Clunkline

In Search of a Breath Magnetic

A fresh new vignette by shellapanic

[Scene: In a dimly lit, smoky room, the four members of Metallica sit casually discussing their ongoing Death Magnetic tour.  James Hetfield alternately scowls and grins giddily.  Lars Ulrich twirls a drumstick absentmindedly.  Robert Trujillo listlessly flips through a Musician’s Friend catalog and upon seeing a Mark Hoppus signature Jazz bass, frowns.  Kirk Hammett plays scales in with a subdued, clean tone.  The air is pregnant with anticipation.]

[A knock.  Enter one Mr. Elijah Goldberg, wearing a sharkskin Armani suit with the top two buttons unbuttoned.  He has a lot of visible chest hair.]

Goldberg: Guys!  I have big news that’ll knock yer socks off!

Ulrich: [irritated] Umm, yeah, what is it?

Goldberg: I know the “St. Anger” thing didn’t work out so well, and you’ve all been working really hard to get back to where you were circa ’91.

Hetfield: Hell yeah—[gutterally, with a staccato stop]—yah.

Ulrich: Umm, you know, it’s been tough, uh, with people stealing our shit, I mean, fuck, you know, I just don’t want to put forth too much effort.  You know?

Goldberg: [animated] Then this is perfect.  All ya have to do is make with the signing and you’ll be back on top!

Hetfield: What’s the pitch—cha?

Goldberg: Forget Megadeth.  Forget Slayer.  Hell, ya can forget Anthrax, too.  Why be in the big four of thrash metal when you four can be in: “The big four of fre(a)sh metal”?

Trujillo: Fre(a)sh metal?

Ulrich: [cuts off Trujillo] Shut the fuck up, okay?  Fre(a)sh metal?

Goldberg: Yeah.  One word: “Mintallica.”

Hetfield: [excited] Mintallica—ah.  I like it—tah.

Ulrich: And, um, there’s lots of fuckin’ scratch in it?

Goldberg: It’s a goldmine.  This stuff just rolls off the tongue.  In fact, it’s the “one” mint you’ll ever need.  If you catch my meaning . . .

Ulrich: Ah, um, uh, a breath magnetic?

Goldberg: Freshness, Inc. . . . and freshness for all.

Hetfield: For whom the smell shows—sah.

Goldberg: [frowning slightly, responds with sunnily] Yeah, James, that’s great.

Trujillo: [champing at the bit] Ooh, ooh.  I’ve got one . . . mint.

[blank stares]

It’s a play on “Load.”

Hetfield: [sarcastic] While we’re at it why don’t we cut our hair—ruh?

Trujillo: [tentative] How about remint?

Ulrich: Shut the fuck up, Bob.  You know, if we want your opinion we’ll fuckin’ ask Cliff.

The Ghost of Cliff Burton: [in a ghostly quaver] (halitosis) cleaning teeth . . .

Ulrich: That’s the fuck more like it, um, and it sets us up for the, you know, the stain fighting version, its fuckin’ ride the whitenin’.

Goldberg: See guys, this is gold.  Kirk what do you think?

Hammett:

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Hetfield: Modes over D minor generally mean yes—sah.

Goldberg: Then, it’s decided!

Ulrich: Umm, not so fast.  What shit are we, you know, um, signing up for?

Goldberg: Well, we’ll make the mints and put yer names on ‘em.  And you’ll make a small fortune.  Also, we’ve already got a commercial lined up.  Spike Jonze is already signed on to direct.

Hetfield: Oh really—yuh?  I want to sign off on it first—stah.

Goldberg: You guys’ll love it.  And I think it’ll play well with the female demographic.  Imagine if you will . . .

[A clean guitar plucks the opening arpeggio to “One.”  Everything is black and white.]

[Soft fade.  Katelyn, 15, stands in her bathroom, spraying down an overwrought up-do with copious amounts of Aquanet.  She has a slight halo of frizz that won't cooperate.  Her dress is maroon sateen and has one too many frills.  She looks every bit as frazzled as her hair.]

Voiceover:

Doin’ my hair for my prom date.

Put on my lipstick, can’t be late.

Wow, Thomas is really great.

It’s 6 o’clock, where is he?

[Thomas, 17, pulls up to the house in a 1991 Toyota Tercel with a primer-colored hood.  He's holding a bouquet of pale Asiatic lilies that he just purchased from the drug store.  He also has a small orchid corsage.  He looks slightly worse-for-the-wear.]

Now that he’s here I’m so nervous.

I could throw up; I’m real nauseous.

What will become of the two of us?

We’re getting in the car now.

[Katelyn swoons, dwindling off into the twilight realm of her own secret thoughts.  Distorted guitar crashes in.]
Hold my breath ’cause I smell like death.

Oh please, don’t kiss me!

[George Lucas-style hard cut.  The guitar is again clean.  Katelyn and Thomas sit in a booth at Olive Garden, staring at all-you-can-eat pasta and breadsticks.  Thomas drinks a Sprite, while Katelyn has carelessly ordered an Italian coffee.]

Back in the booth, my breath is rank.

It’s from the coffee that I drank.

Can’t believe how much it stank.

Wait for the time he notices.

Ate Olive Garden spaghetti.

Left my mouth feeling garlicky.

He’s gonna make a pass at me,

Comes in close to kiss me.

[Katelyn again looks inside herself, devoured by the swirling cesspool of her own steaming desires.  Again with distorted guitar.]
Hold my breath ’cause I smell like death.

Oh please, don’t kiss me!

[Over a clean solo, Katelyn fantasizes about kissing Thomas; however, her smooches are thwarted at every turn by the anthropomorphized specter of stale breath.  After repeated failures, the distorted guitar returns for one last reprise.]
When he smells my breath, he will run.

Oh God, help me.

Hold my breath ’cause it smells like death . . .

[Katelyn discreetly pops a Mintallica; her mouth erupts with a fresh sensation.  The narration continues aggressively over a double-kick drum sextuplet-feel thrash breakdown.]

One mint invigorates me,

Purifies me,

Absolute freshness.

I can breathe in.

I can breathe out.

Mintallica:

Making my breath not smell.

[Drum break]

Spearmint has freshened my mouth,

Freshened my throat,

Freshened my larynx,

Freshened my heart,

Freshened my brain,

Freshened my soul,

Makin’ my mouth smell swell!

[Katelyn and Thomas engage in a passionate kiss for the duration of the guitar solo.  Soft focus fade-out.]

Goldberg: [understated] Heh?

Ulrich: Fuckin’ fan—you know, um, uh, ah, you know, you know, you know—tastic.

Hammett: [shredding furiously]

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V---ARTIFICIAL HARMONIC WITH BENDING. IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS, LOOK IT UP.
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Hetfield: Bob doesn’t get a vote—tuh.  So—ah . . . 3-0—wuh.

Goldberg: So it’s settled then.  I’ll round up the lawyers . . .

[Fin.]