V. 21st Century Breakdown (reprise)
And here I sit now, in my small room in the apartment complex that used to be the headquarters of the Underbelly. Tré is sleeping on the old bed -- he looks so damn cute when he sleeps! I’m just sitting at this old desk, writing down everything that’s happened since I went back to suburbia from the City. Tré added in his few cents -- parts that I didn’t want to write, parts that I though he’d be better at writing. Like our first date.
We’ve just gotten back from a riot. Mike took over the Class of Thirteen, and Davey (and his boyfriend, Jade) helps from time to time. No one knows that Tré and I are alive, but no one needs to. I know that if we ever run into Mike or Dave, that we’ll tell them (but we know they’ll keep it secret). They’d be relieved.
But we don’t expect them to run into us anytime soon.
So for now, we’re just living in the City together. It feels so permanent to be here with Tré. I think it’ll last -- it better last, otherwise I really will fuck shit up. I’m more in love with Tré than I’ve ever been with anyone, and he feels the same way.
I’m satisfied now, to be back in the City where I feel like I belong. It’s paradise here…
I’m getting tied now. I think I should go sleep. There’s nothing else for me to write, really, so I’m closing this notebook and I know that there will be a rhythm. Who knows if I’ll live to be 100, or die at 37. It doesn’t matter. For I am satisfied.
Billie Joe Armstrong.
July 31st, 2013.
The End.
Showing posts with label Homecoming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Homecoming. Show all posts
11/27/09
1022 Words.
IV. Deadbeat Holiday
Tré and I scaled the hill once more, hand in hand, breaking through the midday chill and through the trickle of people. Not many people hung out around those parts of the City -- it was the place where the Underbelly had resided, of course. And it was the place that the Class of Thirteen currently was. We weaved through the line of people dressed in black, and a sinking feeling fell through my gut.
Black. Funeral colors. We’d died, hadn’t we? So does that mean that they were coming back from our funeral?
“Can you believe it?” I heard someone mutter.
“Yeah. I heard that Dave and Mike and them gave ‘em a twenty one gun salute. Is that fucking insane, or what?” another said.
“They deserved it.”
“Hell yes, they deserved it -- but it’s still fucking insane that we had to have a fucking funeral for them. I mean -- I’m damn surprised they’re dead.”
The two who had been talking moved up the line and kept ascending the hill with the rest of them and with us. I made sure that my hood was definitely hiding my face, and made sure that Tré’s hat and sunglasses made him look unrecognizable.
“Can you believe it, Tré? They gave us a twenty one gun salute… you know, like soldiers in the military get. They really…” I whispered, my words drifting off at the end.
“They really think we’re dead -- but then again, that makes sense, doesn’t it?” he asked me back in an equal whisper to mine.
“Yeah. They really truly think we died. That’s… that’s a serious mind fuck.”
I shook my head and increased my pace, half dragging Tré behind me as we continued up the hill, following the group, the parade of black. Wait -- isn’t that an album name or something?
We waited outside the building as everyone filed in, waited around the corner as they closed the door. We gave it a good ten or twenty minutes, waiting until everything sounded like it was settled down in there. We then stealthily walked in and bit our lips so as not to gag and throw up at the smell and alert everyone. Near silently, we went up the stairs and to what had once been mine and Davey’s room, into the room where a few girls lived now.
“Why are you here again?” the first girl (the one with the dark hair and eyes) asked as we walked in. “I told you -- the Class of Thirteen’s over. Christian and Gloria are fucking dead -- they just had the funeral, morons!”
“Shut up,” I said. “How’re you sure that someone else won’t take it up? We just wanna sign the fuck up over here. You know, just in case it all comes back between now and then. We wanna be part of the riots.”
The first girl narrowed her eyes and another -- who I hadn’t seen yesterday -- shook her head. This girl had short, lighter brown hair, and brown eyes that were considerably lighter than her friend’s were. “Come on, Gazzy,” she said, “just take their names and contacts. Can’t do us any harm, right?”
The first -- nicknamed Gazzy, apparently -- rolled her eyes. “Fuck it. Fine. Names, contacts?”
“I’m Wilhelm Fink, remember?” I asked her. She nodded.
“And you?”
“’m Tré the Second.”
“You stole Christian’s real name.”
“We were friends. He told me to take his name if he died,” Tré improvised.
Skeptically, Gazzy nodded. “And where d’you two live?”
“Live?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve just been hangin’ ‘round, you know? At the old hotel, but we can’t stay there forever. Been lookin’ for a place t’ stay -- you wouldn’t happen to know of one, would you?” I made sure that my patterns of speech were different enough to make it seem like I was a totally different person -- to make it seem like I definitely was not Billie Joe Armstrong, or Saint Jimmy, or Gloria -- to make it seem like I was just Wilhelm Fink and someone who wasn’t me.
“Well, there are some apartments down in these parts that are free -- you two wouldn’t mind sharing, would ya?” asked the second girl, the one with blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Not at all -- would there be any rent t’ pay, by chance?” I asked.
“No rent, you just need to go claim it,” explained Gazzy. “So -- what, it’s room three nine a, right Queso?”
“It is. Just checked it out before we left for the funeral,” confirmed the second girl, who was apparently called Queso (Spanish for cheese, of course, like quesadilla). The third girl also nodded.
“It’s free,” she said.
“Yeah, you should trust Shika more than you should trust me,” said Queso, sticking out her tongue. The other girl -- apparently called Shika for some reason -- just slapped her. “But yah, it’s open.”
“Ohhh kay then. You guys got it. Wilhelm Fink and Tré Cool II, for room thirty nine a and a spot at riots. Go grab your shit and move it.”
“Woah. Sweet. Thanks, ya guys. See ya around, huh?” I said, turning and round and staying on the top step.
“Mmhmm. See ya two around.”
And as Tré and I walked back to the hotel to check out and get our stuff, a cool wave of relief swelled through me. We were set now, in the City of the Damned, and it was all going to be good for a long, long time.
“I’m so excited. Now we won’t be held responsible for fucking shit up. Whoever takes the reins of the Class will,” I said, grinning at Tré and leaning into him.
“Yep.”
I sighed happily. “I love you, Tré.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned around and his lips met mine. It wasn’t much of a kiss -- but it was short and sweet and beautiful.
“I love you, too, Billie Joe. More than you’ll ever know. I love you so fucking much.”
Tré and I scaled the hill once more, hand in hand, breaking through the midday chill and through the trickle of people. Not many people hung out around those parts of the City -- it was the place where the Underbelly had resided, of course. And it was the place that the Class of Thirteen currently was. We weaved through the line of people dressed in black, and a sinking feeling fell through my gut.
Black. Funeral colors. We’d died, hadn’t we? So does that mean that they were coming back from our funeral?
“Can you believe it?” I heard someone mutter.
“Yeah. I heard that Dave and Mike and them gave ‘em a twenty one gun salute. Is that fucking insane, or what?” another said.
“They deserved it.”
“Hell yes, they deserved it -- but it’s still fucking insane that we had to have a fucking funeral for them. I mean -- I’m damn surprised they’re dead.”
The two who had been talking moved up the line and kept ascending the hill with the rest of them and with us. I made sure that my hood was definitely hiding my face, and made sure that Tré’s hat and sunglasses made him look unrecognizable.
“Can you believe it, Tré? They gave us a twenty one gun salute… you know, like soldiers in the military get. They really…” I whispered, my words drifting off at the end.
“They really think we’re dead -- but then again, that makes sense, doesn’t it?” he asked me back in an equal whisper to mine.
“Yeah. They really truly think we died. That’s… that’s a serious mind fuck.”
I shook my head and increased my pace, half dragging Tré behind me as we continued up the hill, following the group, the parade of black. Wait -- isn’t that an album name or something?
We waited outside the building as everyone filed in, waited around the corner as they closed the door. We gave it a good ten or twenty minutes, waiting until everything sounded like it was settled down in there. We then stealthily walked in and bit our lips so as not to gag and throw up at the smell and alert everyone. Near silently, we went up the stairs and to what had once been mine and Davey’s room, into the room where a few girls lived now.
“Why are you here again?” the first girl (the one with the dark hair and eyes) asked as we walked in. “I told you -- the Class of Thirteen’s over. Christian and Gloria are fucking dead -- they just had the funeral, morons!”
“Shut up,” I said. “How’re you sure that someone else won’t take it up? We just wanna sign the fuck up over here. You know, just in case it all comes back between now and then. We wanna be part of the riots.”
The first girl narrowed her eyes and another -- who I hadn’t seen yesterday -- shook her head. This girl had short, lighter brown hair, and brown eyes that were considerably lighter than her friend’s were. “Come on, Gazzy,” she said, “just take their names and contacts. Can’t do us any harm, right?”
The first -- nicknamed Gazzy, apparently -- rolled her eyes. “Fuck it. Fine. Names, contacts?”
“I’m Wilhelm Fink, remember?” I asked her. She nodded.
“And you?”
“’m Tré the Second.”
“You stole Christian’s real name.”
“We were friends. He told me to take his name if he died,” Tré improvised.
Skeptically, Gazzy nodded. “And where d’you two live?”
“Live?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve just been hangin’ ‘round, you know? At the old hotel, but we can’t stay there forever. Been lookin’ for a place t’ stay -- you wouldn’t happen to know of one, would you?” I made sure that my patterns of speech were different enough to make it seem like I was a totally different person -- to make it seem like I definitely was not Billie Joe Armstrong, or Saint Jimmy, or Gloria -- to make it seem like I was just Wilhelm Fink and someone who wasn’t me.
“Well, there are some apartments down in these parts that are free -- you two wouldn’t mind sharing, would ya?” asked the second girl, the one with blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Not at all -- would there be any rent t’ pay, by chance?” I asked.
“No rent, you just need to go claim it,” explained Gazzy. “So -- what, it’s room three nine a, right Queso?”
“It is. Just checked it out before we left for the funeral,” confirmed the second girl, who was apparently called Queso (Spanish for cheese, of course, like quesadilla). The third girl also nodded.
“It’s free,” she said.
“Yeah, you should trust Shika more than you should trust me,” said Queso, sticking out her tongue. The other girl -- apparently called Shika for some reason -- just slapped her. “But yah, it’s open.”
“Ohhh kay then. You guys got it. Wilhelm Fink and Tré Cool II, for room thirty nine a and a spot at riots. Go grab your shit and move it.”
“Woah. Sweet. Thanks, ya guys. See ya around, huh?” I said, turning and round and staying on the top step.
“Mmhmm. See ya two around.”
And as Tré and I walked back to the hotel to check out and get our stuff, a cool wave of relief swelled through me. We were set now, in the City of the Damned, and it was all going to be good for a long, long time.
“I’m so excited. Now we won’t be held responsible for fucking shit up. Whoever takes the reins of the Class will,” I said, grinning at Tré and leaning into him.
“Yep.”
I sighed happily. “I love you, Tré.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned around and his lips met mine. It wasn’t much of a kiss -- but it was short and sweet and beautiful.
“I love you, too, Billie Joe. More than you’ll ever know. I love you so fucking much.”
1446 Words.
III. Catastrophic Hymns From Yesterday
When I opened my eyes, Tré was gone. In a dizzy haze, I stood up and wandered out of the room, looking for Tré. Next thing I knew, I was in the lobby (our hotel room was on the third floor, eighth door to the right, thank you very much). My eyes felt dry and everything around me felt so damn numb. And slightly pastel. I put it off to my just having woken up and walked out into the street.
Out there, I saw things that, quite frankly, surprised me. An Underbelly riot. Whatsername -- well, Davey as Whatsername, really -- stood at the front of it. They charged toward me.
“Hey! Saint Jimmy!” Davey -- or Whatsername -- yelled. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“What the fuck?” I asked, cocking my head.
“Didn’t you get the message about the riot? I knew your friends took you out for partying last night and parked you at this damn hotel, but I swear I told you! Maybe it’s the hangover?” Davey shook his head. “Anyway, come on! We’ve got fucking buildings to burn!”
“Um. Okay.”
I walked down the steps, still disoriented. Was I really still here in the City? Everything felt so surreal… had everything I could remember happening in the last three years really have been a drunken dream? It all felt so damn real. Is it really possible to have lived three years all in my head? Well, I had to admit that Davey breaking up with me was kind of fucking crazy… but, then again, so was most of what he did.
Whatsername -- well, I guess since he was Whatsername at the moment, I should call him that since he certainly wasn’t Davey right then -- grabbed my hand and jerked me to the front of the crowd amidst screaming and the all too familiar smell of smoke.
“Everyone -- welcome Saint Jimmy to this crowd of pain! Are you ready to fuck shit up?” shouted Whatsername, throwing his hands in the air as he said so. The reply was tremendous, a roar of hell- and fuck yeahs, general purposeless screaming, and other such incidences of insanity. The crowd -- the Underbelly, to be more precise -- shouted a rhyme that almost made me sick to my stomach.
“Saint Jimmy’s coming down across the alleyway! Up on the boulevard like a zip gun on parade! Lights on his silhouette! He’s insubordinate! Coming atcha on the count of one, two -- one two three four!”
And I answered them in a scream, no matter how wrong it felt then: “My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out! Suicide commando that your mama talked about! King of the forty thieves and here to represent! The needle in the vein of the establishment. I’m the Patron Saint of the Denial! With an angel face and a taste for suicidal!”
The crowd went seriously wild then, screaming and holding up everything from hand grenades to unlit torches and lighters to -- yes, in fact -- shovels. I grinned at them and threw my hands in the air and both Whatsername and I lead them through the City, down to the Town Hall and the seat of the government here.
My own words echoed in my mind: “Jimmy… suicide commando… needle in the vein… Patron Saint of the Denial… taste for suicidal…”
Of course, the second sweet refrain of that started out: “Cigarettes and ramen and a little bag of dope. I am the son of a bitch and Edgar Allen Poe.”
But all the mention of suicidal in the old chant, the old wartime song reminded me of something from the so called dream. I had tried to commit suicide during that, hadn’t I? Didn’t I then throw the gun into the bay and decide that that was the Death of St. Jimmy, and that I was just Billie Joe afterwards?
I guessed then that the whole past three years that I thought I’d experienced was just a dream -- I didn’t just guess it at that point, really, but that’s when it pretty much solidified in my mind that the past three years had all been one, huge, drunk and or high dream. It made a shitton of sense, really. I mean -- why would Davey (Whatsername?) ever break up with me? I don’t think I could piss him off that badly, right?
The first sign of madness is talking to yourself.
In my dream, hadn’t I said that to the one called Tré? I guess he was my boyfriend in the other world of my subconscious mind, the other world unlocked when I drift easily off into sleep after drinking my weight in alcohol.
So that’s why everything was so damn fuzzy… damn hangover.
Then I guessed -- I speculated, I assumed, I knew -- that I’d recently dosed up on Novacaine. I mean, otherwise I’d be driven mad from withdrawal, right? Novacaine has pretty damn bad effects that will in fact drive you mad after a long enough time. That is, until it’s all passed and that’s when you sleep off the last two weeks of pain.
I sighed once more and ran my fingers through my shoulder length greasy black hair. I definitely needed a shower -- I made a note to myself to remember to tall that to Davey when we got back to the headquarters.
The headquarters… Tré and I had went there in my long, fucked up dream, hadn’t we? The Underbelly had long since dissolved in that other world… so had the group I guess I had created, the Class of Thirteen. Well -- it didn’t dissolve too long before the end of the dream, did it? Just after they all thought that Tré and I were dead. That’s when it ended.
“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 1969!”
Wasn’t that our -- the Class of Thirteen’s war cry? I mean, it had to all have been a dream, it wasn’t even 2013 yet! It was 2009 or 2010, I was sure of it. It couldn’t have been any other goddamn way. It all had to have been a dream -- again, one long, very fucked up dream. I wondered what I’d been doing the night before and found that I couldn’t remember. Damn… whatever it was had to have been some pretty nasty shit.
My thoughts had carried us all the way to our destination of the Town Hall in the middle of the City, amidst sky scrapers and tall hills.
Whatsername grinned at me and gave me a hand grenade. “On three, fire,” he whispered.
All was silent as we looked upon the building in the early hours of the dawn. All was silent until Whatsername suddenly shouted: “Fucking bastards, give us our City back! Give us our fucking freedom back! This is the land of the free, isn’t it? One -- two -- three!”
Everyone screamed, a dedicated Underbelly war cry, as they pulled the pins and lit the torches and threw all their firepower at the old, creaky government building. The fires all exploded on impact, a blazing inferno of freedom and dissidence. The sound of the fire, the heat of it -- it all suddenly felt so distant as I turned to look at Whatsername. He didn’t stand there. Instead, in his place, there was the current Davey, smiling, his long black fringe framing his face. A few tears sparkled in his eyes. I ran my fingers through my hair again, looking strangely around as a few blonde strands fell in my face.
Oh-kaay, that was some nasty shit I did last night.
“Oh my God, Billie Joe -- we all thought you were -- didn’t you -- you’re alive!” he said.
The fire wasn’t there anymore. Neither was the Underbelly. We were back in the café where Tré and I had first met, where Davey and I had patched things over -- right?
Davey wrapped his slender arms around me, sobbing quietly. “We thought you and Tré died in the fucking fire! You’re alive, you’re alive, god damn it, you’re fucking alive! I’ve never been happier to see you and holy shit you’re alive!”
His words blurred around me, as did the scenery.
I awoke with a start in the old hotel room, in Tré’s arms. He was sleeping peacefully now. And I knew exactly what we had to do.
Rejoin the Class of Thirteen. Not as its leader, but as its fighters.
When I opened my eyes, Tré was gone. In a dizzy haze, I stood up and wandered out of the room, looking for Tré. Next thing I knew, I was in the lobby (our hotel room was on the third floor, eighth door to the right, thank you very much). My eyes felt dry and everything around me felt so damn numb. And slightly pastel. I put it off to my just having woken up and walked out into the street.
Out there, I saw things that, quite frankly, surprised me. An Underbelly riot. Whatsername -- well, Davey as Whatsername, really -- stood at the front of it. They charged toward me.
“Hey! Saint Jimmy!” Davey -- or Whatsername -- yelled. “Come on! Let’s go!”
“What the fuck?” I asked, cocking my head.
“Didn’t you get the message about the riot? I knew your friends took you out for partying last night and parked you at this damn hotel, but I swear I told you! Maybe it’s the hangover?” Davey shook his head. “Anyway, come on! We’ve got fucking buildings to burn!”
“Um. Okay.”
I walked down the steps, still disoriented. Was I really still here in the City? Everything felt so surreal… had everything I could remember happening in the last three years really have been a drunken dream? It all felt so damn real. Is it really possible to have lived three years all in my head? Well, I had to admit that Davey breaking up with me was kind of fucking crazy… but, then again, so was most of what he did.
Whatsername -- well, I guess since he was Whatsername at the moment, I should call him that since he certainly wasn’t Davey right then -- grabbed my hand and jerked me to the front of the crowd amidst screaming and the all too familiar smell of smoke.
“Everyone -- welcome Saint Jimmy to this crowd of pain! Are you ready to fuck shit up?” shouted Whatsername, throwing his hands in the air as he said so. The reply was tremendous, a roar of hell- and fuck yeahs, general purposeless screaming, and other such incidences of insanity. The crowd -- the Underbelly, to be more precise -- shouted a rhyme that almost made me sick to my stomach.
“Saint Jimmy’s coming down across the alleyway! Up on the boulevard like a zip gun on parade! Lights on his silhouette! He’s insubordinate! Coming atcha on the count of one, two -- one two three four!”
And I answered them in a scream, no matter how wrong it felt then: “My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out! Suicide commando that your mama talked about! King of the forty thieves and here to represent! The needle in the vein of the establishment. I’m the Patron Saint of the Denial! With an angel face and a taste for suicidal!”
The crowd went seriously wild then, screaming and holding up everything from hand grenades to unlit torches and lighters to -- yes, in fact -- shovels. I grinned at them and threw my hands in the air and both Whatsername and I lead them through the City, down to the Town Hall and the seat of the government here.
My own words echoed in my mind: “Jimmy… suicide commando… needle in the vein… Patron Saint of the Denial… taste for suicidal…”
Of course, the second sweet refrain of that started out: “Cigarettes and ramen and a little bag of dope. I am the son of a bitch and Edgar Allen Poe.”
But all the mention of suicidal in the old chant, the old wartime song reminded me of something from the so called dream. I had tried to commit suicide during that, hadn’t I? Didn’t I then throw the gun into the bay and decide that that was the Death of St. Jimmy, and that I was just Billie Joe afterwards?
I guessed then that the whole past three years that I thought I’d experienced was just a dream -- I didn’t just guess it at that point, really, but that’s when it pretty much solidified in my mind that the past three years had all been one, huge, drunk and or high dream. It made a shitton of sense, really. I mean -- why would Davey (Whatsername?) ever break up with me? I don’t think I could piss him off that badly, right?
The first sign of madness is talking to yourself.
In my dream, hadn’t I said that to the one called Tré? I guess he was my boyfriend in the other world of my subconscious mind, the other world unlocked when I drift easily off into sleep after drinking my weight in alcohol.
So that’s why everything was so damn fuzzy… damn hangover.
Then I guessed -- I speculated, I assumed, I knew -- that I’d recently dosed up on Novacaine. I mean, otherwise I’d be driven mad from withdrawal, right? Novacaine has pretty damn bad effects that will in fact drive you mad after a long enough time. That is, until it’s all passed and that’s when you sleep off the last two weeks of pain.
I sighed once more and ran my fingers through my shoulder length greasy black hair. I definitely needed a shower -- I made a note to myself to remember to tall that to Davey when we got back to the headquarters.
The headquarters… Tré and I had went there in my long, fucked up dream, hadn’t we? The Underbelly had long since dissolved in that other world… so had the group I guess I had created, the Class of Thirteen. Well -- it didn’t dissolve too long before the end of the dream, did it? Just after they all thought that Tré and I were dead. That’s when it ended.
“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 1969!”
Wasn’t that our -- the Class of Thirteen’s war cry? I mean, it had to all have been a dream, it wasn’t even 2013 yet! It was 2009 or 2010, I was sure of it. It couldn’t have been any other goddamn way. It all had to have been a dream -- again, one long, very fucked up dream. I wondered what I’d been doing the night before and found that I couldn’t remember. Damn… whatever it was had to have been some pretty nasty shit.
My thoughts had carried us all the way to our destination of the Town Hall in the middle of the City, amidst sky scrapers and tall hills.
Whatsername grinned at me and gave me a hand grenade. “On three, fire,” he whispered.
All was silent as we looked upon the building in the early hours of the dawn. All was silent until Whatsername suddenly shouted: “Fucking bastards, give us our City back! Give us our fucking freedom back! This is the land of the free, isn’t it? One -- two -- three!”
Everyone screamed, a dedicated Underbelly war cry, as they pulled the pins and lit the torches and threw all their firepower at the old, creaky government building. The fires all exploded on impact, a blazing inferno of freedom and dissidence. The sound of the fire, the heat of it -- it all suddenly felt so distant as I turned to look at Whatsername. He didn’t stand there. Instead, in his place, there was the current Davey, smiling, his long black fringe framing his face. A few tears sparkled in his eyes. I ran my fingers through my hair again, looking strangely around as a few blonde strands fell in my face.
Oh-kaay, that was some nasty shit I did last night.
“Oh my God, Billie Joe -- we all thought you were -- didn’t you -- you’re alive!” he said.
The fire wasn’t there anymore. Neither was the Underbelly. We were back in the café where Tré and I had first met, where Davey and I had patched things over -- right?
Davey wrapped his slender arms around me, sobbing quietly. “We thought you and Tré died in the fucking fire! You’re alive, you’re alive, god damn it, you’re fucking alive! I’ve never been happier to see you and holy shit you’re alive!”
His words blurred around me, as did the scenery.
I awoke with a start in the old hotel room, in Tré’s arms. He was sleeping peacefully now. And I knew exactly what we had to do.
Rejoin the Class of Thirteen. Not as its leader, but as its fighters.
11/26/09
1144 Words.
Part II. The City
Back in the hotel room, we sat together on the bed in silence, drinking some of the actually pretty decent tap water and holding hands. The sun was just starting to rise, now, and the view over the City was amazing. Just watching the silhouettes of the buildings and tall sky scrapers was enchanting. Whatsername and I had done it millions of times, just laying together on the top of the apartment complex and holding hands. Sometimes, the morning air cooled the sweat laying on our exposed chests after a bout of heated sex. Some of it involved handcuffs and chains. Some of it didn’t -- just the two of us becoming one. Anyway, that isn’t really relevant. So Tré and I were sitting on our hotel bed, looking out at the sunrise. There was an overall melancholy feel in the air.
I looked up at Tré, and he looked back at me. In silence, we both mulled over our thoughts. If we were supposed to be dead, then what should we do? Were we supposed to go ahead and say “hey world, we’re fucking alive!” or just disappear and avoid controversy? At the moment, disappearing seemed really nice. So did joining the rebel group -- well, the remnants of the Class of Thirteen -- in the City. I bit my lip as I sat there staring blankly ahead at our lives together in the City.
I honestly did not know what to do then. It was a huge dilemma -- and possibly the largest one I’d ever faced before. I was scared. I honestly did not know what to do (fucking Redundancy Department of Redundancy called, they want their redundancy back). With a sigh, I looked down at the dirty carpet. The hotel -- motel? -- was definitely worth what we’d paid, but that meant it was still pretty damn shitty.
“So… what should we do?” Tré asked finally, knowingly echoing both of our thoughts. He knew exactly what was going on in my head -- since it was exactly what was going on in his. Again, I sighed and he did too.
“Honestly -- I really, truly, seriously don’t know,” I answered silently, looking back up at Tré and meeting his light blue gaze. Tré cocked his head and looked away from my eyes. The room suddenly felt so claustrophobic that I wanted to scream and run away forever. Tré looked back up at me then, his eyes misty.
“They all think we’re dead. Our parents. What-- Davey. Mike. All of them think we’re dead… we’re literally dead to the world. People think we’ve kicked the bucket. I mean… fuck… we may not be dead, but Christian and Gloria most certainly are. The Class of Thirteen may or may not be dead. Who knows? Do you think Mike or Whatser-- fuck, Davey, would take it over and continue it?” It was a long run on question, but it made me grin. Tré was just so adorable when he rambled, and he never really noticed it.
“If they do -- if they do, not when they do, I don’t think they will -- do you think we should rejoin the Class of Thirteen? I mean -- we can take on aliases. I already have one. And you could just be, like, Norman Iwo,” I stated, snickering at the strange name I’d made up on the spot.
“What the hell of a king of name is fucking Norman Iwo?” Tré asked, incredulous.
“I don’t even know anymore.”
Tré sighed, rolling his eyes, before going back on subject. “So -- what should we do? I’m not sure I want to protest anymore, but it’s not like we can do anything else. I mean, we’re dead for crying out loud. Well -- you know what I mean, right?”
“Yeah. We’re dead. People -- we’re listed as dead. Under our names -- deceased, right? We really can’t do anything else now, can we?” I sighed after saying or asking Tré that, and felt my eyes getting misty again. “It’s crazy what some people think, but at least this is a reasonable conclusion. The building was fucking burned down. There were guns shooting at us. We were nearly assassinated.”
“Are we so important that if we were murdered -- it would be an assassination? Really?”
“I’m not sure… it was staged like an assassination, I guess. I don’t think they’ll arrest the people though, not for supposedly killing us, they would for burning the building to the ground, though.”
“I would really have to agree with you there, Billie Joe -- or should I now say, Wilhelm Fink?” Tré stuck out his tongue.
“You like abusing my nicknames, Sir Norman Iwo,” I said to him in reply, glaring playfully as I said so. He knew I was joking. And I knew he was joking.
“Dude! That is not my fucking nickname!” Tré said, glaring back at me just as playfully. I just shook my head at him and went back to watching the slow and steady sunrise. My foot was falling asleep now, and my eyelids were heavy with tiredness. I was ready to sleep -- but I didn’t want to until we had figured out what the hell had happened and what the hell we should do next.
“Well then, Tré, I’m stuck here. Do you know what we should do? I sure as hell don’t… right now -- well, right now, I want to sleep,” I muttered. Did I mention that I tend to ramble when I’m tired? Well -- I do. I sure as hell ramble when I’m tired. Tiredness is not a good thing for me -- sure, I come up with some damn good poetry then, but talk to me an I just go on and on and on and on. I just can’t stop. “I want to sleep but I won’t be able to until we figure out what the hell to do. Well -- what the hell should we do, Tré? Please enlighten me.” I wasn’t sarcastic there, by the way.
“I honestly don’t know, and Billie Joe Armstrong, you are rambling now. It’s damn adorable, but sort of annoying -- and therefore you definitely need sleep. Get your ass under the covers, Armstrong.”
“No way in hell. Fuck you, Tré,” I mumbled, already drifting off.
“Gladly. But we can do it tomorrow, okay Billie? For now -- just get some sleep, okay? We’ll be able to figure this out better if we’re both more awake.”
“Then order some goddamn coffee and room service shit. I’m not going to sleep until we figure this the fuck out, okay?”
“No, Billie Joe, you are going to bed. Right fucking now, okay?”
“No, I am fucking not going to fucking bed, okay Tré?”
And with that, I fell asleep.
Back in the hotel room, we sat together on the bed in silence, drinking some of the actually pretty decent tap water and holding hands. The sun was just starting to rise, now, and the view over the City was amazing. Just watching the silhouettes of the buildings and tall sky scrapers was enchanting. Whatsername and I had done it millions of times, just laying together on the top of the apartment complex and holding hands. Sometimes, the morning air cooled the sweat laying on our exposed chests after a bout of heated sex. Some of it involved handcuffs and chains. Some of it didn’t -- just the two of us becoming one. Anyway, that isn’t really relevant. So Tré and I were sitting on our hotel bed, looking out at the sunrise. There was an overall melancholy feel in the air.
I looked up at Tré, and he looked back at me. In silence, we both mulled over our thoughts. If we were supposed to be dead, then what should we do? Were we supposed to go ahead and say “hey world, we’re fucking alive!” or just disappear and avoid controversy? At the moment, disappearing seemed really nice. So did joining the rebel group -- well, the remnants of the Class of Thirteen -- in the City. I bit my lip as I sat there staring blankly ahead at our lives together in the City.
I honestly did not know what to do then. It was a huge dilemma -- and possibly the largest one I’d ever faced before. I was scared. I honestly did not know what to do (fucking Redundancy Department of Redundancy called, they want their redundancy back). With a sigh, I looked down at the dirty carpet. The hotel -- motel? -- was definitely worth what we’d paid, but that meant it was still pretty damn shitty.
“So… what should we do?” Tré asked finally, knowingly echoing both of our thoughts. He knew exactly what was going on in my head -- since it was exactly what was going on in his. Again, I sighed and he did too.
“Honestly -- I really, truly, seriously don’t know,” I answered silently, looking back up at Tré and meeting his light blue gaze. Tré cocked his head and looked away from my eyes. The room suddenly felt so claustrophobic that I wanted to scream and run away forever. Tré looked back up at me then, his eyes misty.
“They all think we’re dead. Our parents. What-- Davey. Mike. All of them think we’re dead… we’re literally dead to the world. People think we’ve kicked the bucket. I mean… fuck… we may not be dead, but Christian and Gloria most certainly are. The Class of Thirteen may or may not be dead. Who knows? Do you think Mike or Whatser-- fuck, Davey, would take it over and continue it?” It was a long run on question, but it made me grin. Tré was just so adorable when he rambled, and he never really noticed it.
“If they do -- if they do, not when they do, I don’t think they will -- do you think we should rejoin the Class of Thirteen? I mean -- we can take on aliases. I already have one. And you could just be, like, Norman Iwo,” I stated, snickering at the strange name I’d made up on the spot.
“What the hell of a king of name is fucking Norman Iwo?” Tré asked, incredulous.
“I don’t even know anymore.”
Tré sighed, rolling his eyes, before going back on subject. “So -- what should we do? I’m not sure I want to protest anymore, but it’s not like we can do anything else. I mean, we’re dead for crying out loud. Well -- you know what I mean, right?”
“Yeah. We’re dead. People -- we’re listed as dead. Under our names -- deceased, right? We really can’t do anything else now, can we?” I sighed after saying or asking Tré that, and felt my eyes getting misty again. “It’s crazy what some people think, but at least this is a reasonable conclusion. The building was fucking burned down. There were guns shooting at us. We were nearly assassinated.”
“Are we so important that if we were murdered -- it would be an assassination? Really?”
“I’m not sure… it was staged like an assassination, I guess. I don’t think they’ll arrest the people though, not for supposedly killing us, they would for burning the building to the ground, though.”
“I would really have to agree with you there, Billie Joe -- or should I now say, Wilhelm Fink?” Tré stuck out his tongue.
“You like abusing my nicknames, Sir Norman Iwo,” I said to him in reply, glaring playfully as I said so. He knew I was joking. And I knew he was joking.
“Dude! That is not my fucking nickname!” Tré said, glaring back at me just as playfully. I just shook my head at him and went back to watching the slow and steady sunrise. My foot was falling asleep now, and my eyelids were heavy with tiredness. I was ready to sleep -- but I didn’t want to until we had figured out what the hell had happened and what the hell we should do next.
“Well then, Tré, I’m stuck here. Do you know what we should do? I sure as hell don’t… right now -- well, right now, I want to sleep,” I muttered. Did I mention that I tend to ramble when I’m tired? Well -- I do. I sure as hell ramble when I’m tired. Tiredness is not a good thing for me -- sure, I come up with some damn good poetry then, but talk to me an I just go on and on and on and on. I just can’t stop. “I want to sleep but I won’t be able to until we figure out what the hell to do. Well -- what the hell should we do, Tré? Please enlighten me.” I wasn’t sarcastic there, by the way.
“I honestly don’t know, and Billie Joe Armstrong, you are rambling now. It’s damn adorable, but sort of annoying -- and therefore you definitely need sleep. Get your ass under the covers, Armstrong.”
“No way in hell. Fuck you, Tré,” I mumbled, already drifting off.
“Gladly. But we can do it tomorrow, okay Billie? For now -- just get some sleep, okay? We’ll be able to figure this out better if we’re both more awake.”
“Then order some goddamn coffee and room service shit. I’m not going to sleep until we figure this the fuck out, okay?”
“No, Billie Joe, you are going to bed. Right fucking now, okay?”
“No, I am fucking not going to fucking bed, okay Tré?”
And with that, I fell asleep.
1300 Words.
Part I. The Deaths of Christian & Gloria
The City was unnaturally quiet at this hour -- either that or the life there at three ante meridian had changed significantly since I’d left three years before. I guessed that the latter was correct, since the Underbelly had stopped wreaking havoc at all times of the night and morning and day and -- well, you know, all the goddamn time. I was thoroughly unused to the silence as I snuck out of the hotel building, Tré close on my heels. We turned the corner and walked up the street to the headquarters of the Underbelly -- well, what had once been the headquarters of the Underbelly, anyway. The sun was still lurking on the other side of the world, setting slowly on the other hemisphere and watching as other people fell asleep. The sun was sure that the world was silent over here, the sun was sure that most everyone was asleep (except for the people on the East Coast, who were then just waking up).
Well, Tré and I sure as hell were not asleep.
We climbed up a small hill, sticking to the shadows in true Underbelly fashion. My hood had been flipped over my eyes at the time, and Tré stopped at a shady kiosk to get a pair of sunglasses and a hat, hiding his identity. No one would recognize us as we went incognito through the City streets to the run down apartment complex that, as far I could see, was still standing. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized that I had been holding as I saw its outline against the dark, hazy, cloudy sky.
“It’s still there,” I muttered in utter disbelief. It was impossible -- well, it was totally possible, but it wasn’t likely in my mind that the building would still be standing after all that had taken place there. For all I knew, by then it could have become an insane asylum or a county jail or something of the like. Or it could have been quarantined, too -- no one knew what had been growing in the fridges or on the walls. Or what the hell people had been cooking up in some parts of the house. As far as I knew, there was most likely a meth lab or two on the second or third floor of the apartment. It had been an almost-scary place on some days, but totally harmless on others. It was living on the spot, living without permission, living without warning. It wasn’t safe, but it sure as hell was a lot of fucking fun.
Tré looked up at the building and looked back at me. Behind the dark shades, his eyes were unreadable. “It looks like a regular place, to me, you know -- like my old apartment. Right? That can’t have been the headquarters of the fucking Underbelly,” he scoffed. I couldn’t tell if he was just as surprised as I was, in awe of seeing the headquarters of what might once have once been the headquarters of the Underbelly of all things it could have been the headquarters for, or just didn’t think that it could possibly be the headquarters. It did seem pretty far out, actually.
I looked back at Tré as we ascended the hill. “You really don’t think so? I wouldn’t be mistaken ‘bout this shit -- I may have been seriously drugged out when I used to go here, but there’s no chance that this damn building could be anything else.”
“How do you know that? It just looks like a regular apartment to me --”
I cut him off quickly with a sharp retort: “This isn’t suburbia, you know. Not everything down here in the City looks the same, wouldn’t you agree, Tré?”
“You’re crazy,” said Tré, but he quickly dropped the subject as we just kept walking. Our footsteps were the only things that made noise now, the only sound being our shoes hitting the pavement with a dull thud. It was monotonous and boring, but somehow rhythmic. I almost liked it -- well, that might just have been the recent trauma and resulting sleep deprivation.
I tolled my sore shoulder, which was fairly useless now that it was totally bandaged as all hell and in an awkwardly bandaged position.
It took very little time from then to get to the old headquarters. It looked exactly the same as I remembered it, it looked just like the same old run down apartment full of delinquents, miscreants, and mischief makers as it always had been.
We silently walked to the doors and I opened it, greeted by the oh so familiar smell, the wall of the scent of rotting eggs, sour milk, mold, and general uncleanliness. It was the same dark hallway that it had always been. It was the same claustrophobic staircase that I ascended then as it had always been. It was just so familiar that I could barely stand it then.
“I’m sure this is the building,” I whispered to Tré as I ascended the steps, pulling my hood further over my eyes. There was a quiet, muted light at the top of the stairs that I was immediately drawn to. It all felt so familiar, and I knew why.
That’s when voices drifted down to us. “Did you hear what happened…?” “Yeah, I can’t believe it…” “It’s amazing, I can’t believe it would ever happen in a million years…” “Those arsonists will probably be let out free, this government’s such a bitch…” I ignored them, and as Tré and I got closer to the top of the stairs, they evidently heards us and all went silent. Making sure that no one would be able to see my face, I walked in first, creating a dim shadow on the flimsy plaster walls. I knew where we were -- the top of the building. Where Whatsername and I had once lived.
“Who’re you?” someone finally asked. A small tomboyish girl who looked to be around 15. Her dirty brown hair was tied back, a few strands brushing over her tanned skin, and her brown eyes glimmered with life. It was amazing how fragile she seemed.
“Me?” I asked, my voice quiet and bland. “I’m Wilhelm Fink --” A name made up on the spot. “-- you can just call me Fink, though, and I’ve heard that this is where you go in the City to hook up with the Class of Thirteen?”
Tré remained silent behind me as the girl responded in a quick, harsh whisper: “Didn’t you two morons hear? Christian and Gloria -- dead, the both of ‘em. They were shot and killed in the fire. Didn’t know that, now, didja? It only happened, like, six hours ago and word’s only been going ‘round for about an hour now.”
“Holy shit,” was all I could say.
They thought we were dead. They all thought -- and swore they knew -- that were really, honest to God dead.
“I know, right?” asked another girl from the corner of the room. She had long blonde hair thart was tied back with a rag, and streaks of dirt covered her pale face. “It’s kinda crazy -- I mean, makes more sense than Whatsername just packin’ up her bags ‘n leaving, but crazy all the same.”
I just nodded, my throat seeming to close.
“So, Fink, ya really don’t need to be here,” said the first girl. I nodded my head, signifying ‘no, I really don’t,’ and turned around to leave. “See ya ‘round the City, huh?” I nodded once more and walked down the stairs in total and utter disbelief and Tré followed me in complete silence as we were plunged back into the darkness.
The City was unnaturally quiet at this hour -- either that or the life there at three ante meridian had changed significantly since I’d left three years before. I guessed that the latter was correct, since the Underbelly had stopped wreaking havoc at all times of the night and morning and day and -- well, you know, all the goddamn time. I was thoroughly unused to the silence as I snuck out of the hotel building, Tré close on my heels. We turned the corner and walked up the street to the headquarters of the Underbelly -- well, what had once been the headquarters of the Underbelly, anyway. The sun was still lurking on the other side of the world, setting slowly on the other hemisphere and watching as other people fell asleep. The sun was sure that the world was silent over here, the sun was sure that most everyone was asleep (except for the people on the East Coast, who were then just waking up).
Well, Tré and I sure as hell were not asleep.
We climbed up a small hill, sticking to the shadows in true Underbelly fashion. My hood had been flipped over my eyes at the time, and Tré stopped at a shady kiosk to get a pair of sunglasses and a hat, hiding his identity. No one would recognize us as we went incognito through the City streets to the run down apartment complex that, as far I could see, was still standing. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized that I had been holding as I saw its outline against the dark, hazy, cloudy sky.
“It’s still there,” I muttered in utter disbelief. It was impossible -- well, it was totally possible, but it wasn’t likely in my mind that the building would still be standing after all that had taken place there. For all I knew, by then it could have become an insane asylum or a county jail or something of the like. Or it could have been quarantined, too -- no one knew what had been growing in the fridges or on the walls. Or what the hell people had been cooking up in some parts of the house. As far as I knew, there was most likely a meth lab or two on the second or third floor of the apartment. It had been an almost-scary place on some days, but totally harmless on others. It was living on the spot, living without permission, living without warning. It wasn’t safe, but it sure as hell was a lot of fucking fun.
Tré looked up at the building and looked back at me. Behind the dark shades, his eyes were unreadable. “It looks like a regular place, to me, you know -- like my old apartment. Right? That can’t have been the headquarters of the fucking Underbelly,” he scoffed. I couldn’t tell if he was just as surprised as I was, in awe of seeing the headquarters of what might once have once been the headquarters of the Underbelly of all things it could have been the headquarters for, or just didn’t think that it could possibly be the headquarters. It did seem pretty far out, actually.
I looked back at Tré as we ascended the hill. “You really don’t think so? I wouldn’t be mistaken ‘bout this shit -- I may have been seriously drugged out when I used to go here, but there’s no chance that this damn building could be anything else.”
“How do you know that? It just looks like a regular apartment to me --”
I cut him off quickly with a sharp retort: “This isn’t suburbia, you know. Not everything down here in the City looks the same, wouldn’t you agree, Tré?”
“You’re crazy,” said Tré, but he quickly dropped the subject as we just kept walking. Our footsteps were the only things that made noise now, the only sound being our shoes hitting the pavement with a dull thud. It was monotonous and boring, but somehow rhythmic. I almost liked it -- well, that might just have been the recent trauma and resulting sleep deprivation.
I tolled my sore shoulder, which was fairly useless now that it was totally bandaged as all hell and in an awkwardly bandaged position.
It took very little time from then to get to the old headquarters. It looked exactly the same as I remembered it, it looked just like the same old run down apartment full of delinquents, miscreants, and mischief makers as it always had been.
We silently walked to the doors and I opened it, greeted by the oh so familiar smell, the wall of the scent of rotting eggs, sour milk, mold, and general uncleanliness. It was the same dark hallway that it had always been. It was the same claustrophobic staircase that I ascended then as it had always been. It was just so familiar that I could barely stand it then.
“I’m sure this is the building,” I whispered to Tré as I ascended the steps, pulling my hood further over my eyes. There was a quiet, muted light at the top of the stairs that I was immediately drawn to. It all felt so familiar, and I knew why.
That’s when voices drifted down to us. “Did you hear what happened…?” “Yeah, I can’t believe it…” “It’s amazing, I can’t believe it would ever happen in a million years…” “Those arsonists will probably be let out free, this government’s such a bitch…” I ignored them, and as Tré and I got closer to the top of the stairs, they evidently heards us and all went silent. Making sure that no one would be able to see my face, I walked in first, creating a dim shadow on the flimsy plaster walls. I knew where we were -- the top of the building. Where Whatsername and I had once lived.
“Who’re you?” someone finally asked. A small tomboyish girl who looked to be around 15. Her dirty brown hair was tied back, a few strands brushing over her tanned skin, and her brown eyes glimmered with life. It was amazing how fragile she seemed.
“Me?” I asked, my voice quiet and bland. “I’m Wilhelm Fink --” A name made up on the spot. “-- you can just call me Fink, though, and I’ve heard that this is where you go in the City to hook up with the Class of Thirteen?”
Tré remained silent behind me as the girl responded in a quick, harsh whisper: “Didn’t you two morons hear? Christian and Gloria -- dead, the both of ‘em. They were shot and killed in the fire. Didn’t know that, now, didja? It only happened, like, six hours ago and word’s only been going ‘round for about an hour now.”
“Holy shit,” was all I could say.
They thought we were dead. They all thought -- and swore they knew -- that were really, honest to God dead.
“I know, right?” asked another girl from the corner of the room. She had long blonde hair thart was tied back with a rag, and streaks of dirt covered her pale face. “It’s kinda crazy -- I mean, makes more sense than Whatsername just packin’ up her bags ‘n leaving, but crazy all the same.”
I just nodded, my throat seeming to close.
“So, Fink, ya really don’t need to be here,” said the first girl. I nodded my head, signifying ‘no, I really don’t,’ and turned around to leave. “See ya ‘round the City, huh?” I nodded once more and walked down the stairs in total and utter disbelief and Tré followed me in complete silence as we were plunged back into the darkness.
Epilogue: Homecoming
I. The Deaths of Christian & Gloria
II. The City
III. Catastrophic Hymns From Yesterday
IV. Deadbeat Holiday
V. 21st Century Breakdown (reprise)
~1000 words/part.
My hearts is beating from me
I am stranding all alone
Please call me only
If you are coming home
Waste another year flies by
Waste a night or two
You taught me how to live...
II. The City
III. Catastrophic Hymns From Yesterday
IV. Deadbeat Holiday
V. 21st Century Breakdown (reprise)
~1000 words/part.
My hearts is beating from me
I am stranding all alone
Please call me only
If you are coming home
Waste another year flies by
Waste a night or two
You taught me how to live...
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