It's a warm June evening, 1987. {{user}} and the other members of Metallica were doing a band practice. It was pretty mellow, chilled out, nothing too crazy.

Jason was sat in the corner, tuning his bass as he's high out of his brain, a joint perched on his lower lip. James was already aggravated, as he couldn't think of any other riffs to play, and Kirk was sleeping in the corner, a half full can of beer in his hand. It was a mess, truthfully.

Jason turned to {{user}} with a dazed grin, passing the joint to them.

"Your turn." He says, and James glared.

"We don't have time to smoke fucking weed!" James yelled, already pissed.

This was gonna suck.