to bed. But if Head stayed…

Head stayed. Though he was unsure of what this all meant. Munky slowly released his hands from Head’s flaccid grip. Head turned his face away. Munky picked at Head’s fly. Head looked towards the ceiling and closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bouncing once as Munky gingerly pulled down the fly. Munky was rightfully wary, however, so he lifted his hands to tickle the sensitive area around Head’s nipples. Goosebumps pricked on Head’s skin so lightly.

Shivers coursed through him and with just that simple motion, his nipples hardened, shriveled, until they were very tiny and hard. Munky touched them. He sat up and, still caressing him, kissed his nipples. Head rocked into him once. It sealed the deal.

Munky sensed how nervous Head was. He promised to take his time, though the building energy in his pants and heart threatened to hasten his plans. Munky wrapped his hands around Head’s back and rolled onto him. He was in control. Head refused to look at him; his eyes shut tight. He was breathing in what resembled choking gasps, as if he were going to cry or come. One of the two.

So, so scared. Munky was terrified too, and yet he could no longer hold back what he felt for Head. It filled his very being. What fueled him through each day was the promise that with each passing hour together, they broke down a chink in a thick wall, which would someday burrow a little hole they could kiss through. They never said anything to each other, because that would belittle the torture they endured day in and day out. They needed to show each other. Head was scared of what it might all mean if he did, and Munky was scared of the showing itself. Both put something on the line that neither could patch back up again if things went sour: their life long friendship. These new feelings were more intense than the old ones, so much so that both secretly believed it was worth the risk.

Munky sat on Head’s stiffening crotch, the fly parted. Part of him stuck out from his boxers, but Munky refused to touch it, just yet, partially from fear, and partially from wanting to hear Head beg. Instead, he took one of Head’s tightly clenched fists. The hand relaxed as Munky peeled away his fingers. Munky kissed the tip of each one. Then, he took Head’s pointer finger, stained with alcohol, and slipped it in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the ridges of his finger joints. Head’s hard short nail rubbed against Munky’s pallet. Munky closed his eyes and let his tongue tell Head stories of what he was about to do, and Head pulled his hand out of Munky’s mouth and reached for Munky’s neck. He pulled him down, down, down to where he wanted Munky to be. At first Munky resisted. But relenting when Head actually moaned, he—

The soft skin of Head’s most sensitive area pulsed when Munky revealed him by pulling away part of his boxers. Munky’s lips wavered near his tip. His heavy breath mingled on Head’s foreskin, there so hot it was torture…

Jen let out a most monstrous wail. Head sprang into motion. He kicked and backed away from his position, closing his legs. He stumbled to his feet and zipped his fly up so fast. The railing supported his weak knees. He used it to dash up the stairs and to his daughter’s aide, breathing brokenly. Groaning once, Munky pushed his face into the carpet floor. Still shaking from how close he was. Hell, he’d been there…for a couple of seconds.

Why had he done that, knowing, knowing, that Head would never…?

Head would. He’d almost let him…

Jen stopped crying a minute after Head rubbed her back. After, Munky’s room. The upstairs bathroom. He flung the door open. Stumbling into the grayness, he looked at himself in the spotless mirror fixed above the porcelain sink. What he saw was not who he’d been before: frizzy, sticky braids, stray hairs sticking to his gaunt face. His chapped lower lip still trembled involuntarily. But most disturbing: "faggot" was written in dark letters all around his sunken eyes, so clearly he wondered why he’d never seen it before. He knew why he hadn’t as tears puddled. He clenched his teeth. The ugly word, etched so many times into his soul, blurred as the water clouded them. He wasn’t a fagot.

…Yet Munky’s tongue, so close, those lips, Munky knew how to do everything…

(just let him show you)

Before he collapsed to his knees he clicked the door shut. He reached into his pants. Though letters and spots still rammed into each other in his vision after, he was calmer. Munky lay on the bed, on his stomach, and Head walked past him. Back to Jen.

…………………………………………………………………………

David looked at his shopping list. Sophia, his littlest daughter, needed Gerber’s. He turned into the appropriate isle and squinted behind dark sunglasses, searching for the right brand. Shannon took the kids to the playground with Munky, Head, and Jen, and David got stuck running errands on this beautiful day. He didn’t mind; things between him and Shannon were going very well, now that he was home again; David considered taking his family on tour with him next time. The kids were still young enough; they could hire a roadie to take care of them.

The thought of leaving his family for more than a week at a time visibly shook him. He was tired of all the missing. He realized he was wasting time thinking about something months away and snatched the appropriate baby cup from the aisle, twisted it around in his hand, and ceremoniously plopped it into the shopping basket.

Shannon was specific in what she wanted for her own needs: she was a vegetarian, and he ventured into the organic aisle to buy her Sunny Hill Farm Grillers, imitation burger meat.

Ha. Imitation meat. Hadn’t Head joked about that once? Yes, he had. David had been the subject of much ridicule: "Does she…you know? Because that’s breaking the rules, David. Dildos, those are vegetarian penises. It’s imitation meat."

Ha-ha. It brought a smile to David’s fine features even now.

David lingered in the magazine aisle to pick up an issue of Circus or Hit Parader, to see if Korn were in it. He still got a little thrill from seeing a picture of Munky in his janitor’s outfit, Jon singing, Head picking away at his guitar, Fieldy slapping bass…but he especially liked when he looked back at himself. Shuffling through the various metal magazines, he picked Circus up. And a Hit Parader. He decided he’d be a good citizen and buy them this time, instead of just reading them there and putting them back. Besides, he had to get home and whip up some lasagna…and while it was in the oven, he’d have nothing to do.

David whistled to Weezer’s new single "Hashpipe" all the way home and pulled into his ranch house. Man, did that boy know how to make lasagna, and as the aroma stretched its fingers throughout the house, David grabbed a beer. He turned open the cover to the Circus and read it through methodically. The KoRn article came and went: it was basically a speculation as to what the KoRn guys came up with this time. David was proud of the work he’d done on the new album, and he knew it was going to be a humongous release, most likely the biggest rock release of the year. His chest swelled with quiet pride. He flipped to the news page. There was a picture of Munky and Head.

"Rumors of HEAD’s rough divorce with Rebekkah Welch and his complete custody of his daughter, Jennea Welch, are confirmed. He is now residing with MUNKY of KORN, his fellow guitarist. Circus has been informed from a very private, trustworthy source that…"

David’s eyes widened as he read. He almost fell off the tall stool he sat on.

"…MUNKY and HEAD are living together, and that they are having a romantic relationship. This can be assumed because MUNKY has supposedly revealed himself as a homosexual to his fellow band mates and his manager. Is this true? Stick around as Circus searches for answers to this…interesting… scandal."