Chapter Ten: Last of the American Feminine Guys

(2447 words)
(Tré’s POV)

That little light bulb went on over my head as I figured out to dig through the closet to find my weapons of choice, completely ignoring my half naked boyfriend who was undressing in the corner. I went through old pictures, mold pieces of pizza, random pieces of clothing, some old torn up shoes, broken discs and vinyl records, and even a few old needles (yikes!) till I found what I’d been looking for. A somewhat beat up, but carefully encased so that its fragile contents would not break (or explode. Whatever) shoebox that read Converse on the side.

“I kid you not, Sir Armstrong,” I announced as I grabbed the old shoe box of carefully wrapped explosive eating utensils (and I still don’t know, to this day, why I called him “Sir Armstrong”). “Explode upon impact -- well, explosive sporks.”

Billie Joe looked over from where he was now getting dressed (his undressing was much nicer, let me tell you) in the corner of what was then my room. He dropped his black tee -- emblazoned with a dark red logo reading NIN (the second N was backwards, oddly enough) and a long, pixilated red line next to the logo -- and walked over to me shirtless (I could barely keep myself from staring, let me say that now). I carefully opened the box, revealing the top row of metallic grey (also known as silver) half spoon half fork hybrids that were filled with… um… some explosive stuff -- gunpowder or something, I guess. Well, whatever it was reacted violently on impact.

“Holy fuck, they are really explosive sporks!” Billie Joe exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Yep!” I answered happily.

He just looked back up at me, his thin brown eyebrows still raised in a very “oh wow,” type of way, and then went back to put on the old shirt. I watched as his muscles flexed, as is not as tanned torso (well that makes no sense) was slowly covered by the thin, dark fabric. I was practically drooling along with starting by the time he walked down the hall and into the bathroom, presumably grabbing his small makeup kit and his hair styling stuff.

“Do you think I should spike my hair or -- well, wait, that’s probably not a good idea. I’ll just tie it back since I don’t want singed hair or a singed head -- ouch. I think the gel would make it more flammable, anyway…”

I smiled quietly to myself as he half talked to himself. It was so damn adorable.

“You’re such a girl, Billie Joe, or --” I began to say, smirking once more as I backtracked. “Should I say Gloria?”

“Yep, you should -- especially if I’m so much of a girl that I always top,” Billie Joe retorted from the bathroom.

“Always?” I asked. “You mean twice?

“Always with you, bitch.”

“Oh, who’s the real bitch here, Mister I Will Only Shut Up If I’m Frenched In Front Of An Audience Billie Joe Armstrong?”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly. When should we… Gloria?”

“After the riot sounds nice, Christian!”

“Sexy. So fuck me when we get back. Kay, thanks.”

“I will.”

I smirked once more, smirking a self satisfied smile. “I’m glad.”

The old, scummy faux porcelain tiles tiled bathroom encircled us, the scuck and mildew of your average shitty bathroom all too obvious. Grimy, covered in water splatters mirrors (only three of them) lined up in front of Billie Joe, reflecting his perfect face clearly through their grit and filth. A small, battered, metallic green -- the same color as his eyes -- box was placed to the right of the soap scum filled sink, glittering dully under the too bright fluorescent lighting. When I looked over at him, Billie Joe was carefully and quite tastefully styling his hair, working through the dirt on the mirror with ease that I envied.

He slicked back the shortish long black locks, his fingers covered in hairgel and sliding all too easily over the mess of charcoal fluff he called hair. With perfectly aimed precision, he pulled a few ends out at the sides of his head, just along his jawline -- making the illusion of the beginnings of a soft and pliable five pointed star. When he finished with his careful messiness, his particular style of hair, Billie pulled forward some hair, creating a rectangular chunk of uneven black strands covering his right eye. As he moved his arm up, I noticed a small tattoo on his arm -- well, actually, a few. Three multicolored stars. I knew not to ask him about them, because it was obvious that he'd give me a roundabout answer (not that I hadn't given him one before).

Instead, my eyes traveled along his arm to his dark tee shirt. It was simple, but stylish and made its own kind of point, its own way of resistance by saying "fuck you, I like music" in a way. It was a very Billie Joe-like thing to go, and not to mention -- it made me thing Gloria. On the closed toilet seat in the corner, his soft leather jacket lay (I was already wearing mine; just waiting for Billie to finish up before we left). His shirt, quite uncharacteristically but very... smartly was tucked into his thin dark blue jeans, and they accentuated his lean legs, even though they weren't necessarily skinny jeans. Last, but certainly not least, he wore his "trademarked" custom designed pair of "Gloria" Chuck Taylors.

As I heard the peculiar song of a metal box opening, I looked back up at my boyfriend's reflection as he put on his makeup for the riot. As he was fully in his persona of Gloria now, he used quite a bit more of the goo than usual -- his eyeliner was also more defined and less smeared, more blended with a light cover of dark green eyeshadow that was coated over his lids and made his own vivid green eyes stand out. When he was satisfied with his appearance -- after some blush and foundation and holy shit, even a smidge of pale lip gloss, he felt ready and turned to me, hands on his hips, fully in Gloria mode now. So I had to go into full Christian mode -- and I did as he picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulders.

"So -- you ready to head out, Mister Exploding Sporks Christian, or what?" he asked me, grinning lightly.

"Is hell yes an acceptable answer to that question?" I questioned in reply.

"Hell yes it is."

"Well. then, hell yes I am," I stated finally, grinning back at him.

"Fucking awesome. Let me just grab my stuff..."

By his stuff, of course, he meant his hand grenades. His weapons of mass Gloria awesome. His one last resort.

I guess he was pretty damn desperate.

Billie Joe walked back out into the hallway and beckoned to me. I grabbed the careful box of my own weapons and slid them in my equally as padded backpack.

"Let's go," he stated, finally.

Together, we walked out of the house and to my bike, which I had modded so that Billie Joe could sit behind me on it, if he basically freaking held on for dear life to my back, that was. I didn't think he’d have a problem with it -- I mean, it'd be kinda useless if I thought he wouldn't handle it... but no. He was Billie Joe Armstrong. He was Gloria. He could kick more ass in one day that I could count on one hand. I knew he was going there to chew gum and kick ass... and he was all out of gum. I was ready to see blood. And gore. And death... I'm sure the author's all ready to write it, too. And I was going to be proud that it was my boyfriend -- yeah, my boyfriend's idea. Not anyone else's boyfriend's idea, but mine. And that was one hella crazy paragraph.

"So... how do you feel about going all violent on everyone’s asses like that?" Billie Joe asked me out of the blue, bringing my thoughts back down from the clouds and other odd things such as that.

"Um... I guess... well, I'm fine with it, y'know? I can see why we're doing this. Why you chose to make it happen." I hoped that he'd take that as a reasonable answer.

"Yeah... okay. I just feel weird switching tactics. But... it's too late now, huh?"

"Yeah. It is. And don't worry --" I wrapped my arms around him. "I'll always be there for you."

Oh, how wrong I was.

We walked in silence, hands interlaced, until we reached my aforementioned bike. It was like rust on circular, black eraser rubber wheels, unstable and prone to losing balance. The original seat had been too torn and just destroyed from years of use that it was no longer even salvageable, so I said "screw that" and made a new, extended one out of a strong tree branch and one of my pillows, before wrapping it in the remnants of my so called dad's thick leather jackets. It was pretty fucking hardcore now, for a 200 year old bike that had been to Hell and back, and had even flown through a hurricane. Probably.

I let go of Billie Joe's hand for a second, straddling the bike and gesturing for him to follow me. Only somewhat reluctantly, Billie Joe walked to my side and also climbed on, his leather-wrapped arms hooking around my... well, my backpack, since he couldn't reach around to wrap his arms around my stomach. I smiled and looked back at him for a second. He read my eyes as the question of "Are you ready?" and nodded. Yes, he was ready. Yes, we were more ready to head to destruction than we ever were before. Even more than we ever would be ever again. It was now or never let's got now. Call it quits, and forever hold your peace and lost chance at taking part in what was going to be a monumental event.

I pedaled down the slowly, but ever so quickly darkening streets, heading out from between buildings and out of well worn, well traveled alleyways. The sun sank behind us, warming our backs with its dying rays as it lowered below a distant, flat horizon. I smiled, a few beads of sweat slipping down my face as I biked faster, curving quickly onto the sidewalk as we got to the so called city limits. More like the limits of hell. Suburban hall, to be precise.

I found myself pondering all of this as we half rode, half flew downhill toward the end of the road. I hit a hard right, continuing onward, on our 3 hour long by bike journey. We turned once more, now facing the late evening sun with some certainty as to where we were going.

"Hey, Gloria. Are you standing close to the edge?" I whisper asked Billie Joe. He didn't reply, just kept staring forward, unblinking against the softly hard red and orange mottled glow. "Look out at the setting sun, the brink of your vision. Eternal youth is the landscape of a lie. The cracks in my skin can prove, as the years will testify." I was kind of half singing now. "Say your prayers and light a fire. We're gonna start a war. You're slogan's a gun for hire... it's what we've waited for."

It was a sort of half lullaby. It was also everything I wanted to say on our first date. "Hey, Gloria, this is why we're on the edge. The fight of our lives’ been drawn to this undying love..."

I continued to think about, well, Gloria. Not really Billie Joe, but Gloria. Gloria as the hero for a lost cause, hailed as the last of the truly American girls, the saint of all the sinners. The girl who was going to outlive the end of Western civilization, listening to 80's vinyl records the whole way there. Gloria, who wouldn't go down without a fight, who knew what was wrong and knew how to stand up for what was right. It was odd to think of her in a separate context than my boyfriend, really, but I honestly could not help myself.

I sighed, looking out over the sky scrapers of the City that gave the horizon a choppy, torn, pixilated edge. Weak rays glittered and shone over the darkened glass windows of the buildings, streaming purple where the colors collided. We went down another dip, another small hill, bringing us more even with this sight. I was surprised at how delicate it looked, how transparent and clear and glassy it was. It looked like red sun's rays streaming through a high up stained glass window in a church, fragile and artistic and oh so easily breakable. I felt like if I reached out, the image would shimmer and die like a reflection on a pool in early fall, when summer melds to autumn and lively greens turn to fiery reds.

I shook those thoughts from my head -- I knew just how much blood had been spilled down there, in alleyways, in forests, in riots. It wasn't that beautiful, really. It wall all a mere illusion.

After what felt like a few minutes, I drove the bike into a sharp left, downhill a bit more and into the city limits of the town we were supposed to be at for the riot that would make history. For the Class of Thirteen, for the vigilantes and Christian and Gloria. We were going to do it.

I was sure of that as I parked and chained my bike in the pre-designated site, looking out over the pavement and walls. "Gloria!" and "Class of '13!" seemed the two most popular forms of graffiti, however the largest was a near mural reading "Viva La Gloria!" I looked at it in shock an awe, remembering something Billie Joe -- Gloria -- had said once.

I turned toward him.

"Remember what you said to me, only last week? 'Remember to learn to forget whiskey shots and cheap cigarettes?' Well, I've been working on it, Billie Joe... I have..." He looked up at me, squeezing my hand one and directing his vision to the crowd in front of us.

Holy shit was the only thing that went through my mind as I looked out on the crowd.

There were guns, canons, small bombs, hand grenades, hell -- even shovels.

I guess we really were desperate.