♪ Do It for the Kids - Velvet Revolver

30th March, 2009, Monday

Slash eased the Aston Martin to a stop in front of the house, angling the rear towards the exit—a silent preparation for a quick escape if needed.

Laura, one of Perla's ever-present houseguests-slash-assistants, waved through the window, signaling the boys were on their way.

Slash exhaled quietly, tension leaving his shoulders. Perla wasn't home. After last night's blow-up, he'd rather chew glass than face her again.

His phone call with Perla after Vegas had been a minefield of fury. She demanded payback for his missed weekend with the boys. Slash's mind flashed to all the time he'd "lost" before—endless weekends and months devoured by his relentless schedule. Now, with physical distance between them, Perla wielded their children like weapons, each interaction calculated to provoke and wound. She was ruthless when chasing what she believed was hers, and unforgiving when denied.

Twice before, Perla had threatened to end things. Both times, Slash had been the one to patch the cracks, shouldering the blame. Now, with him initiating the split, her pride wouldn't let her beg. Her only move left was to invent irritations she thought would get under his skin.

If she thought mundane parental duties would rattle him, she was dead wrong. School drop-offs? No sweat. Their latest clash had erupted over Elton John's high-profile Oscars bash on Tuesday—an event Perla was desperate to attend. After a volcanic shouting match, he'd somehow talked her down, brokering a deal of extra carpool duty and more family dinners at home.

Driving back to his place in Woodland Hills, prepping for Eric's arrival, Slash's phone buzzed. Michael—aka Flea—flashed on the screen.

"Yeah," Slash answered, the call echoing through the car's speakers.

"What's up, my man!" Michael's voice was buzzed as usual.

"All good. You?"

"Grrreat! Dude, can you believe the doc says I need physiotherapy? Like I'm some geriatric old fart..."

Slash grinned, "Sounds about right."

"Ha-ha," Michael shot back. "Listen, I've got some fantastic news and I kinda want your blessing for it and shit."

Slash exhaled, "Make it quick, you're fuckin' interrupting my quality music time in my car."

"Gotcha! Alright. Remember that hot chick from your party?"

Slash arched an eyebrow, navigating towards the exit.

"...Told you I liked that band of hers," Michael blurted, a mischievous edge to his voice. "We're officially asking them to open for us this summer."

"Great. And you're telling me why?" Slash's smile was almost audible.

"Cos like, you brought us together. I owe you this much. And when I end up marrying her, I want you to be my best man and shit."

Slash chuckled, letting the moment hang.

"Unless... Unless like you have any objections, you know."

"Wish you all the happiness in the world, dude. You have my blessing." He steered right, the road stretching before him.

"Seriously. Don't tell her yet—they don't know a thing yet. Linda will reach out to their agent. You know who that is by the way?"

"Honestly, no. But Jake should know, he was in touch with someone on their team."

"Okay, I'll tell Linda. You're coming to Gary's party next week, right?" Michael pressed.

"Uh, not sure. It's not like I'm dying to see you!" Slash grinned.

"Go to hell, dipshit. You do belong there, anyway." Michael quipped.

Slash couldn't disagree. "I do, it's true. But I'm fuckin' positive you'll get there before me."

***

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," Eric said, "Let's call it a happy accident, even." He leaned against the stack of amps in Slash's studio, ears tuned to the chord that had wandered into the wrong verse.

"We could come back to it and see then," Slash replied, his focus on Eric tweaking the track's settings.

After their call with Alice Cooper, they dove back into their musical playground. Slash rubbed his palms together, restless energy crackling through him. "It's like each week, another song wraps up, and..." he trailed off, gaze distant. "...it's all moving so damn fast."

Eric's eyes lit up. "I know, right? Every time you show me something new, it feels like months have passed. And each track? Instant favorite material."

Slash nodded, a quiet pride in his eyes. "Yeah, I feel that too."

"Man, 'Troops of Resistance' is killer," Eric gushed, referencing the temporary title for Slash's collab with M. Shadows. "And 'Daylight Climax' is just so fuckin' cool."

"'Morning Climax,'" Slash corrected, lips quirking. "Yeah, that one's gonna be really good." He bent to snag a fallen guitar pick, a low groan escaping as he straightened. "The Ozzy track's a beast too. And the one with Fergie... I guess I've got a soft spot for each of 'em."

Eric, done fiddling with controls, collapsed into the leather chair. "We're clear this weekend, right? I'm off the hook?" He scratched his head lazily, hair mussed.

"Yeah," Slash chuckled. "I'm Texas-bound for South by Southwest."

"Sweet! SXSW!" Eric swiveled in the chair, grinning.

"Gotta squeeze in more work with Myles, Mia, and Beth between now and then," Slash mused, then cocked an eyebrow. "So... we done here or what?" His tone was light, teasing.

"Guess so," Eric stretched. "Keep me in the loop, yeah?" He hauled himself up.

They shared a smoke in the driveway, exchanging goodbyes. Slash glanced at his Rolex—six already. He had to bolt for soon for dinner at Sam's place.

***

Sam, like Matt Carter, was one of Slash's ride-or-die friends. A year ahead at Fairfax High, they'd logged countless detention hours together.

With Sam's wife Gale out of town, he'd rallied the troops for a guys' night: Slash, their mutual buddies Kevin, and Louie—all Laurel Canyon kids from back in the day.

Kevin worked as a Location Manager at MGM. Louie, another Fairfax High alum, had slapped the bass in one of Slash's first bands, "Tidus Sloan", back when they were 16. Now he juggled graphic design and teaching gigs at Otis. Sam and Gale had ruled the pet grooming scene in the '80s and '90s. These days, Sam ran a dog training center while Gale flipped houses like pancakes.

Their wildly different careers belied a shared past—BMX-riding, rebellious teens with a knack for five-finger discounts and graffiti. None of them could've predicted they'd hit their forties sober, married, juggling kids and a few grey hairs.

"Courtesy of Matt Carter," Sam announced, unveiling a mountain of pastrami sandwiches.

"Ran into him at Whole Foods yesterday," Kevin chimed in. "Told him we'd roast his ass tonight."

Slash, nose buried in his Twitter feed, barely registered the conversation.

"Hey!" Sam's knuckles rapped the table sharply. "Enough with the damn phone."

Slash smirked, tucking his Blackberry next to his Diet Coke.

Sam turned to the group, bread crumbs clinging to his beard. "Guess what! I'm this guy's arm candy for a swanky shindig tomorrow!"

"Which one is it, you lucky, lucky boy?" Louie asked, lighter flicking to life.

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Elton John's Oscar party!" he crowed, mock beer sloshing in his grip.

Kevin's eyes darted to Slash. "Wow. Sam instead of Perla... You two really are done, huh?"

Slash's gaze dropped, shoulders tight. "Yeah, I don't fuckin' care honestly."

Louie's hand found Slash's shoulder. "Not like I disliked her or anything, but when it's over, it's over." His words carried the weight of fresh wounds.

"Well," Sam cut in, a hint of guilt in his voice, "...can't say I'm complaining."

Slash leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Look, I was gonna take her originally. Convincing her otherwise was a fucking nightmare, but we swapped her invite for Sam's."

"Duff and his missus will be there," Sam added, almost as an afterthought.

Slash nodded, lips tightening as he reached for a smoke.

"Ouch," Kevin winced. "Those girls are tight, right? Talk about awkward..."

Slash's eyebrows shot up. "Awkward? Why the fuck would it be awkward?"

Kevin's hands flew up, surrendering the point.

Slash shook his head as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Some fuckin' reunion this is," he muttered, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wry smile that betrayed more amusement than annoyance.

Kevin nudged the salt shaker toward Slash, the metal bottom scraping against the wood with a low, sharp sound. Louie stubbed out his cigarette, the night stretching out before them—messy, complicated, but somehow still tied together.

***

23:52

Clad in his comfy black Chrome Hearts sweatpants, Slash was itching to play. In the studio, he played for an hour before going upstairs. Brushing his teeth, he found himself caught in a web of thoughts. He felt lonely, stripped down to its simplest form. He had not lived alone for more than a decade, and his current living situation felt more like a temporary checkpoint than an actual shift in residency. This space echoed with the emptiness of a lodge, a transient hotel room rather than a home. The stillness, where the hum of family life should have been, was almost oppressive. The stark realization that his guitar was his only anchor to sanity  made the emptiness cut even deeper.

As he was about to spit the toothpaste, a thought struck—clean and merciless as a bullet.

What if this precarious balance tipped him backwards? What if he stumbled back into the pit of addictions he'd clawed his way out of?

His mind raced, thoughts spiraling dark and relentless. He swiped the plush towel across his face and found himself in the guest room next door, feet moving on autopilot.

It was safe to call it a large room without a defined purpose. A dust-covered double bed dominated one side, clearly never slept in. The rest felt like a half-hearted attempt at... something. A lonely Monster Bash pinball machine stood sentinel. Blue dumbbells lay scattered, more like abandoned toys than workout gear. A treadmill and bench press completed the sad tableau of good intentions gone to seed. He'd ordered this fitness equipment with the same detached efficiency one might buy pencils. Working out was a box to tick, nothing more.

Without hesitation, he mounted the treadmill and started a steady jog.

His fingers found Van Halen's "Top Jimmy" on the mp3 display.

As he ran, eyes scanning the soulless room, something clicked. This undefined space was a metaphor, and change wasn't just possible—it was non-negotiable.

***

31st March, 2009, Tuesday

Slash had retrieved his dad from Silver Lake, Tony wanting to check on his ex-wife in the hospital. They visited Ola in Santa Monica, where despite her resolute positivity, the doctors remained guarded about her trajectory. Outside her room, her physician offered measured counsel—patience as their primary strategy.

After dropping Tony back at his house, Slash drove directly to Woodland Hills. By 1 pm, four cigarettes had dissolved into ash—each one a nervous tick, a physical manifestation of his internal turbulence. Seeking sanctuary, he turned to Jessica, his favorite guitar. His fingers traced the strings, extracting whatever creative remnants still lingered. When the musical well ran dry, he retreated upstairs. The pinball machine's metallic clicks punctuated a perfunctory workout, each movement mechanical, deliberate.

Helplessness clung to him like a second skin. This new lifestyle chafed—an ill-fitted suit hanging loosely around his restless frame. Not touring. Separated from his kids. Uncertain how to fill the endless hours beyond guitar strings and muscle memory. These fragments crystallized into a potent cocktail of inadequacy. Actively preventing himself from sliding back into old habits, from drowning boredom in alcohol. This internal struggle was no casual skirmish; it was raw survival.

His sole commitment for the day: attending Elton John's Oscars party with Sammy.

Depleted and coming down from his creative surge, he surrendered to a nap. Afterward, a shower transformed into careful preparation. Product massaged into his long, wet curls, wrapped in a towel. Then the outfit: a dapper, custom-made black and gray suit with subtle snakeskin-like accents, rendering him ready for whatever challenges awaited.

Managing his signature hair for high-profile events was a skill nearly forgotten during his years with Perla. She'd always known how to choreograph glamour, Bruno—her talented stylist—perpetually waiting in the wings. Slash had always resisted such meticulous styling, yet had grown accustomed to looking effortlessly cool.

Damn. Today felt different. Whether it was a monumentally bad hair day or the cloud of negative energy surrounding him, he looked—felt—awful. After multiple attempts, he abandoned the hat, instead pulling his hair into a rather clean, low ponytail. Silver hoop earrings, a leathery cologne completing the look. "I'm a fuckin' pimp," he thought with a hint of self-deprecating humor. But acceptable, especially since he was officially running late.

By 7 pm, he stood before Sam's door. A brief chat with Gale, then they departed for the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood.

Truthfully, Slash had anticipated Sam might look underdressed—a miscalculation that brought a grudging respect. Despite balding hair and a beer belly, Sam looked remarkably sharp in a black Versace suit, defying every expectation.

Walking the red carpet with Sam was a strategic battlefield though. For formal events, bringing a significant other was standard protocol. But Slash, seasoned in media navigation, intuited exactly which reporters might attempt to stir controversy about his wife. His responses emerged calculated, detailed—diving into insights about his solo album and Velvet Revolver's current hiatus, effectively neutralizing potential narrative minefields.

***

The cocktail hour unfolded like a celebrity carousel. Barely fifteen seconds in, Slash and Sam were engaged by Gordon Ramsay and Simon Cowell. They soon found Richard Stark, launching into a more animated conversation. Slash made sure to greet Elton John with genuine warmth.

The guest list read like a living, breathing Hollywood yearbook: Eva Longoria's petite elegance, Kate Hudson's California sunshine, Salma Hayek's magnetic presence. Slash existed as his own gravitational center. Photographers swarmed like insects, capturing moments with Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, Justin Timberlake, Katy Perry and Cameron Diaz.

Sam wilted visibly, consuming Godiva chocolates with increasing desperation. While attempting to reconnect with his reluctant "date", Slash found himself nudged into a photo with "24" actor Kiefer Sutherland— delightfully personable, balancing a razor's edge between humor and intensity.

More photographs followed—from Ben Stiller to Heidi Klum...

For someone intrinsically shy, this was performance at its most demanding. He counted breaths, waiting for dinner's promised reprieve.

Next up was the heart of the event: Silent Auction. The yearly event's punchline was for a good cause: The Elton John AIDS Foundation. Slash bid generously on jewelry and a leather jacket.

Finally, after mingling around the merch tables, it was time for dinner.

Dinner's seating was a carefully curated rock 'n' roll family portrait. Duff and Susan, Chris Cornell and Vicky, Chester Bennington and Talinda, Chrome Hearts founder Richard Stark and Laurie —a constellation of rock'n'roll royalty.

Being the only one with a "friend" instead of his wife felt slightly off-key, but Slash knew this crowd. No judgment lived here.

The conversation shifted to how all musicians at the table contributed to Slash's upcoming album.

"Although Dave's not here..." Duff noted, his hand intertwined with Susan's.

"Yeah, cause guess what, we're odd ones out!" Richard's laugh cut through the tension. "Me and Laurie..."

Sam's voice slipped in, "And me..."

As dinner progressed, Elton John performed, other artists joining—a Hollywood synergy both genuine and performative. Waiters moved like synchronized dancers, plates appearing and disappearing in perfect rhythm.

Slash studied his "Roasted Veal with Morel Mushroom and Truffle Cream Sauce," fork poised, when a muffled "Hey... Hey!!" pierced the ambient noise. Twenty feet away, Kiefer Sutherland's eyes locked onto him—a strange, sinister grin spreading like a warning.

Assuming it wasn't meant for him, Slash ignored the call, fork diving into the mushrooms.

Seconds later, a hissed "pssst"—neither whisper nor shout—cut through the room's soft murmur. The same voice. The same target.

"Hey!" Kiefer's voice, now direct.

"Hey... Sup?" Slash responded, wariness coiling beneath his words.

"Enjoying your meal, Slash?" Kiefer slurred, emphasizing the name.

Slash kept his cool. A noncommittal hum. A single nod.

"Hey, I'm talkin' here!" Kiefer pressed, persistence becoming aggression.

Slash breathed deeply. "Yeah, talk to me."

"Who the fuck you think you are, SLASH from Guns 'n fuckn' Roses?" The challenge erupted, over-enunciated, loud enough to draw peripheral glances.

"Shit..." Slash mumbled, utensils abandoned. Sam tensed, ready to intervene.

"Yeah, you heard me! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU MAN?? Just a HAS BEEN. Your time's gone, you know..."

Slash's nostrils flared, fists clenching.

"Hey, ignore him," Richard murmured, eyes tracking Kiefer's unraveling performance.

Duff, Chester, and Chris exchanged looks—a mixture of confusion and secondhand embarrassment.

The Killers performed with Elton, a musical backdrop to Slash's internal struggle to keep it together.

"You're not cool, homeboy.... You're not cool, you're a ...." Kiefer's rant cut short by his mortified daughter. "Dad, stop," pleaded the young woman.

Slash watched in disbelief, wishing he could just vanish.

"Let go of me," Kiefer snapped, turning back to Slash. "You... leave her alone alright? You're not that good! Stay the fuck away or you're in for a....!" 

Two security guards arrived just in time, attempting to calm Kiefer down. He somehow convinced them to let go of him and allow him to stay.

The table froze. Appetite evaporated.

As Elton left the stage, Slash signaled Sam. A quick thanks to the host, a hurried exit—not even waiting for Sam.

Outside, a cigarette became sanctuary. Slash pondered past public confrontations, noting the strange novelty of handling this while completely sober.

Kiefer's motivation remained a mystery. Slash concluded he might be Team Axl Rose.

Sam appeared. They drove into the night's embrace, Hollywood's chaos dissolving in the rearview mirror.

***

1st April, 2009, Wednesday

08:22

"Hey," Slash called out as London sprinted towards the school gate, morning sunlight catching the worn edges of the parking lot. "Don't forget this!" He reached across the passenger seat, snagging London's bag of April Fools pranks and holding it out the window. 

"Thanks. See ya!" London called back, breath coming in quick bursts as she snatched the bag and disappeared through the school entrance.

En route to Eric's studio, Slash pulled out his phone and dialed Sam, Sunset Boulevard cutting its familiar path through the city.

"Knew you'd call me right this instant!" Sam answered, a clatter of metal tools punctuating each word in the background.

Slash chuckled, the sound warm and slightly rough. "You did? What's up?"

"Been..." Sam grunted, "...cleaning rain gutters. Havin' a ball"

"Sounds like it," Slash quipped, stopped at a red light. He lit a cigarette, the dashboard's faded plastic glowing amber for a split second.

"Figured you'd call since we couldn't really dissect what went down last night..."

"Exactly," Slash smirked, the previous evening's chaos still sharp in his mind. "What a shit show that was. I felt like an ass leaving early."

"Well, it was either that or a full-on brawl at a fuckin' black tie event," Sam replied, matter-of-fact.

"That was so annoying, man," Slash mumbled, one hand loose on the steering wheel. "I shoulda just smacked his ass."

"You know, I have a theory," Sam said.

"Shoot."

"Remember he kept saying like, 'leave her alone'? My girl Gale here did some digging. Ready?"

"All ears," Slash mumbled, watching a pigeon dart between parked cars.

"We think he's pissed about you hanging out with his ex."

"Huh? Who?"

Sam drew out the moment. "That girl Mia, dude. She was dating that Jack Bauer guy. Apparently he's not over her and..."

Slash interrupted, skepticism cutting through. "Hold up. That makes zero sense. Even if true, why would he even think-"

"Some gossip from your Vegas party must've reached him. Someone who knows the guy, musta had some ideas, " Sam concluded.

"That's insane," Slash scoffed. "Who'd fuckin' do that?"

"Get this... Tabloids say he got kicked out right after us, hit a bar, got more wasted, and caused an even bigger scene."

Slash, already done with the topic, approached the studio. Potholes jolted the car's suspension. "What can I say, you fuckin' solved the case."

"My pleasure," Sam replied. "Gale says hi, and asks you to watch out for Kiefer's exes."

Slash grinned. "I'll try my best."

***

Waiting for Eric, Slash finished a cigarette in the backyard, thumb scrolling through Twitter. The concrete patio radiated heat, scattered with faint cigarette ash. Inside the studio, his guitar tech made final adjustments—cables coiled like precise serpents beside each instrument.

Slash decided to return Juno's call, twirling a frayed guitar pick between his fingers as they discussed his Texas trip itinerary.

With the call complete and Eric running late, Slash went inside and picked up his Gibson Les Paul Goldtop. 

His fingers found the fretboard, initially aiming for an E minor progression for "Kill the Ghost"—today's designated project. But music rarely follows a predetermined path.  His hand drifted, pulling him toward an A minor, then sliding into a D chord progression.

The amp hummed, translating internal landscapes into sound. This wasn't just playing—it was translation. Emotions too complex for words found their voice through vibrating strings, a language more honest than speech.

Unexpected turns emerged. Without conscious decision, he slipped into the bridge of "The Morning Climax", moving toward the solo. Back and forth, he traveled through well-worn musical territories, each note a word in a conversation with himself.

The solo lived rent free in his muscle memory, but today demanded refinement. A minor, F, G sharp—he repeated the sequence. Gliding, probing, searching for something just beyond reach. Each repetition added depth, like a sculptor chiseling away unnecessary stone.

The climax remained elusive. Not quite there, but approaching. Close enough to taste its potential.

Eric entered as Slash's tension dissolved. Music had done its work—translating internal chaos into something coherent, something beautiful. More powerful than any chemical escape, more precise than any spoken confession.

He knew exactly how to chase this spark of inspiration that led him to this song. And he knew what he had to do next to get there.