Chapter Nine: Peacemaker

(3309 words)

“Hey, baby.” I was hugged from behind as Tré said that. I twisted around, hugging him back and chastely kissing him on the lips. He smirked at me. “Is that a tease or a promise for later?”

“I dunno, but I sure as hell think it’s a promise for later.”

“I, for one, like the sound of that.”

“I do, too.” Just as I said that, I smirked and grabbed Tré’s arm, dragging him out into the basement that served as the meeting place for the Class of Thirteen. Dark grey concrete walls were lined with old band posters and images of revolutionary figures. A few newer newspaper articles plastered the smooth walls, mostly reports on us, but some detailing the exploits of Whatsername and the Underbelly. There was one image up there, one that always made me wince, of a younger me standing with Whatsername, one arm wrapped around his waist.

Back then, however, I looked very, very different, so I was able to slide through without question of whether I was the Saint Jimmy or not. And for that I was grateful.

The article’s headline read “Whatsername Continues Wreaking Havoc in Northern California,” and the photo was captioned as, “Whatsername and her current boyfriend, the Saint Jimmy.” It was an article that I’d read dozens of times, first in pride and then in shame. It was practically engraved in my brain by that time in my life, two or three years after it had been published.

I was not at all proud of anything that’d happened with the Underbelly, and I always tried to direct the conversation in another direction if that time was ever brought up. I hated thinking about it, let alone remembering or talking about what had happened when I was 15. No one knew how important I was, or how I was the one who drove Whatsername away, but still…

I pulled myself out of my old reverie as my feet stopped shuffling against the drab tiles and hit the creaky old wood and decaying cardboard and rusty nails of the makeshift stage that I practically performed (holy fuck was that a strange alliteration) on. Carefully as I could, I walked up the steps and onto the uneven wooden planks that were my lifeline at the moment. I stepped over to the shitty old mic and raised my hands in the air.

“Who are we?!” I asked them all into the microphone, drawing their attention through speakers improvised from ancient amps built with spare parts.

“We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen!” every single one of them chanted back at me. “Born in the era of humility! We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of nineteen sixty nine!”

I grinned and lowered my hands, shaking some loose hair that had evaded my search for spikes out of my eyes. “Who are we?!” I asked once more. “I couldn’t hear you!”

This time, their roar was deafening: “We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen! Born in the era of humility! We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of Nine! Teen! Sixty! Nine!” Their chanting music faded out after the emphasis at the end.

“I fuckin’ heard you that time!”

The Class of Thirteen, in unison, cheered and slapped each other high fives. I silenced them by saying, “Well, I hope you’re pumped for the riot this weekend!”

They stopped speaking immediately, listening with rapture to every word I said, some of the faster ones scribbling words down on old sheets of notebook paper half covered in physics equations, the others just staring at me.

“We’re going to show the world all we’ve fucking got tomorrow! No longer will we be second best after the Underbelly and the run away Whatsername! No longer will our words and thoughts and speeches be censored! For tomorrow,” I was silent for a minute, building up the tension that gathered and sounded like a million buzzing, waiting bees. “Tomorrow, we shall fight!”

Everyone screamed and chanted and simply fucking roared now, in triumph and in protest. Our legendary, notorious chant rippled through the room again, like a choir badly singing a chanted round. “…the bastards of nineteen sixty nine!” shouted the last part, throwing us back into a sickening silence (fuck all these damn alliterations).

“We won’t be hailed as a poor imitation of the Underbelly, not after tomorrow! Tomorrow, it’ll be bigger -- better! -- than ever and tomorrow we’ll fuckin’ show ‘em all that we’re not damn write offs! Bombs and guns, fire and blood! We’re gonna show ‘em that the Class of Thirteen can and they will fight back! Who’s with me?!” I shouted into the mic.

Yet again, the deafening roar filled the room, bouncing off the walls and assaulting our ears. However, I didn’t care and just went with it. “So, y’know, there’s a few great site with instructions on how to make Molotov cocktails, and bombs, and some on making Fourth of July firecrackers into lethal weapons! We’re gonna burn it all down, we’re gonna stop these fuckin’ pickpocket, prejudiced thieves from running our government! Remember -- they don’t have our consent to rule and we were all too young when Bush -- the worst president the United States of fucking America’s ever had -- was voted in! We’re gonna tear it all down and they can’t stop us!”

I grinned at them, throwing my arms back in the air and looking up at the sky, as if in prayer. “Anyone who disagrees, anyone not with us on this, you better leave. Leave now -- or forever hold your fuckin’ peace because this is your first and last and only chance!”

No one moved. Every single member of the Class of Thirteen stayed where they were, faces looking upward at me and confidently at each other, ready to wreak havoc on the establishment, on Starfuckers Inc., on Californication. We were going to hit a nerve in the government if it took all that we had.

It reminded me of an old rhyme sung about St. Jimmy, “…here to represent the needle in the vein of the establishment.” I guess I was partially embracing my old, more violent persona with this decision. It’s not like I could have gone back on my words once I’d said that, anyway. We were going to bring it all down or die trying. Just like Whatsername, just like St. Jimmy, just like the Underbelly. And at that point, I really didn’t give a fuck as I melded into the energy of the Class of Thirteen and prepared us all to tough it out and create the storm. A season we’d all remember, that would go down in history textbooks -- good or bad.

They quietly start to talk amongst themselves, and I coughed quickly into the microphone, grabbing their attention immediately.

“How many of you have guns?”

Hands shot up. “You all willing to donate them to the fucking cause?”

A chorus of cheers and shouts and affirmations rained out from the crowd. I grinned at them. “Great. Let us rain fire on this hell of a world and show ‘em that we’re not taking it for granted!”

There was yet another cheer that deafened the room.

“This is a poem I wrote,” I said. “It’s called ‘Peacemaker,’ ‘cause even if they get a damn peacemaker on the scene -- it’ll be useless!”

I read the first few words, “Well, I’ve got a fever, a non-believer. I’m in a state of grace. For I am the Caesar, I’m gonna seize the day! Well call of the banshee -- hey, hey -- as God is my witness the infidels are gonna pay!
“So call the assassin, the orgasm, a spasm of love and hate. For what will divide us -- the righteous and the weak. Well, call of the wild --!”

They answered me this time: “Hey, hey!”

“And death to the ones at the end of the serenade! Vendetta -- sweet vendetta -- this Beretta of the night! This fire, and the desire -- well, shots ringing out on the holy parasite!
“I am a killjoy from Detroit, I drink from a well of rage. I feed off the weakness with all my love! Well, call of the captain!”

Again they answered: “Hey, hey!”

“Well, death to the lover that you were dreaming of. Now this is a stand off! Molotov cocktails -- on the house! You thought I was a write off, you better think again! Well, call the PEACEMAKER!”

“Hey, hey!”

“I’m gonna send you back to the place where it all began! Vendetta -- sweet vendetta -- this Beretta of the night! This fire, and the desire -- well, shots ringing out on the holy parasite!”

I paused for a moment, catching my breath before I launched in to the last few stanzas. “And now the caretaker’s the undertake so I’m gonna go out and get a fucking PEACEMAKER! -- this is a neo Saint Valentine’s massacre! So call of the Gaza!”

“Hey, hey!” the Class of Thirteen chanted once more.

“And death to the ones at the end of the serenade! Well, death to the ones at the end of the serenade!” I slowed down for my last line: “Oh, death to the ones at the end of the se-re-” I paused for a moment here, before picking up my pace and screaming the last part once more: “--NADE!”

I threw my arms up in the air once more as I held the scream and everyone started cheering. Already I felt a beat in those words, and I grinned as what I perceived to be a song began forming in my head. My triumph was only spurred on by the gleaming eyes and sweat soaked hair of the Class of Thirteen. I felt truly unstoppable, now.

“They won’t be able to stop us!” I shouted. “Say it with me!”

It was more than deafening now: “WE ARE THE CLASS OF, THE CLASS OF THIRTEEN! BORN IN THE ERA OF HUMILITY! WE ARE THE DESPERATE IN THE DECLINE! RAISED BY THE BASTARDS OF NINE! TEEN! SIXTY! NINE!”

“And you know who I am?” I asked them. Before they could answer, I started singing a short song I’d written, well, just the beat of since I knew (and still do not know) a single thing about music theory. “My name is No One, the long lost son! Born on the Fourth of July! Raised in this era of Heroes and Cons that left me for dead or alive! I am a nation, a worker of pride -- my debt to the status quo! The scars on my hands and a means to an end, it’s all that I have to show! I swallowed my pride and I choked on my faith -- I’ll give it my heart and my soul! I’ve broken my fingers and lied through my teeth, the pillar of damage control! I’ve been to the edge and I’ve thrown the bouquet of flowers left over the grave. I’ve sat in the waiting room, wasting my time, waiting for judgment day.
“I praise liberty. The Freedom to Obey is the song that strangles me… well don’t cross the line…”

By the end of it, everyone was really screaming, saying all they needed to, giving it all they had. I threw my arms up in the air one last time before screaming a “THANK YOU!” and jumping off stage. Before anyone could assault me, I darted through the door, shut it, and locked it. Tré stood there, and caught me in an embrace.

“That was fucking spectacular, Gloria!”

No one ever called each other by their real name, not here.

I gave him a hard kiss on the cheek. “Thanks! You ready to fuck shit up tomorrow?”

“Hell yes I am,” Tré answered. He grinned cheekily and I raised an eyebrow.

“You actually have a weapon that you can use?”

“My trademark -- fuckin’ exploding sporks.”

“Exploding sporks?! What the fuck…?” I trailed off, my mouth hanging open.

“Close your mouth or flies’ll go in there,” Tré said quite happily. “And yep, exploding sporks. You throw ‘em and they go kablooie on impact.”

I just looked at him for a moment. “Where the fuck do you get them -- wait… I really, really don’t wanna know.”

Tré answered me anyway. “Mr Ian Woon.”

“Who?” I asked, even through I knew quite well who this Ian Woon dude was.

“My… um… dea-- a family friend,” Tré improvised. I knew he was lying, but I didn’t want him to know that I read most of his diary right before we had sex. I nodded.

“So… um… why exploding sporks?”

“Well,” Tré stated, “because I’m cool.” Cutely and dorkily, he crossed his arms and faux coolly grinned. “Tré Cool.”

I started laughing uncontrollably. If someone had a camera and caught my picture then, it would end up as one of those faux Motivational posters on the ever infinite Internet, the caption being “LOL: Sometimes, you can really laugh out loud.” It’s true that I was the epitome of the term Laugh Out Loud at that moment.

Before I collapsed on the floor and became the epitome of ROFLMAO (Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off, for those of you who are computer illiterate), Tré grabbed my arm.

“Jesus, Bi-- Gloria,” he laughed. “People will think that you are having a seizure or something, dude!”

“Well --” I managed to choke out between laughter. “M-maybe… I -- I am having a seizure, dude! That was fucking hilarious, did you know that?!”

Tré looked at me, faking innocence. “What was hilarious? I don’t recall ever being hilarious. Just high, but then again you act high too.”

I raised an eyebrow and, keeping my face completely straight, I said, “I’m not stoned, I’m just fucked up, dude.”

“Oh, I could say the same thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yah, really!”

“OH REALLY?”

“YEAH REALLY, BITCH!”

“Bitch?! Who’re you calling a bitch, bitch?!”

“You!”

Then, out of the blue (not that I can say I wasn’t half expecting it), Tré pinned me against a wall and kissed me, with not much aggressive force but with enough to keep me from wriggling away… not that I’d wriggle away or even want to, that is. He did it just because it was hot and he liked having me up close to him.

When we broke away for a minute, I smirked. “Oh, I could get used to that.”

“What?” Tré half panted.

“You randomly kissing me. And the fucking hot sex that follows.”

“I think I could get used to it, too,” he agreed.

“I think you already are used to it, Mister I Kissed A Random Guy To Shut Him Up Tré Cool.”

“I was used to it before I was born.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Would I ever kid you, Mister I Am So Sexy And Passionate That Nothing Can Stop Me But A Kiss Billie Joe Armstrong?”

“True that.”

With those two words, I pulled Tré into another sudden kiss, sucking on his lower lip till he parted them to let my tongue slip into his mouth. His own tongue slid into mine, and it felt like every other kiss we’d shared, except oh so much better.

“Mmm…” I muttered. “You wanna head back to my house to… ehm… get ready for the riot?”

Tré pulled away from me and smirked in that deliciously Tré manner. “I like the sound of that, Gloria.”

“Then come on!”

I grabbed Tré’s black and white checkered tie, dragging him through the basement hallways and out into the cool, crisp night. Half alive from all the pollution mockingbirds ridiculously, raspily mocking the sounds of dozens of other birds. A few crickets chirped around us. When I looked up, I could barely see stars for all the haze and street lamp light.

I continued to drag Tré to the borrowed (read: stolen) car that I’d hijacked earlier that day to head down to this meeting. It was a shame that I’d sold my old bike ages ago, right after I first ran away, when I thought that I’d live in the City for the rest of my life. Then, I proceeded to spend whatever money I got from selling the damn thing on Novacaine and a number of other drugs.

I came back from my sour memories as Tré started the car. “Get in, you nimrod!”

I shot him a sweet smile and opened the door, dropping into the passenger seat and settling with sitting shotgun. Tré pulled out of the old driveway and started down the highway back to our little suburban hell of a town.

I knew that highway so well, from biking across it once and from walking across it back with the remains of the Underbelly, people who had eventually either wasted their lives away, went to college, or joined the Class of Thirteen. The ones who’d joined the Class knew that my past identity as the Saint Jimmy, as the previous boyfriend of Whatsername, was a secret they had to keep. I rarely saw them, but when I did, whichever former Underbelly member and I secretly smiled at one another and quietly, secretively did the Underbelly secret handshake type thing (fuck, I used secret way too many times in the last few sentences). High five, backwards low five, double criss cross high fives, then that fist bumping thingy.

“Billie Joe? You okay?”

I realized just then that I had been staring off into space, barely blinking, as I thought of my misadventures in the City. Tré was now poking my arm worriedly, half paying attention to the road.

“Tré… I’m fine, okay? Not stop poking me before we get in a fucking accident!”

He laughed quietly, a relieved tone in his voice. “I’m glad. Now… yeah. We’re almost back at your place. I assume you have lube, right?”

“I’ve always kept some on the off chance that I’d ever have a boyfriend again,” I laughed, answering him. “And a few condoms, too. I wouldn’t want you getting pregnant, now would I?”

Tré laughed. “I don’t think guys can get pregnant.”

“On the off chance that… I dunno. On the off chance that somehow, I’d get you pregnant.”

“It’d be one hell of a sexy baby, that’s for sure,” he commented off handedly. I laughed.

“Hell yes. We’d raise the most sexy kids and everyone would wanna fuck our babies.”

“Mmm… I like that. I really fucking like that.”

“I do too, Tré.”

Finally, we pulled up at a park near my house and I got out, walking a block down to my house, unlocking its door and opening it. “After you, Tré Cool, or Christian, or He Who Kisses Hot Guys To Shut Them Up.”

“Fucking narcissist,” he yelled from the car as he got out of it, carefully leaving the keys on one of the old and beaten up leather seats. He ran over the blacktop to me and literally swept me off my feet as he carried me indoors.

Inside, it was dark and musty, and smelled vaguely of mildew. “I hope you don’t mind the smell. It’s better in my room.”

“I don’t really give a shit.”

“Great,” I said as I dragged him down the hall and into my room, flicking on a light. It was bare but messy, and I shoved everything off my bed.

“Your mom won’t mind?”

“Naw. She’s barely alive down in her room. Now… let’s get down to business…”

And with that, I kissed him, pulling him down onto my bed as my right hand -- the one not attached to the arm hooked around his neck -- started unzipping his fly.