Title: Ghost Story
Fandom/pairing: AC/DC/no pairings.
Summary: Camping, ghost stories and a homophobic drummer. What an interesting little trip.
Warnings: My interpretation of Phil somehow turned out to be a homophobic hate monger, so there are quite a few slurs in here. This does not, however, reflect my real views on homosexuals, it just made sense for the character.
Disclaimers: The characters presented in this story, while actual people, are presented in a fictional manner and are no way endorsed by the people they are based upon.
Sparks shot into the air as Brian threw another log onto the fire. Cliff and Malcolm, both of whom had been sitting close, fell backwards off their log and Brian, Angus and Phil started to laugh.
“You blokes think you’re hair’s gonna catch fire, do ya?” Brian asked.
“Son of a bitch, Brian, watch what you’re doing,” Malcolm said, brushing dirt out of his hair and climbing back on the log.
“Yeah, Brian,” Cliff said, “that really could have set our hair on fire, you know.”
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry, you guys,” Brian said, sitting down.
“What a bunch of queers you all are,” Phil said, lighting a cigarette.
“Says the guy who’s smoking a fag,” Angus said with a grin.
“Watch it, Angus, I’ll knock your face in.” Phil started to get off his log.
“Children, please!” Cliff said with a laugh and leapt off his log to stand between Angus and Phil. “Please, guys, remember why we’re here. We’re just here to relax.”
“Yeah guys,” Brian said, getting up and putting an arm around Phil’s shoulders. “Just here to relax, have some laughs and tell a few ghost stories.”
“Ghost stories, eh?” Phil asked, shrugging Brian off and sitting back down. “I got a ghost story’ll make you sissified Tweety Birds cry for your mums.”
“Alright then, big shot,” Malcolm said, “let’s hear it.”
“Fasten your seatbelts, faggots,” Phil said, jamming another cigarette into his mouth and lighting it, “you’re about to go for a ride.”
“Look at me shake in my shorts,” Angus said.
Phil ignored him and instead took a long, hard drag on his cigarette, causing the tip to flare brightly. The smoke was coming out of Phil’s nose now even as he dragged more in.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Phil said, casting a glare at Angus and snorting more smoke in his general direction, “this story is a story which, by all reports, is true.” He now reached into his pocket and drew out a small, square cake and continued. “This story is called ‘The Tale of the Glasgow Witch.’” He threw the cake into the fire, which flared up violently and turned a bright green.
“Glasgow?” Cliff said with a gulp. “W-we’re right near there!”
“I know. Do I get to continue? Good. It all started about 150 years ago….”
Phil didn’t take his time getting into the thick of his story. Before long, he was jumping around the campsite, illustrating the best points with gestures and various body language. As he talked, his band mates began to become visually scared. Brian pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Angus, sitting closest to Phil, kept jumping and uttering little yelps as Phil got right into his face. Cliff and Malcolm, sharing a log, moved closer to each other.
“….And they say, sometimes, in the dead of night, when you think all is just fine and dandy with the world, you will hear the Witch moan and shriek as she searches for the next victim of her terrible curse,” Phil said, plopping back down on his log and crossing his arms, a sly grin crossing his face. “So, scared enough yet?”
“Just about stained my knickers, mate,” Brian said, not looking at Phil, not wanting to see the triumphant smile on his face.
“You sure know how to spin a yarn,” Angus said.
“And how about you two faggots?” Phil asked, nodding in Malcolm and Cliff’s direction. At some point during the story, without either one of them really being aware, Cliff and Malcolm had gotten so close that Cliff was now resting his head on Malcolm’s shoulder. Phil’s words seemed to jolt them out of their terrified daze. They glanced at each other, gave a little yelp, and slid quickly to opposite ends of the log.
“What the fuck were you doing, you fucking fairy?” Malcolm asked Cliff.
“Don’t really know…..” Cliff said.
“Look,” Phil said, jamming yet another cigarette in his mouth, “if you two queerbos are gonna fuck later, just don’t do it too loud, okay? Some of us decent folk want to sleep.” Malcolm glared at Phil.
“If looks could kill, mate, you’d be dead as a doornail,” Brian laughed.
“Well, I guess I get to live to die another day. Too bad I have to spend it with all you cock-cramming losers.” Phil stood up from his log and grinned. “You all know I love you,” he said, climbing into his tent. He was just about to zip himself in when he stuck his head out and, with a big grin, said “of course, I don’t love you quite as much as you stupid cum suckers love each other,” indicating Malcolm and Cliff. “Sweet dreams, losers,” he said and zipped himself in.