kissedashes

[kissedashes]

Foster was in his element. There was a good fucking song playing - good drinks flowing and of course - he had just come from the track with a good wad of cash. He was ready to blow it on whatever he could and when he saw Roman amongst the party goers, he let out a feral yell, scaring some poor girl dancing into spilling her drink on him. "Fuckin' hell, Roman, you're here too? And here I fuckin' thought we parted ways back at your apartment!" He exclaimed, downing a glass of whiskey that had been served to him. "Fuck yeah! How many have you had and how much do I need to catch up on?"

open to: everyone location: arcanum nights, glass house

The red hues of the lights that glittered around Glass House made Romanyuk believe it was the hues of the sunrise, that he had been there far longer than most. It had dissolved quickly into another scheme, though, and once more time was no more than a construct within its walls. The bass swallowed him whole, and he tilted his head back into the black that danced behind his eyes. Exhaustion was close, but his fingers found his lips and parted them with a bitter pill. He wouldn’t be gone until they’d kick him out, which with his reputation, was always a hit or miss if someone would beat the bouncer to it. The stillness he found on the swarming dance floor tugged at him, a hand grabbing his and spinning him. He let our a roar of laughter, swearing he could see it vibrate of the perspiration that glistened off the bodies of those around him. “Woah, woah, slow down or I’m gonna be sick,” Roman laughed, but he dipped into the turn of the room to match the pace of the music. His own body became slick with something, possible the spill of a drink mute against the bass. “Shit.”

[kissedashes]

Foster had had enough, and that was something that was always a sight to see. Igniting the match that he had in his pocket, he saw Kennedy and groaned, sighing. "What, kid, you stalkin' me or whatever? I gotta get one of those groupie restraining orders on you?" He rolled his eyes and sighed. "It don't bother me that much - it's just fuckin' constant these days after since the stint in rehab. They should fuckin' shove shit up their ass." He groaned, slightly shaky hands blowing out smoke through his nose. "What are you doin' around here if ya not stalkin' me, kid?"

The streets of LA were always something going on the streets. Kennedy had stepped out of the studio for the some air and to sneak in a vape when he heard the hollering down the street. He started to roll his eyes at who ever was stuck in the middle of the cameras. It was a bit of a show or a bit until heard the familiar voice. "Oh, shit." He knew when he heard Foster's voice, shit was going to go down. "This is going to be good." He ventured over as the other musician and the crowd. He only heard a bit of the speech that was being said. Gladly every lens weren't focused on him, that Kennedy slipped by Foster. "What in the hell did I miss out here?" He light heartedly laughed, pressing his vape to his lips. Slowly the paps were going on their way finding some other victim. "Fuck those guys. They never know when to stop especially when we just want a smoke."

[kissedashes]

Foster let out an annoying groan, head falling back dramatically. If it was one thing Foster was since coming to Hollywood, it was dramatic. Like an impatient, sensitive child, he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it and he despised having to wait. Usually he had his own roadies and crew to do things like this for him, but seeing as he was spending his time in Sherman Oaks with Roman - it was something else altogether. "You should have an assistant or some shit - some little bitch kid that will get you shit ASAP. Enough of this waiting shit. Don't you ballet dancers got shit like that? You're the ones breakin' your fuckin' bones, doin' that shit you guys do. Shouldn't you guys get some of the benefits? You're the fuckin' monkeymakers, right?"

Foster rolled his eyes and sighed, going back over to grab his own beer as he skimmed through the Rolling Stone he was looking at. "How much does a male ballerina even make, kid? I wanna know - maybe I'll switch fuckin' careers." He was joking, of course - just to get at Roman, but there was a laugh to think of himself twirling around on stage. He did with his guitar most nights, but headbanging and ballet were very different art forms.

"I know, and I'm chillin' - no wonder my manager wanted me to hang back with you and thinkin' it was a good idea and all. I guess with the ballet and shit, you can't go too hard, can ya?" He asked, taking a sip from his beer. "Does that mean no fuckin' beer?"

"Fuckin' hell, when did we order those buffalo wings, a fuckin' hour ago? I told them it was a rush order. Dimitri usually knows to rush it when it's me callin'." Foster's southern twang came out even more when he was mad as he sighed, shaking his head. He was perched up on the toilet, the seat was down and he was rolling a single joint in his hands and sighing. "You have to stop sayin' shit like that, Roman, or you're gonna get slapped one of these days. Regret nights like this? Where I come from, night like this are fuckin' treasured. Are you done with your fuckin' bath now?" He asked, sighing. "I'm just about done with this - or do you wanna recite another monologue, bitch?" The drummer joked, his lips in concentration with what he was doing, a faint smirk on his lips.

"I'm fuckin' starvin'. Do you think three orders of buffalo wings is enough?"

[kissedashes]

location: anywhere, probably on a sidewalk with paparazzi opened to: all, pls assume connections, bbys !

Enough of this shit. That was all Foster could think of when he walked outside and he caught the paparazzi taking photos of him. He rolled his eyes, his managers to the right of him telling him not to react, but Foster had been doing that for too long now. Foster, Foster, look here! Foster, how was rehab? How is it not gambling? Foster, can you tell me when Velvet Concord is coming out with a new album? Foster! It was driving Foster quite literally insane as he shook his head. Fuck this. "Ay! Attention dipshits of the sidewalk, I'm going to need you to shut the fuck up - I will not be answering of your dumbass questions now or ever. Now get the fuck out of my way, I want to have a goddamn smoke. Please and fucking thank you!" He yelled out over the photographers, in a huff as he took out his cigarettes. "Fucking wild, am I right?" He turned to the person next to him, sighing. "A circus as always."

[kissedashes]

Foster was hoping to see the fight on TV after placing a sizable bet on it - who else would he be doing here? A few thousand had turned into a few more thousand and Foster couldn't help himself. His palms sweat as he kept looking at the screen, downing his drink and slamming down on the countertop when who he bet against wasn't fighting to their own potential. "Shit! Shit, get up, get up! C'mon! Off the mat! Goddamnit!" The drummer exclaimed, gesturing for the bartender to keep them going. "He's too big of a fuckin' beast - goddamn it. I got at least 15k on this fucking game, let's go, fucker! You gamble, man?" He asked, downing another drink and trying to keep his composure. "You're - You're one of those fighters, man, aren't you? I've seen you."

open to: all location: no name pub

As long as it had taken him to find this bar, it was worth it. He'd been looking for a place that wasn't rife with VIP sections and celebrities name-dropping for entry. He was still acclimating and far preferred the familiarity of dusty tabletops and sticky floors to anything else. He knocked back his beer, taking a long pull off it, his gaze glued on the fight playing on the screen across from him. The guy was getting pulverized, back up against the cage, getting pummeled until his guard broke. He watched blood go spraying, the commentator's voice getting drowned out by the bar's sudden eruption, as they watched the guy get KO'd, straight to the mat.

"Guy's a fuckin' beast." Garrett remarked as the match's highlights began playing onscreen. "But that fuckin' cross. You drop your guard like that, you're just fuckin' asking to get hit."

[kissedashes]

"Fuckin' hell, when did we order those buffalo wings, a fuckin' hour ago? I told them it was a rush order. Dimitri usually knows to rush it when it's me callin'." Foster's southern twang came out even more when he was mad as he sighed, shaking his head. He was perched up on the toilet, the seat was down and he was rolling a single joint in his hands and sighing. "You have to stop sayin' shit like that, Roman, or you're gonna get slapped one of these days. Regret nights like this? Where I come from, night like this are fuckin' treasured. Are you done with your fuckin' bath now?" He asked, sighing. "I'm just about done with this - or do you wanna recite another monologue, bitch?" The drummer joked, his lips in concentration with what he was doing, a faint smirk on his lips.

"I'm fuckin' starvin'. Do you think three orders of buffalo wings is enough?"

open to: everyone location: roman's place, sherman oaks, los angeles, california

The windowsill was littered in wilting petals that every so often fell to the porcelain edge of the tub. The only other window Roman had in his apartment had become another shrine for the single flower every night awarded him— and every feeble blossom he gave himself. After every performance, he took the same secret language between him and his mother pressed into particular carnation to remind him just how the show had gone. His very best, and very worst, was left to wilt and fester every morning and night where he should have been able to look out into the humbling view of the city of angles, of possibility. Instead, they took up the space meant to be Roman's way out. They feigned some discarded form of romance, but those who knew him better— not best, as there was no one who knew that— was that his efforts were always elsewhere. That was surely what lead them both here, and now. His thoughts still lingered on the stage on what he would have done better, should have done better, could have done better. The ache from pushing himself too hard rested in every movement of his limbs, and the regret pooled around him. "I've been told I'm suppose to regret nights like these," Roman uttered, finer judgement sitting in the glass on the uneven tile of the bathroom floor.

[kissedashes]

Foster couldn't help but go back to old familiar spots - the Prayer Factory being one of them. An iconic institute that allowed him to let himself be free, to party - and Foster knew how his partying could lead to old habits - old habits he would much rather get rid of. Gambling was the lethal one he knew, but drinking, partying, getting loaded, it was all up there too. He hadn't been there a full hour before he saw the beautiful blonde dancing and he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He smirked, watching as he grabbed another drink, talking to a few friends, but doe eyes always went back to her.

"Ay, keep the music comin'. Bex here likes it - don't ya, blondie?" Foster came over, smirking as he looked at her. He took her hand, attempting to spin her around. "I wanna dance too, sugar. Can you at least save one dance for me?"

saturday, june  1st, 2023. 12.08am                   at prayer factory , with  everyone.

       Lauren stands still in the middle of the room, her eyes closed and her breath steady. Her body was ready to move, to let the music sweep her away. The bass started and her feet begins to move, slowly at first as if she was savouring each moment. The music becomes louder, it begins thumping, and Bex let the rhythm take her away. The blond spins and twirls in her spot, her body free and unencumbered. In her own little world, Bex was the only one there, but she was dancing for two. She was dancing as if she was thirsty, her body yearning for something it could never quite reach.

       As the music builds higher, her movements grow more frenetic, as if she was shaking off the pressure of the world on her shoulders. Every spin, every dip, every jump was an attempt to break free of the invisible chains that bound her. It’s been exactly one month since the passing of her father. It had been a quick death, sudden, as she was told by the doctors who had attempted to revive him. And Bex hates him for it. She now harboured so much anger and resentment toward Wayne Bexley. More than she has ever before. Especially now that he’s still fucking with her, challenging her while he’s dead quiet in his guady and golden coffin.

       The music ended, and she slowly returned to stillness. Her heart pounding in her chest, her body drenched in sweat. For a few moments, she was free.

[kissedashes]

Foster knew this kid - how could he not know this kid? He had heard about Kennedy and his band, the way that his own band had certain influences on other ones. There was a rivalry, not as unspoken as people liked, as his managers liked, but as far as Foster was concerned - him and his band mates definitely had influences on all new rock bands that came out, point blank period. Perhaps it was his own arrogance coming through, but Foster was sticking to it, looking him up and down. "Compared to me, kid, you're a youngin', what can I say? You hit thirty and call everyone a fuckin' kid." He eyed him, nodding. "Record it? For ya followers? Oh, so you're one of those, aren't you?" His eyebrows raised when he asked if he could take a video and he laughed, scoffing. "Take a video of you? Kid, what the fuck do you take me for, huh? Do I look like a photographer or a drummer?"

Kennedy recognized Foster instantly even with his disguise going on. He laughed at his words. "Kid? Fuck, I didn't grow out my beard for be called kid." Kenny gestured to his barely visible stubble. It had been a while since he saw Foster. The last tour they went on together was a while back. Kenny wasn't sure if Foster, coming from a way bigger band than his own, would actually remember him. "Oh, no. Never on my own. But I decided why the hell not start." Kenny slapped the surf board he had under his arm. "I've heard things about these beaches. That's why I need to record it." Quickly rummaged for his phone. "Can you get a video of me for my socials?"

[kissedashes]

Foster had to chuckle when he looked up at the blonde and smirked. "Well, listen - you don't know how much I love these fuckin' pants. Ozzie Osbourne thrifted them to me - but ay, drinks, I like just the same, honey." He smiled, shrugging, that boyish charm that Foster had. "I hope ya don't paint me a picture about this - me with wet, stained pants. I could be your new inspiration, but it'd have to cost ya." He teased, hand up to rub over his growing in scruff.

"Some rounds? I'd love that very much. You read my mind. Darlin', it's all on me. Bartender, two shots please - put it under Underwood." He smiled at Bellamy and sighed. "So, how're you been, sunshine?"

"Two drinks as the price of pants?" The blonde questioned as the amusement in her voice practically danced over her features. Her lips curled into a smirk, the man's unfortunate predicament left her with a drinking partner for the night and that was something to be appreciated. She didn't mind the quiet, though she was always thankful for the comfortable ambiance a semi full bar could provide when her thoughts got too loud. Being an artist on hiatus often came with a lot of questions, excuses about needing to find the right inspiration followed, but the blonde couldn't find the nerve to dust off her brush. Tonight wasn't about art, no, the only welcomed thoughts were if she was feeling light or dark. "Seems like a pretty fair trade to me, how are you feeling about kicking the night off with a few rounds of shots?"

[kissedashes]

Foster knew Oliver. Living in this town long enough, everyone knew who Oliver and his family were - the diamond heir was someone he had hung around, had partied with. It was people like Oliver who Foster liked to be around, people of the world, who could afford anything they truly wanted. It was something so foreign to Foster growing up, when a plain pair of shoes was something he often went without. That little boy though from Macon, Georgia, was no more - here stood a rich musician, famous and full of notierty, but still - Foster at times still felt like the poor kid who hung out on his porch's first step most nights because he couldn't stand the fighting of his parents.

"And there he is - Mister Diamond. Sorry I didn't see you there, I was distracted by the cute hustlin' right in front of me, kid. How ya doin'? Haven't seen you in a stitch, have I?" Foster had barely seen anyone since getting out of rehab and of course the first people he bumps into - it had to be him. Nothing could quite trigger a relapse more than seeing Oliver. "Oh, yeah, is it? Well, for royalty like you, kid, I'm sure your first favorite kind of place is somethin' really shiny and pretty. Why don't you tell me all about it? Drinks on you - look at you, already bein' so generous and kind. I like that. Daisy, baby, why don't you cop someone else's joint for a while?" He kissed the dancer on the lips as she nodded and walk away, and he turned his attention to Oliver.

"You find any cuties in here ya fancy?"

Escapism. That's what this bar had always been to him, but lately it had become dark tourism. Haunts of former lovers, one night stands, and people whose name was on the tip of his tongue but lost to the sound of the music. Strip clubs were hardly of his taste, but the NDA was right up his alley. The bartender had his card on file, if not memorized, but who was watching his account enough to notice? Certainly not Oliver. He had bought drinks down the bar, hoping it would cause the ever present bodies to dissipate, give him room to breathe, no such avail. With a breathy sigh he pressed backwards into the crowd, drink in hand and eyes on constant swivel. Lev spotted her at the exact right moment, angry, charging, ready to make a scene.

Tiffany? Rachel? God why are there so many names? Hers was a hazy blank spot in the depths of his alcohol soaked memory. With a swift movement he was through the crowd, if there was one thing the young Allard had learned, it was how to get away from someone who was trying to confront him. For a final measure he would duck into one of the overcrowded booths. Icy blues surveyed his options, Batchelor party. Pass. Men that were enjoying the spectacle far too much. Hard Pass. Eyes land on a booth that seemed to be here for what he was, the drinking. Settled. Finishing off his drink in one fell swoop and allowing the glass to rest on a passing tray Oliver made his way to the booth, getting turned around at the last second by a burly man escorting a very guilty looking man towards the exit. Hip met table, and the sound of glass falling was all too audible in the too loud club.

Expecting was a fickle thing, knowing the clientele of this establishment, Ollie had his notions of what the reaction to a spilled drink would be, this was not that. A small smirk played out across his features, lighting his eyes, "all good over here" his voice was cool and calm, slender fingers reaching for the glass, placing it on the waitresses tray. An almost laugh leaving his lips, while he wasn't one to apologize, he was one to buy forgiveness "I'll do you one better, drinks for the table are on me, all night" He turned to the woman helping them "put this table on Allard, anything they want". With the moments business out of the way, he pushed himself into the open seat across from him. "favorite pants huh?" his eyes wandered slowly down his frame. "you wore your favorite pants to a place like this?" a small gesture to the place around them, "this is more of a fifth favorite pair kind of place" a small pause lingered, as he let his eyes slowly come back to Fosters face "no ones even going to see them" a sly grin teasing at his lips "not for long by someone that warms your sheets if you're fortunate, and not at all by the public if you're lucky"

[kissedashes]

Luckily for Foster, seeing a pretty lady there, even if she had gotten a drink all over him - made for a good enough night and a good enough story - and Foster was all about a good story. He smirked, shaking his head. "Don't worry yourself, darlin', it's all good. I got another pair of pants back at home. I don't mind as long as I get to meet some pretty girl. What's your name?" He asked, Foster sitting back down with a smirk on his face and a laugh. "Nah, it's fine - the napkins helped. Don't worry about it. Go on, sit - you want a drink or something? Ay, Mike! Can you get my friend whatever she likes?"

this is certainly not xirin's type of crowd. in fact, she wouldn't even be caught showing up at a place like this on a good day. it's supposed to be someone's birthday party; one of her costars' from an upcoming project that hasn't even begun filming yet, but everyone seems hellbent on a get-together to mingle and bond and for her to skip out on the invitation doesn't seem too nice now. though, now she thinks she's close to having a headache. she has nothing against the place, really. she just much prefers to laze around in bed all night and be a boring person. in an attempt to move past the growing pile of people dancing and snuggling up to each other, xirin barely has half the mind to watch out for the ones seated when she's too busy avoiding the moving and wriggling ones. the next thing she knows, she seems to be the cause of someone's misery of the night.

lucky for her, the other doesn't seem too mad. "oh my gosh, i'm so sorry." if she doesn't already look distressed, the strain in her voice surely does the trick. "are you okay-- i wasn't looking, i'm sorry." it seems like the only thing she could say, and she could only hope she sounds sincere despite the growing frown on her face. uncertain gaze trails over the male then, "um...you sure you want to just sit there? don't you need to let it dry or something?

[kissedashes]

wish on an eyelash : ̗̀➛ opened to all

Foster's producers, managers and all were pleading with him to keep a better image now that he was out of gambling rehab - but that didn't mean Foster had to be a perfect angel. By no means was Foster the perfect man - he liked his down time to be filled with good thrill, good liquor and good times - and what better place would that be than Wish On An Eyelash? Foster had his usual table, his own drinks flowing, people to fawn over him and life was good - as long as he had the money to cover it all. He was running low - which always was a trigger for him. Still, he kept up the facade well as he looked up from his drink and smiled, all before it spilled all over him.

"Aw, fuck, man. The wort party foul." Waitresses and all came to his rescue with napkins, but Foster only smiled that boyish smile and sighed. "Ay, shit like that happens. No big deal. You okay over there? Don't apologize - you can always just buy me a drink instead to make up for it. These are my favorite pants, so, uh - maybe two drinks?"

[kissedashes]

Go out and get back out there, they said. It'd be fun, they said. Go and introduce yourself back into society. That was what his manager had told him, his producers - and in all honesty, Foster didn't mind going back on the scene. He liked the admiration from his fans, from everyone that told him that he missed him - it filled something inside him that had to be great validation and confidence. Walking over to greet a few people he had managed to catch up on, Foster turned around and smiled, taking his sunglasses off to get a proper look at the mop of blonde curls that sat there.

"Sinclair? Fuck, man - fuckin' forever since I've seen you! What's up?" He exclaimed, smiling. "Oh, yeah - you quit the booze, didn't you? I forgot that. You and me, peas in a fuckin' pod - except mine were the cards." Foster clapped him on his back, letting out a chuckle. "How's it goin', kid?"

open to: everyone location: lounge bar at glass house

The torment was as close as he could get to resolution in his retaliation against his vices. Wiping his fingers along the stick of a bar counter after one too many drinks, biting into a lime or an olive to salivate at the anticipation of something stronger, listening to a slur and feeling it slick on is own tongue— Sinclair could relish it all from a distance. He carried some false sense of faith that as long as he didn't hold a drink, he could keep himself from stumbling out. Soon enough, just as his manager told him, he would have to walk into rooms like these and know how to act. He told himself this was what he needed to do in order to learn how not to behave, but survive. But as he leaned forward to ask for another cup of garnish, a heavier glass was put in his hand. He could smell the fumes of ever bridge that would burn under its influence. "For you, sent from over there," The bartender greeted him with the gift and a nod towards the other end of the bar. Sinclair turned his head away quickly, sliding the glass over to the person next him. Maybe they could skip the line with whatever prize sloshed over the the crystal edge lined with salt. "Take it," He said. "It's on me. I doubt whoever sent it over knows what I drink anymore."

[kissedashes]

The good old California sun. Coped up in that gamblers anonymous facility was never good for Foster and so the sun felt good on his skin. With sunglasses on, he toured the Venice Beach - a few people stopping him here and there for a few signings, but mostly - it was lowkey. He wanted to feel the sand underneath his feet and so Foster took off his boots and felt the sand - the way freedom felt to him, it was like this. Back where he grew up - there was no water, no sand. Just railroad tracks and dumpsters for miles. When the young kid stopped him, Foster did a double take and took off his sunglasses to look him up and down. At first, he thought he was a fan, but smirked when he asked the question.

"Judging by the look of you, kid - I'd say maybe under a year. You know how to? It's fuckin' killer out there. Nothin' better than California dreamin'."

status: open to everyone location: Venice Beach

California and Australia were not much of a change for Kennedy. The sun, the cities and the beaches were not much of a difference for him. But in California, Kennedy was free to do what he loved. Making music was his life passion. But that didn't mean he didn't get homesick from time to time. The sunny beaches were a bit of a comfort for him. It the same waters that he saw back in home. Kennedy wasn't going to deny he had this certain look, tall blonde and built physique. He looked like someone who could surf. He's been told that by multiple people, even a few of his bandmates. And today he was going to change that. Maybe.

He gotten so far as to renting a surf board. He had taken lessons before but they didn't go well that he didn't take them back up. But he learned enough to go on his own. Yet he was still standing on the beach. "Hey, quick question." Kenny turned to the person. "By just looking at me, how many years do you think I've surfed? For science."

[kissedashes]

JOSEPH QUINN for Esquire Singapore

[kissedashes]

~ * 𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙥𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙖𝙜?

NAME: Foster Underwood

AGE: Thirty

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis Male, He/Him

FACE CLAIM: Joseph Quinn

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual

EYE COLOR: Brown

HAIR COLOR: Brown

HEIGHT: 6'0"

DATE OF BIRTH: July 22nd, 1990 ZODIAC SIGN: Taurus  

LEVEL OF EDUCATION: High school freshman drop-out

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION:None

OCCUPATION: Drummer for Velvet Concord

HOMETOWN: Macon, Georgia

POSITIVE TRAITS: Loving, opened, nonjudgmental, adventurous.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Careless, indecisive, impulsive, aloof

~ * 𝙞 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙥𝙤𝙚𝙢𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚

tw: gambling addiction, physical abuse

Dirt poor. That was what Foster Underwood was growing up - and he never could seem to get that identifier away from him. Growing up in a town like Macon, where the most glamor was going to the local gas station to pick up an icee, Foster and his family could barely afford shoes. Foster was the youngest brother and boy of a family with six boys - and it was the loudest trailer park in the entire park. Combined with his parents fighting, his rowdy aunts and uncles coming over from their trailer with their screaming babies - it was safe to say that Foster was okay with loud noises ever since he could remember. He was always the comedian in his family, always willing to make his family laugh whenever there was too much going on. His mother in particular always needed a good laugh, seeing as she struggled with lupus and she needed all the distraction that she needed. When that wasn't good enough - music was what made his mother happy. He wasn't the best singer, but he loved music too - old tapes of The Cure, the Kinks, Radiohead, Blondie - they were always his mother's favorite. Music was always the way Foster dealt with his life, his hard time at school due to his own learning disability, the crowded tiny trailer park and not to mention, his father's drunken antics. When all of his brothers had left the trailer, moved into their own and whatnot and it was just Foster, his mother and him - Foster would antagonize his father so that he wouldn't hit his mother. It worked - but it hurt like hell.

All of his bad luck changed, however, the day he came across an old set of drums in the garbage. He was skateboarding and there they were - not too badly damaged whatsoever. Foster took them back to the trailer, showing them off to his mom as he kicked around with a few bangs and suddenly - it was like something had clicked. The power he felt with the sticks in his hands, the way that this could be his voice and his loud voice roaring over his chaotic family, his abusive father - everyone - it was powerful to say the least. There was nothing that held Foster back and he practiced on those old drums all night and all day - the rumblings of the trailer park having to listen to his noise for once. He learned from Metallica, ACDC, Pink Floyd - all of the greats and he couldn't get enough. Soon, as he entered his freshman year of high school, Foster had gone to some basement party to play some drums with a local band and a friend of his cousin was there. Little did Foster know, his friend's cousin's father worked in Los Angeles, connected to a few music acts and like that, it was magic.

Foster went over, a few towns over, to an expensive house, a beach house that belonged to his friend's cousin. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and the music producers that were there looked him up and down. With ratty shoes, holes in his band tee shirt and ripped jeans, he was certainly no heart throb, but there was something endearing about him - something effortless. He picked up the sticks for his drums and like the producers always said - the rest was history. It wasn't long that Foster dropped out of a high school - no great loss there, and was told to move to Los Angeles where his manager could sign him and put him up. It was hard to leave his mother, but she made him promise to go - to enjoy himself and remember where you came from. Foster did exactly that, and the country boy was off to Los Angeles where soon enough, there was a rock band that needed a drummer. The boys in the band were known as Velvet Concord and Foster liked their sound.

Again - the rest was history.

Fame was unlike any kind of drug that he had ever experienced. Foster had done coke, weed, some pills here and there - but fame? Fame was like nothing else - and money was the ultimate thing. The piles of money that he had now - it was unlike anything he had ever seen and the world of Los Angeles was a snake slithering. He was intoxicated by it all - while his other bandmates were into the drugs, the girls - Foster was all for the money. He bought new cars, a new fancy house, new clothes - it was a life he had never knew he could have. With that, came with his own issues - his gambling. Gambling and getting more money at expensive casinos was something that triggered something in him - the thrill, the impulse. Soon enough, he was gambling every single night after a shower and everyone knew he was. They would open doors for him, open entrance, but it wasn't long until his finances took a hit.

His band had to stage an intervention for him - and send him to rehab. Foster still never thought he had a problem, but the gold that he had turned to rot, turned to ashes in his mouth. He is back with the band, but Foster is not the same little boy from Macon, Georgia anymore - he wants the money, the fame, like a hungry monster. Still sweet, still overall a good man - but with the lights and fame and gold of Hollywood always in his eyes.

[kissedashes]

Joe Quinn meets Eddie Munsons heroes: Metallica!