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It was fairly easy for the four-foot-ten teenager to creep through the shrubbery surrounding one particularly famous man's home. Even though it was in the middle of the night, he felt safer hiding instead of walking up in the open. He kept his cool, despite being poked everywhere imaginable by sticks and twigs. It'd be worth it.

Upon reaching the doorstep, the man clambered out of the foliage and brushed himself off, sliding a few leaves out from in-between strands of his black hair. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a guitar pick and permanent marker, grasping them tightly in his left hand. With his right, he slowly brought his hand up to the doorbell, biting his lip as he tentatively rang it.

Inside, the said celebrity was feeding his cat, like any good man should. He threw the porcelain bowl up, alarmed, when he heard the doorbell ring. It plummeted to the earth and spilled vile cat food all over his pristine tile, which upset him to the nth degree. He stomped over to the door, unlocking and opening it violently, "What the f*** could anyone want at this hour?!"

The short man backed away a bit when his idol came out in a rage, clutching his things close to his chest, "I-I just w-w... M-my friend g-gave m-me the add-d-d-ress... I-I-I don't kn-n-ow.." he stuttered, absolutely terrified.

In the door, the singer blinked, putting one hand on the doorframe and pointing at his fan with the other, "Hey... Are you Twiggy's friend, then? Randy, or some-f***in-s***... He said something about someone coming over..." he trailed off.

"Well, uhhh, noooooo..." Scratching his head, he muttered, "I'm Frank..."

"... Frank. For f***'s sake... What do you want?" The singer groaned, crossing his arms and sighing.

Frank blinked, stepping forward and holding out his things, "I, uh, thought you might be able to sign this for me... I swear, I'm your biggest fan." He grinned painfully wide, "I'm shaking just standing this close to you..."

Having heard this time and time before, the musician would have normally slammed the door in the fan's face and went back to what he was doing, but this man seemed particularly quirky. He smirked and loomed over the teen, "Biggest fan, eh? Ironic then, isn't it..."

Frank narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man's shoes, as he didn't dare look up at him himself. "... Yes, I know, I'm short. If I'm interrupting something, I can leave, but would you just sign this?" He kind of sensed that the singer wasn't in the best of moods, and just waved the guitar pick in front of him instead of trying to argue over something meaningless.

"Actually, how about you come inside instead?" He offered, devising plan.

The teenager barely kept his jaw from dropping, spluttering, "Are you sure you're Marilyn Manson?!"

"Absolutely positive," the rocker opened up the door wider and stepped aside.

"Well... I mean, if you insist..." Frank blinked, shoving his things back into his pockets and cautiously sliding through the doorway. He was quite surprised by the size of the house, as it was much smaller than he had imagined. It was also whiter, and smelled a lot more like cat.

Manson closed and locked the door behind his 'guest' and ushered him past Lily, who was quietly munching on her spilled dinner. He led him into the living room, nodding for him to sit on the couch as he rushed over to a door on the other side if the room. "So, what the f*** gave you the idea of ringing my doorbell at two in the morning?"

Frank plopped down on the couch, being careful to keep his dirty converse off of the pale material. He looked up at the question, then glanced back down at his feet as he answered, "Uhh... I heard that you really don't sleep... Or at least you sleep during the day... And I thought this might be a good time..."

"That's an absolutely idiotic rumour, even if it is true." Manson chuckled, jiggling the doorknob for a bit before it swung open. He raced through the doorway and down a flight of stairs into nothingness, not asking Frank to come down with him or anything of the sort.

Awkwardly, the teenager remained seated in the living room as the musician disappeared. He crossed his legs and plucked lint off of his soiled skinny jeans, waiting as the minutes ticked by. Eventually he started to become anxious, and ventured off of the couch and over to the open door. He poked his head into the darkness, noticing a livid flashing off to the side, and assumed that Manson must still be down there. He proceeded downwards.

As Frank stumbled down the staircase, he started hearing wretched moans and groans, coming in the direction of the light. Put off, the teen raised an eyebrow, hopping down the last couple steps and moving cautiously forward, toward what looked like a television.

On the other side of the room, illuminated by the flashing video snippets displayed on the tube, Manson could be seen digging through a pile of objects in the corner. He poked his head up, alerted by the sound of the wooden steps creaking, then the rubber soles of Frank's shoes slapping on the concrete. He called out, "Sit down," and returned to his work.

"Uhhhhh..." Frank's eyes darted around the obscure room, searching for a seating structure of any kind. Quickly noticing a lone, wooden chair resting in-between himself and the rock star, he hastily parked himself in it.

Manson stood up after a few more minutes of shuffling around. He checked to make sure Frank was seated, then set a stack of old-school tapes beside the television.

"Are we, um, watching a movie?" the teen asked, confusion practically dripping off of his tongue as he scratched the back of his head, which was covered in shaggy black hair.

"You could say that." He slid an anonymous tape into the player and clicked it on. The awful video that had been playing switched off, and a blank black screen took its place instead.

Frank stared at the desolate screen, leaning forward with his hands between his knees. He tilted his head and sighed, uncomfortable in such darkness with this shady man.

Then, out of nowhere, the room illuminated in a gritty white explosion as the television portrayed a wrapped, writhing black figure on a blank background, a tube of water latched to its mouth. Improperly prepared, the teen slammed back into his seat, where he was quickly gagged and bound by the awaiting musician. His head was locked into place with a leather strap, forcing his eyes forward to watch the scene that felt like a bit of déjà vû.

Manson chuckled to himself in the background, listening to both the strained guitar playing on the tape and his own victim shrieking. He stalked back over to Frank, kneeling by his side, and rested a hand on his knee. The rocker reached up and planted a kiss on his cheek, lingering there for a moment to listen to his quick, ragged breathing. He felt hazel eyes boring into his skull and had to pull away, standing himself back up and whispering, "I'll be back... Not particularly soon, though."

He swiftly took off up the stairs, slamming the door behind his lanky frame and leaving the teenager to rot for the night.

Down in the basement, the tape quickly got stuck and repeated over and over, to Frank's utter dismay, the bound, vinyl figure, with the same three chords choking somewhere behind it.





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