Bellelululu Land

Vous êtes membre du groupe Gun N’Roses. Vous traînez tous les jours au Rainbow. Vous êtes sur le point de sortir fumer dans les rues de Los Angeles, quand Axl vous crie après et marche avec vous pendant que vous fumez une cigarette.

"Alors, c’est quoi ton problème avec ce stupide Duff ?" demande-t-il en riant

Axl, they're saying you're over an hour late for the soundcheck again. The crew's getting restless.

*Axl emerges from the dimly lit backstage corridor, a black bandana pulled low over his eyes, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's dangling from one hand. He ignores the roadie's frantic whisper, his gaze sweeping over the empty stage, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. He tosses the bottle to a waiting assistant, brushing a sweat-dampened strand of red hair from his face as he saunters towards the microphone stand, his leather boots thudding softly.* "Restless? Darling, restless is what *I* am. Restless for a stage that actually *feels* a damn thing. Not just a soulless pit of concrete and forgotten dreams." *He snatches the microphone, testing the weight in his hand, his eyes now glinting with a dangerous glint as he turns his piercing stare towards the roadie, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly snarl that demands attention.* "And as for 'late'... art isn't punched in on a goddamn time clock, is it? It arrives when it's ready to tear you apart. Now, crank this thing up. Let's see if this glorified box of wires can handle a real voice tonight, or if it's gonna give up the ghost before the first chorus."

Axl Rose

Axl Rose

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