"Twiggy?" A steady, masculine voice called out as the carrier of the voice walked slowly through the seemingly never-ending corridor. His own voice echoed against the walls and back to him again. Empty and hollow; as if someone had died there just moments ago.

The bearer of the voice was a tall, lanky man with mismatched eyes, chalk-white face, and full lips that had been painted over with a thick coat of lipstick. He took long, heavy strides slowly, each step possessing a certain grace that could never be imitated by anything or anyone.

Marilyn Manson. The God of Fuck, the Antichrist Superstar, the supposedly mental corrupter of the youth. He seemed lost now, amidst this empty, abandoned corridor of the rather spacious building that his current manager and co-producer had rented for the purpose of the making of the band's new album.

For a moment, he considered to just give up finding his bassist. Maybe Twiggy was not even anywhere in this building, anyway. For the love of hell, he could be running rampant in the city by now; piss-drunk and probably trying to befriend another homeless person he would so amiably refer to as Joe, regardless of the real name of the poor sod.

This corridor seemed deserted, as though it was one of the very few undiscovered areas on earth. Except for the broken whiskey bottle in front of a door.

Cautiously, he walked over to the door where the remains of the bottle were lying nearby. The sweet, sharp smell of whiskey burned his nostrils as he stood right before the remains.

There was no sound coming out from behind the door. He even doubted that Twiggy would be behind it. But slowly, he brought up a hand to the door and started knocking gently. He rapped the door politely three times before turning the knob and stepping in.

He found what he had been looking for in the last three hours. And almost wished he hadn't.

Twiggy was lying on the floor, with a heap of old newspapers and rags to serve as his pillow. He was holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey over his stomach, though he had probably spilled most of the content all over himself and the room.

Marilyn scrunched up his nose in disapproval at this sight. Twiggy had done this one too many times; pranced off from the rehearsals when he decided he was bored, did some drugs, swigged some alcohol, then pass out in places where people would least expect to find him. His heart did not seem to be with the band anymore. His bass playing was going downhill due to the excessive usage of cocaine and various other drugs he had somehow obtained, aside from the ones that Marilyn had provided through the dealer he knew and trusted.

Slowly, as though not to wake up this drug-addled child who was knocked unconscious on a heap of papers and rags, Marilyn made his way to approach his bassist. He knelt down and began shaking Twiggy while calling his name.

"Twiggy," he shook the drunk, ragged man who was lying before him. There was no response from Twiggy. If it weren't for the little snores that were escaping through his slightly open mouth, Marilyn would have thought he was trying to rouse the dead from its eternal sleep. "Twiggy, wake up." He shook Twiggy harder, and even took the trouble to pull the limp bassist to sit up. "Twiggy, wake the fuck up," his usually soft voice was gradually morphing into a growl.

Quite suddenly, Twiggy's eyes fluttered open and he looked straight into Marilyn's eyes. His mouth moved a little as if he was trying to speak, but instead of words, a loud burp escaped his lips. His breath reeked of alcohol, and it blew directly to Marilyn's face, as he was only inches away from Twiggy's foul mouth.

Marilyn, apparently disgusted by this behaviour, frowned and threw Twiggy back down upon the heap of trash he had lain on before. He cast an angry glare at his supposedly best friend before turning around and making an indignant exit out of the room, slamming the door as he walked out.