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:
| S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S | |-------------------------------------------------------| |-21b23-17----17-21b23-17-------------------------------| |----------20-------------20-17----17-20-17-------------| |-------------------------------20----------20-17----17-| |-------------------------------------------------20----| |-------------------------------------------------------|
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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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.]
