Chapter 13: Restless Heart Syndrome

(2706 words)

I sighed as I walked through my damp smelling, dreadful and dreary dark hallway, heading toward my room. My heavy, purposeless steps echoed off those walls in a depressingly muffled way. Finally, I reached the end of the hall -- and thus, my old bedroom.

Why did Tré break up with me?

For the same reasons that I would have broken up with me.

It was the riot, the sheer number of those who had died -- it was that, plain and simple. He felt like he couldn't believe me anymore, not after what I'd done, after what I'd been the cause of. I could barely trust myself, for that matter. I still didn't know whether it was rational, however, considering the fact that he said he'd be with me through it all. How rational was Tré, and how rational was I?

I sighed and flopped down on my old, creaky, lonely bed. It felt colder and emptier more than ever now, as my only blanket was the sickening knowledge that Tré was not only a text message away. I felt so lonely and isolated now, as seconds trickled by like slow raindrops pattering on a window in April. It was simply unbearable, to be so alone now. And this was just the first stage of grief -- denial, pretending that it never happened, that we were still a couple, that we were the unstoppable Christian and Gloria, the resistance leaders Gloria and Christian.

Of course, as I stated, this stage was called denial. I was just playing make believe, hoping that if I thought it hard enough, that it would become real. That is a reasonable enough belief to hold, honestly, but I knew it wouldn't work on me, for I was far less attuned than most people, and I could tell that it wasn't going to help me. It was useless to hope for something you knew would never happen.

He'll never really get what is wrong with you, said the majority, booming, pessimist side of my mind. He'll never understand.

I agreed with my brain just then, as my heart was telling me to do the impossible -- to go back to his house and try to make amends, or at least patch it up enough to be a so called friendship. It seemed to not know the fundamental rules of all breakups, gay or straight:
1. Don't try talking to each other until at least a month has passed.
2. Don't try to be friends; and
3. Don't try to get together again.

Well, at least I didn't just disappear like Whatsername had. At least I was still around, albeit reluctantly. At least I didn't leave him a good bye and or breakup letter (make that, letterbomb) and just go away. I wanted to go away, but I really couldn't, not then. I couldn't leave until the news of the riot had passed and I looked sufficiently unrecognizably different.

I sighed and stood up, my legs and arms feeling like they were rusted in place, and stepped out of bed onto a pile of thick clothing. Thick, dirty, clothing. Deciding that the shirt I'd been wearing for the past twenty four or so hours was ruined enough already for it to be worn while dying my hair, I kept it on as I trudged out of my room. I slid my bloody, torn, half burnt jeans off as I did so, deciding to just go through with it half naked. I didn't particularly want to wear them anymore, anyway. I could just remember Tré's rough hands running up and down the dark denim as he kissed me.

I shuddered as I stepped over... well, I don't know, but I stepped over something big and dark in the hallway as I walked down to the ever familiar bathroom. I turned right mechanically, opening the door and flicking on the light. In front of me stood the shower and to the left of me was the sink and toilet. It was a decent bathroom, not too clean, but not too dirty either. I reached under the sink and grabbed, at random, a small, unopened box of hair dye.

Just my luck -- it was blonde and blonde was the stark inverse of black (like my hair was at the time). It would be perfect to conceal my identity with. To just let my hair grow out a bit and to have it be blonde. Not spiked black hair. Smooth blonde hair and much less makeup than before. No one would recognize me as either Gloria or the Saint Jimmy if I walked around randomly. It was the perfect disguise, and from then on (I decided) I would be just Billie Joe Armstrong.

Smiling to my reflection, I opened the box and pulled out the bottle of peroxide. Shaking my hair a bit, I decided to take a quick shower to not just wet it, but to get the hair gel out. It was a good idea, really -- it would be awkward trying to dye my hair if it was stiff and very dry, not to mention quite greasy and covered with sweat at the nape of my neck.

I turned on the water, letting it flow and warm up, as I undressed. All I had to do, really, was pull off my tee shirt and yank down my boxers.

It felt weird to be naked in my own house again. To be naked and very much alone, here.
I felt vulnerable and still very lonely.

The good thing about showers was that no one could tell if you were crying in a shower. I pulled the curtain aside and just stepped in, feeling the hot water run over my skin and wash off the caked on dirt, my sweat, and the mixed blood of myself and others from the riot. I put my dusty, soot covered hands under the stream and watched them as the black stuff slid down the drain, watching as the marks I'd received in the riot were cleaned up and watched as my dark but somehow still pale skin was slowly revealed under the shower.

I smiled as it all went down the drain, smiled as the blackish reddish brown gunk drained out of the small pool at my feet washed down the drain, swirling slightly and leaving no mark. I smiled as the marks of that damned, bloody day washed away. I smiled as the marks of my martyrdom slid off my arms and cycled down into the sewer. I smiled and I washed clean.

However, it was a bittersweet and lonely smile as I remembered being alone. It was almost as if I had been pretending that Tré was next to me as it all washed away, that in a minute, his arms would snake around my waist and I would turn around and kiss him and we'd have sex right there, under the stream of hot water. I remembered that that was unlikely to happen anymore, that I'd probably never see Tré again, that I would be alone again... alone for what felt like the rest of my life. A few tears, cold against my water warmed cheeks, slid down and into the drain, followed by a whole stream. I choked and coughed and tried to breathe through my sobs as the water around me slowly grew colder. I could tell, from the limpness of my hair, that all the gel was washed out, but I didn't care and I just stood under the spray. As my sobs grew in intensity, I sank to my knees.

Now, the water seemed to be at its coldest, but I didn't care. Nothing could be warm again unless Tré was there with me, either in body or in spirit. I could feel the water falling over my skin and splatter onto the floor like blood from an open wound, but I could really care less. I just stood there, feeling sorry for myself.

Once my sobs had subsided enough for me to stand up without my legs giving out on me, I stood and turned off the water. I stepped out from behind the closed shower curtain, being hit by a wall of sudden cold wind. I shivered but ignored it, quickly drying myself off with a probably dirty towel and putting my shirt and underpants back on. I dried my eyes as much as I could and walked back over to the mirrored sink, picking up the hair dye and opening the first bottle.

Hair dye smells terrible.

Carefully as I could with my shaking hands, I mixed it all together into a small bowl that I kept in the bathroom for that specific purpose. It was a creamy off white color -- and once it was in my hair and set and everything, it would be perfect. Wiping my eyes once more with the sleeve of my black shirt, I put on the two flimsy gloves. I carefully started to smear the dye into my dark (for that moment) hair like I would with shampoo, conditioner, or any odd mix of the two. It smeared in quietly and as soon as I finished putting it all in, there was none left and I made sure that I got all of my hair. I stood there and waited for what felt like the sufficient ten minutes, and I was sure that it was.

Smiling even though I was about at the edge, I turned the shower back on and grabbed the tiny bottle of conditioner that was specifically for hair dye setting in stuff, I stripped once again and stepped back in, washing the excess dye out. Once it had all drained out, I took off the gloves, watching them hit the ground with a sickening splash. Then, I ran the conditioner through my hair, pouring the bottle of white stuff through each strand and coating it all in whole. Once I thought it was good enough, I waited for about five minutes, quietly singing to myself. I washed it out then, running my fingers through my hair and making sure it was all out.

The water was frigid, but I didn't care.

Once it was all out and my hair was perfectly clean, I stepped out of the shower and dried off once more, with the same dirty towel, and then used an old, holey washcloth to wrap my short hair with. I got dressed once more before in the boxers and the white splattered black shirt before stepping in front of the mirror and letting my hair down.

It was perfect. I looked different -- in fact, I could barely recognize myself.

I smiled once more, feeling a bit more confident, before running my fingers through my still wet hair. I put all the hair dye stuff back in the box, only lightly closing the bottle, before switching off the light and walking out. I shut the door and went into the musty old kitchen, throwing the stuff away.

Did you know that if you close a bottle of mixed hair dye, the chemicals and gases and stuff trapped in there will make it explode? It's true -- I've seen it before, it's not pretty -- and so I'm always careful to make sure that it will not explode.

Confident that the used hair dye would not explode, I walked back to my room, almost tripping over the thing that was barricading the hall -- just an old box. I vaguely wondered what it was doing there.

I laid back down on my bed, wet hair spread around my face like a halo. My pillow slowly soaked up the water as I closed my eyes and thought over the day.

Tré... he was a fucking moron for having broken up with me. I couldn't believe how easily he went back on his words. Fiery rage against him ripped through my veins and I shot up, looking around the dark room. Stumbling to my door once more, I just turned on the light and looked around the room for a sufficient murder weapon. My head suddenly cleared and I recognized what I was doing.

I was still mad at Tré though, mad that he could just abandon me like that. Mad that he wasn't there right now, helping me through my self loathing. I was mad that he was just as mad at me as I was at myself. I grumbled incoherently, sitting down at my desk and pulling out some loose paper.

I determined then that he would never really understand me. He... would... never... ever... understand... what I had gone through. Between trying to get my hands on anything I could to Whatsername leaving me, to having no parents, not really, and always being alone... he would never understand, he could never comprehend what I had endured and what I still endured every day then.

It felt impossible, since he caused me so much pain.

It seemed impossible.

I stood up and walked to my small dresser. I picked up a small container of sleeping pills and grabbed two. Two. Just two... I really, honestly did not want to kill myself. I was upset, but I didn't want to die.

I sat back down at my desk, grabbing a pencil and putting it to the paper.

The burning still raged through my veins, from my heart. I still couldn't sleep. Not yet.

It was half angry, half soft, half blaming him and half blaming me. It was what I decided to call Restless Heart Syndrome. I smiled to myself... yes... and started writing down my feelings.

"I‘ve got a really bad disease. It‘s got me begging on my hands and knees. So take me to emergency, cause something seems to be missing. Somebody take the pain away… it‘s like an ulcer bleeding in my brain. So send me to the pharmacy, so I can lose my memories.
“I‘m elated, medicated. God knows I‘ve tried to find a way… to run away…
“I think they‘ve found another cure for broken hearts and feeling insecure. You‘d be surprised what I endure… what makes you feel so self assured?
“I need to find a place to hide -- you never know what could be waiting outside. The antidote that you might find… it‘s like some kind of suicide.
“So what ails you… is what impales you. I feel like I‘ve been crucified… to be satisfied.
“I‘m a victim of my symptom. I am my own worst enemy. You‘re the victim of your symptom. You are your own worst enemy… know your enemy."

It was perfect... it was just how I felt. I scribbled down a title to this half poem, half song at the top of the paper... I called it Restless Heart Syndrome, just like the disease that I thought, that I knew I had.

I smiled to myself, sadly, bitterly, I smiled over the paper as the tears began to fall again.

It seemed impossible, but I still loved him.

As the sleeping pill started to take effect, I stumbled over to my bed and collapsed, my thoughts drifting off to sleep.

And yet, I still loved Tré.

*

I awoke the next morning, groggy and still depressed. I was only half awake then, and I had temporarily forgotten why I was so damn upset.

My cell phone was next to me, on for who knows what reason, showing low battery -- and a new text. I plugged it in and opened it, looking at the text.

The sender was Davey Havok, a name that sounded only half familiar to me. The message itself read: “Billie Joe -- meet me at the ice cream parlor café thing, next Monday (July 1st). 4 PM. We need to talk. xoxo Whatsername.”

Oh, yeah. Whatsername’s name was Davey. I knew that.

I shut down my cell phone after setting the date on its internal calendar. I was still groggy and depressed, but half awake so I decided to just wake up for the day.

Then I remembered why I was depressed, groaned, and laid back down, effectively falling asleep.

Chapter 12: Viva La Billie Joe? (Little Boy)

(2682 words)
(Tré's POV)

As I walked into his room, I could see him shying away from me, as if knowing what I was going to say, as if knowing how fucking pissed off I was. Quietly, cautiously, he looked up at me, his normally clear and calm green eyes dark and cloudy, not to mention bloodshot. Thick rivulets of eyeliner ran down his cheeks, like the black tear mark like images on the face of a cheetah or other large cat. I glared at him for a moment, before he looked away from me and sighed silently, to himself.

"Tré..." he muttered faintly.

"Billie Joe." My voice was certain, hard and stony as I confronted my ex-boyfriend to be.

"W-well, that went pretty badly, huh?"

"Damn right it went pretty badly. Pretty bad is a fucking understatement, in fact. You know that, don't you, Gloria?" I called him his alias almost mockingly, too tired to truly mock him but too angry to say it softly.

"I guess..."

He started fumbling with the hem of his dark and burnt at the edges shirt. At the edge of his ragged sleeves, I could see the hardening red scabs.

Serves him right, I thought as I looked at him. He's a wreck. He deserves it, what, for killing all those innocent and gullible people.

He looked up at me once more, biting his lip nervously, his eyes glassy with tears that were about to fall.

"This was all your fault. You know that, right?"

"Y-yeah. I know that. I know it so damn well. It's all my fault... I can't--!"

I cut him off quickly. "Can't what? Can't believe it? Well, I sure as hell can't believe that you could actually do this! Where the hell did you get the idea to do this?" I was almost yelling now as I said that. "Why did you go through with it?! I mean -- what the hell? Seriously... I thought that you were a peacekeeper, not a fighter. I thought that you wanted to fight fire with --!"

"Fight fire with a damn riot," he muttered darkly. "And for the fucking record --" His voice was bitter now. "-- it was Whatsername's idea. He was the creator of the Underbelly, and all... he's my inspiration..."

"Oh, let me guess, you've fucked him, haven't you?"

Billie Joe glared back at me and stood up, fire in his reddened eyes. "You don't know the fucking half of it!"

"So I was right?" I asked him smugly.

"Fucking hell you were right. And you don't even know what happened!"

"I figured out you used to be the Saint Jimmy tonight -- actually, I didn't know that, till I talked to your old buddy, Mike. Dirnt. You know him, don' t you? I asked him about you when everything started falling apart at the riot. He told me. He told me that you were the one who drove Whatsername over the edge--"

"Shut the fuck up!"

I ignored him. "And you made him break up with you over a letter, right? Didn't you?"

"So what if I did? Back then -- you don't even know what I was on back then!" he shouted back at me.

"Novacaine, hm? Wasn't it, Billie Joe?"

"So what if it was? It's not nearly as bad as, I dunno, smoking fucking Opal!"

"Novacaine, right to your arm. Injected, right there, right?"

I grabbed his arm and turned it over, looking at the scars -- the tracks, really -- that ran up and down his veins. Roughly, I ran my fingers over them, even as he cried out in pain. "So it was true. I never thought that I'd meet someone nearly as crazy as I am, but apparently I've found him, and his name is Billie Joe Armstrong. He stands right now in front of me, and he's about to become my ex-boyfriend and all out fucking good times are going to be swept into the closet with our pictures."

I dropped his arm then, disgusted. "I can't fucking believe you. I thought you were a good person."

Billie looked back up at me, his tears dangerously at the point of spilling over. "I thought you were, too. You also supported this idea at the meeting the other day! Or do you not remember, Mister Tré fucking Cool, the guy who smokes Opal with his pot!"

"Oh, yeah. Right. I was going with it because in theory, it's a great idea. Isn't it?"

"It worked for Whatsername!" he argued, his voice torn between a sob and a full out angry scream.

"And what was Whatsername, I wonder?! Was Whatsername a fucking con artist, like you seem to be? Was he a fraud? How do you know that he was really for real? He never revealed his actual gender, did he? I bet you never knew his real name, did you? Did you?!" I screamed back at him, my hands curled into fists at my sides.

"I knew it!"

"Knew!" I yelled. "You knew it, but do you know it now?! No?" When he didn't respond, I just added, "Well, that's what I thought. You obviously don't remember his real name, like I won't remember yours. You'll become a face without a name in my hall of nameless photos of good and bitter times."

"Oh fuck you!"

"I wonder what happened to our plans to do exactly the same thing tonight, Mister I'd Gladly Fuck You."

"I wonder who started this damn argument in the first place!"

"Oh, really? Well -- I wonder whose grand idea it was to go out with a bunch of random teens, some hand grenades, and a few guns. You know, just to have some fun, right? To try and make a fucking difference?" I glared down at him. "I really wonder whose fucking idea it was to stop being a pacifist and burn half the damn town down!"

"Whatsername's idea, moron! Have you been fucking listening to me?!" he screamed back. Spurred on by the adrenaline (and other substances) flowing through my veins, I started to yell back at him.

"And Whatsername was a faker. He wasn't a saint. He was a whining martyr, hanging from his self-made burning cross and heading to his own self made destruction!" I screamed, stepping forward quickly and glaring at him eye to eye.

"What the hell are you saying? Whatsername --" Billie Joe's voice caught on saying Whatsername. Like always, it seemed. "--Whatsername was the most sincere fucking man I've ever met... I thought you were, but as far as I can see -- you're not!"

"What the hell are you saying, Armstrong?"

"What the hell do you think I'm saying?!"

"I think you're fucking defending a charlatan masquerading as a saint, huh?" I asked him, still screaming.

Billie Joe glared defiantly up at me as I accused his former boyfriend -- or, well, as far as
I could tell, his former boyfriend and possibly his only other outside of me -- of being a fake. I didn't believe it, of course, but then again, I was trying to reduce him to tears over this. I was so mad at him... I was so mad that I honestly didn't know what to do outside of taking it out on him. The cause of my misery, it appeared.

He looked up at me for a few more seconds, before his glare turned into more of a softly questioning stare. Quietly, slowly, he fell back onto the bed -- my fucking bed -- and buried his head in his hands, sobbing frantically, which was exactly what I had wanted.

"Little boy, why are you crying?" I spat. "It's all your fault this happened. You know that. I know that."

He didn't reply, he didn't even look up at me as he kept sobbing.

"Little one, your soul's just purging... of love and razor blades, your blood is surging."

Softly, demurely, in a way totally unlike him, he stood up and started walking across the room. "It's just like when he -- when Whatsername broke up with me, huh? I must have been screaming at him like this. I must've passed out drunk, and he must have written me that letter -- the letterbomb. He must've hated me for what I'd become. He did. I'm sure he did."

"I'm not surprised! It's so easy to fucking hate you and all your fucking guts, Saint Jimmy. Not much of a saint, are you now?"

"I'm surprised to be in the position he was in then," Billie Joe whispered, leaning against the closed door, looking down. Tears still streamed down his face. "It's a lot worse than I thought it would ever be. It is... it's so... I feel so hurt, Tré -- I'm beyond hurt, in fact. I thought you were the one, even more so than I thought that Whatsername was the one."

I ignored what he was saying. "So what? So... fucking... what?!"

He didn't reply.

"I guess you know how I feel. Betrayed. Angry. Like killing the person who stands in front of you, like killing the one you once loved dearly. It's that bad, isn't it, little boy? Isn't it, Gloria? Isn't it, Saint fucking Jimmy?"

"Yeah. I do..." His reply was barely over a whisper.

"Huh. So I guess you can see why I'm so mad at you."

"I guess you can see why I'm so mad at myself."

"I can see it, in fact -- it's written all over your damn face, little one."

"Little one? What the hell?"

I ignored his question. "Is it your calling to follow the charlatans and saints? You seem to love them. You worship them, don't you?"

"I don't." He didn't even say that, he mouthed it. I could barely see what he'd been saying, but I could just barely make it out.

"Hmm... really?"

Billie Joe nodded once more, tears still falling down his face.

"You're one of them, now. Everyone looked up to you. I did, too, and you deceived all of us... looks can be deceiving, huh? They sure can be deceiving... it's your escape, isn't it?" He still refused to reply to me. "It's like a lifeboat, built of deception and lies, or trickery and blood. Without rhyme, without reason."

He looked up at me now, and I looked directly into his bloodshot eyes. "Your bloodshot eyes will show your heart of treason."

"I didn't want anyone to die, Tré --!"

"You dirty liar. You're... you're -- you're just a junkie preaching to the choir. Run away now, won't you? You coward."

"At least I'm not saying my final goodbye in a damn letter."

"So what? You're just the same as Whatsername was! You're a coward. Except you gave up far too easily. You lied to us, then you gave up right away," I answered his challenge quite darkly.

"I was planning on staying over here tonight. But, you know..." He looked at the door, then back at me. "I might just go back home."

"That's your only option."

"Oh, is it really?" he asked sarcastically. "I really had no clue."

"You're not welcome here anymore."

"I'm fucking glad!"

"Well, so am I."

Harshly, Billie Joe flung the door open and turned away from me and muttered something that I could just barely hear. "There is no place like home... when you've got nowhere to go."

"Oh yeah, I'd agree with that."

"Bye, Tré, have a great life. I used to love you."

And as he said that, he ran out and slammed the door shut, leaving me aslone. I could hear his angry footsteps down the hall, and the sobs that started to tear from his throat as he left my shoddy apartment. At the pit of my stomach, I could feel the beginnings of regret. I shook it away and walked over to my desk, grabbing a black Sharpie and going to the plain, off white wall.

"Remember to learn to forget..." I murmured. "Whiskey shots and cheap cigarettes."

As I said that, I wrote it down on the wall. His words, on my wall.

It was the beginning of an obsession. The words from what I assumed was some sort of poetry that he once wrote was a reminder to forget him.

After I wrote that on my old wall, over peeling paint, I threw the foul smelling Sharpie to the ground and lay down on my bed and stared up at the popcorn ceiling, my thoughts drifting between angry, pensive, and slightly guilty. I wasn't sure if the guilt was from breaking up with him, or from actually being part of the riot in the first place, but I still felt guilty.

Eventually I fell asleep, dreaming of atomic bombs and a sinisterly cross-dressed Billie Joe. His spindly, spider-like arms were wrapped around a further demented version of Whatsername. Billie Joe, his freakishly vampire pale face made up in darkened pastel colors, grinned at me with a sickeningly sweet and sharp smile. Slowly, he turned back to Whatsername, and they kissed.

Behind them, a bomb went off in a rainbow of twisted colors, all bleeding into each other like a wound or a sunset. Billie Joe and Whatsername just deepened the kiss, twisting around each other. My former boyfriend's bright leather boots reached up under his short denim skirt, the skirt melting into a black striped dark hot pink shirt that was underneath a familiar leather jacket. However, the jacket was cut and now only reached just below his arms.

In sharp contrast to Billie Joe's more modern appearance, Whatsername was dressed traditionally, in a gothic style. A flowing black skirt pooled around his ankles, glimmering in the harsh light with what appeared to be silvery spider webs. He also wore a thin black corset, and long, curly black hair spilled over his shoulders and down his back.

Their kiss lingered, as they ripped at each other's mouths, alternating between soft and forceful. It was more than I could bear, even before people I recognized as the dead from the riot started running around the pedestal upon which Billie Joe and Gloria stood. Mike -- who hadn't died at the riot -- walked out from the crowd, blood dripping like sweat into his eyes.

"It's like I told you, huh?" he whispered, his voice like a raspy dead leaf. "He's Saint Jimmy. And that... next to him, that's Whatsername. He was only the best... the best, and still he failed before.

Everything faded to something cold and black, and then in front of me stood my now ex-boyfriend, dressed the same as he had been before, except his hair was now a shocking whitish blonde color. His red lips moved.

"That's what you get..." a voice whispered from between those deceitful lips. I recognized it as my own, my own voice from my abandoned love's lips. "That's what you get... what you get..."

The nightmare version of Billie Joe walked toward me, black mascara tears running down his cheeks again, red rivers of blood spurting frantically down his arms from his wounds. He reached out, and he leaned toward me, leaning in for a kiss.

"Remember whatever... it already seems like forever ago... so long ago... the regrets... are useless... in my mind... from... forever... ago..." Billie Joe whispered into my mouth. I recognized it as a tentative song he'd shown me, about a past love, about betrayal. "From so... long... ago..."

He leaned in further, pressing his lips to mine...

And before my subconscious could reveal anymore cryptic wisdom to me, I awoke in a cold sweat. I stood up and grabbed the Sharpie again, writing the word's he stated on my wall, opposite from the poetry I'd already written.

"Remember whatever, it seems like forever ago.
The regrets are useless in my mind.
He's in my head, from so long ago."

I capped the Sharpie and laid it down on my bedside table, before laying down myself.

And still, Billie Joe's distinct smell lingered on my sheets.

Chapter 11: Murder City

(2011 words)

“I can’t believe it! Can you, Billie Joe?” asked a half drunk and somehow familiar sounding voice from a few feet behind me. I looked up from the blood soaked, shrapnel littered ground and turned around to see who had been talking to me. The man was tall, and he had tannish skin, bright blue eyes, and spiked blondish brown hair. A slightly rusty, bloody shovel was half dug into the ground, leaning against his arm. He smiled at me, revealing yellow and crooked teeth. The man wore torn jeans over imitation army combat boots, a spiked belt looping around his waist. Half tucked into his jeans was a black tank top that was splattered in mud and blood. Dangling from his other arm was a reddish brown bottle of some liquid, its label torn off.

Mike… it was Mike Dirnt, who I’d known a few years before then. The Mike Dirnt who had a rock and roll life (including a girlfriend, a car, a house, and probably even more). The Mike Dirnt who I schemed with about running away from suburbia, to the City. The Mike Dirnt who I’d never loved but who had taken my virginity all the same.

“Ohhh Billie?” he asked me, since I appeared to have flown off to Wonderland or something. I snapped back into focus upon hearing my name once again. “Billie Joe Armstrong are you there, man?”

“Holy fuck. Mike?!” I exclaimed upon realizing all that stuff above.

“Who else could I be?” His smile turned cocky and he started half leaning against his shovel.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, man!” I was faking happiness at this point. It was hard to actually be happy when you just, basically, killed hundreds -- maybe even thousands -- of people. “I thought you were still in the City with Alice or whatever the hell her damn name was. You two were gonna get hitched, right? And what the hell is up with the damn shovel? The damn bloody rusty shovel?”

“Eh. You know, stuff happens ‘n all. Oh! The shovel?” I nodded. “It‘s my Traveling Shovel.” He said it in a way that made it sound Very Important. “I use it to kill people… but how have you been, anyway, dude? I mean -- like, you’re the new Whatsername.”

I ignored the strangeness of his shovel and answered his question. “Well, you know, good, I guess. I have a boyfriend now. His name’s Tré… you know him as Christian, probably. We’re together.”

“Oh yeah, I know him. Didn’t know you two are together though.”

“I may be the leader of the Class of Thirteen, but my private life is actually private -- not all public like Whatsername’s was.”

Mike smiled again in reply. “Yeah. You know, he’d be really proud of you. Whatsername -- he would be so proud of what you’ve done, taking inspiration from him and all. I think that D--”

Mike was cut off as Tré wrapped an arm around my waist. “Hey, Gloria. Let’s go back, okay? I’m getting kinda tired.” That close to him, I could hear the strain in his voice. He was struggling to keep his cool (pun not intended) just as I was struggling to keep from crying. I nodded and forced a smile.

“See ya, Mike.”

“See ya, St. Jimmy!”

I cringed as he used my former alias, waved, and simply walked away with his shovel -- I mean, of course, his Traveling Shovel. Thankfully, Tré didn’t seem to have heard it as he half dragged me back to the bike and climbed on. He gestured for me to follow suit, and so I did, and in silence, we left.

As we passed the city limits and rode down to the highway, I could hear the old church clock striking midnight -- I even counted, twelve times exactly -- from the center of the town of murder and depravity.

*

I sat on Tré’s bed, my face buried in my hands as I heard my boyfriend sob from beyond his closed bathroom door. A few tears of my own streamed down my face and left black streaks of bleeding thick eyeliner. My legs were crossed in front of me, just about dangling off the side of the bed; my elbows were leaning on my protruding knees. Everything felt like it was spinning around me -- mental vertigo, almost -- and I felt like throwing up. How could it have all gone so wrong?

I saw people killing others, explosives going off in the midst of the crowd, firearms firing out of control. People had died, and it was because I told them to go out and protest with all they had. People had been arrested, because I told them to try something different. I hadn’t been arrested -- no one wanted to rat me out, no one had wanted to reveal who their leader truly was. I didn’t know whether to be proud of that seeming loyalty, or further sickened by what I had caused.

Death. Destruction. Demolition. I felt like a corrupt military leader or something, leading my followers into the death match ahead. I was leading them in blindly, making them drink the poison fuckin’ Kool Aid rip off shit and die. The casualties, as I later learned, were somewhere in the 300 to 500 area. And it was all my fault.

Well… maybe it wasn’t, but I certainly must have been desperate, sleep deprived, and out of my mind when I decided to go through with it.

I guess I did it because of a conversation I once had with Whatsername, only a little while after we first met.

“You ever feel totally fucking useless, Whatsername?” I had been using his real name at the time, but I eventually forgot what he was really called.

Whatsername just pushed some of his long, curly, black hair behind his shoulder. “I do sometimes. That’s when I know that I have to switch tactics. That’s when I know what I’m doing’s not working.”

He looked at me, dead serious, a determined and somewhat grim look in his dark brown eyes, and said words that would inspire me to do what had caused so much devastation:
“When in doubt… when you think that what you’re trying’s not telling people something… when that happens, light things on fire. Destroy things and make a point. Make a statement.”

“That works?”

He just shrugged and added nonchalantly, “Well, it’s always worked for me. Just look at the Underbelly, we destroy things all the time and we definitely get our point across, don‘t we?”

“I guess you guys -- well, we, really -- do. It makes sense.”

“It just has to be organized and it has to have a reason. I’ve learned -- trial and error, it’s the best judge, really.”

I noticed the pained look on his face as he said that. “Whatsername? You okay?”

He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Billie Joe. I’m fine.”

“Okay, good. ‘Cause I don’t want my new boyfriend to be upset,” I said, standing up and walking toward him. Quietly, I hugged him and we kissed.

He had been holding on my heart like I held on to a hand grenade, and I really didn’t care too much at the time.

I sighed and looked up and around Tré’s room. What I really needed then was a cigarette. My nicotine addiction was kicking in with stress, and I was getting antsy. I was about to crawl out of my fucking skin with anxiety. Insomnia had taken over my brain, and it felt like my mental vertigo had become real vertigo. Everything was spinning.

So what, this was a No Smoking building. Tré always smoked there. He smoked more than cigarettes -- much more than cigarettes, you know, marijuana. And, of course, as he had been seriously addicted then, Opal.

I found one at the bottom of my pocket, old, but still, I took the only comforts that I could find.

I really killed that many people. People had killed people in my name. Was it really Viva La Gloria now? Were we really fighting fire with a riot, now? Were we really the Class of Thirteen -- or just masquerading as the Class of Thirteen while trying to be a bad imitation of the Underbelly? Was I just a Whatsername rip off? Did I really screw up that badly?

I didn’t want to be Gloria anymore. I didn’t want to be Billie Joe Armstrong. I didn’t want to have ever existed. I wanted it all to be a bad dream.

I felt useless. We didn’t get our point across. We organized meaningless, random violence in the name of the Class of Thirteen.

There went any credibility I had left in me. I could almost hear it soar over my head.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, onto the wall behind his bed, as I took another drag of my cigarette. It didn’t help.

Nothing would help.

I knew that Tré was just as upset over this, and his anger was most likely directed to yours truly. I was in for something rough.

Now I was full out crying, as silently as I could, trying not to hurt myself as I did so. I’d already hurt too many people that night. I’d ruined families. It was terrible.

How had Whatsername dealt with this? All this fucking guilt and misery. How did he do it? In his entire career with the Underbelly, thousands had died. Under his command.

How. Did. He. Do. It.

I sighed and dried my tears on my now slightly charred black shirt, leaving wet black marks on it with smeared eyeliner. A few slowly healing cuts now accented my arms, lacing between my tattoos.

I was so fucking mad at the world just then. I was so mad at myself for screwing up so badly.

I was so useless. We were so desperate. And it was all wasted.

We were desperate, but not exactly helpless. Desperate, but for the majority of the then diehard members of the Class of Thirteen, certainly not hopeless.

I sighed again and grabbed a piece of paper. Murder City, I called this poem… a poem that I might have been able to turn into a song.

“Desperate, but not helpless. I feel so useless in the murder city. Desperate, but not hopeless, the clock strikes midnight in the murder city.
“I’m wide awake after the riot, this demonstration of our anguish. His empty laughter has no reason, like a bottle of your favorite poison… we are the last call, and we’re so pathetic.
“Christian’s crying in the bathroom, and I just wanna burn a cigarette. We’ve come so far, we’ve been so wasted. It’s raining all over our faces… we are the last call… and we’re so pathetic…”

As I wrote that last line, I heard the bathroom door open and shut again. Hesitant footsteps crawled through the hallways. The door to his bedroom opened, and there stood Tré.

He looked like a mixture of angry, morose, and just plain depressed.

And he certainly didn’t seem happy with me.

I was in for it, that was one thing I knew for sure.

And it was all my fault for going with what Whatsername had said.

Maybe what he had said didn’t always work.

He did say that trial and error are the best judges, didn’t he? Why hadn’t I paid more attention to how he seemed to feel about that after his comment?

I was a wreck, too, and I just wanted to die (as I stated earlier). I wanted, not to kill myself, but to just die and let it all be over with all fucking ready..

Gloria deserved it.

I deserved it.

Vaguely, I can recall having thought: Man, I hope I have some Novacaine left at home for after this… I’ll need it… dammit… I fucking need it now.

And even though I didn’t do Novacaine then, I totally felt that statement.

Chapter 10.5: Death to the Ones at the End of the Serenade

(1007 words)
(Mike's POV)

It was just like the good old days with the Underbelly, I realized as I stood in the crowd full of rebellious and armed teens, my Traveling Shovel slash weapon leaning on my arm next to me. We were gonna fuck shit up and not take no for an answer. We were gonna do something and make it happen… not just sit back and passively resist, like the Class of Thirteen used to do.

And maybe it was just the drugs, but I was pumped, sure as hell. I was ready to keep making my point.

Damn Sara, forcing me to withdraw from the Underbelly. I never really liked her, anyway.

Filled with anticipation, I ran my hands over the familiar grooves and splinters of my old Traveling Shovel of Death. The metal shovel diggy part was covered in rust and caked on blood, and a few chunky brownish things that looked like flesh that had never really separated from the metal at the end of the handle.

I got that shovel ages ago -- well, three years before, give or take some. It was the only thing I’d brought with me when I ran away to the City. I knew it would be good luck for me in the coming years, and it was.

It was my good luck charm and my weapon. Beat that.

Then he stood up at the steps of the town hall, his echoing footsteps in front and to the left of me alerting me to the beginning of the riot. The one I once knew as the Saint Jimmy, who was now Gloria, and who was always Billie Joe Armstrong. His hair was somewhat slicked back, and as dyed black as always. Thick eyeliner reminiscent of Whatsername ringed his passionate green eyes. A wide grin marked his thin lips as he raised his hands above his head, ready to start the chant that everyone knew all so well. The anthem of the Class of Thirteen. Our rally call. Our mark of faith.

“You all know me! I’m Gloria! But who are we? We!” he screamed above the noise of the crowd.

“We are the Class of, the Class of Thirteen! Born in the era of humility!” we shouted as one voice, as a hive mind. “We are the desperate in the decline! Raised by the bastards of nineteen sixty nine!”

“What?!” Billie Joe shouted. “I couldn’t fucking hear you!”

We shouted it again, louder, much louder this time, like a military call, a crashing wave of sound: “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 NINETEEN SIXTY NINE!”

That’s when it hit me that the whole thing, the riot, was a very, very bad idea. I mean, giving three hundred teenagers guns and grenades? The hundred pissed off, passionate teenagers, nonetheless. Most of who were probably drunk and or high at the time. And probably some of whom were mentally ill… and off their meds, of course.
Yeah! Let’s all give guns to three hundred pissed off, passionate, drunk, high, not in their right minds teens! That’s a great idea!

Whose fucking bright idea was that, anyway?

Then I remembered – Whatsername. It was his idea, you know – with the whole Underbelly thing and all. This riot was practically that, really, just like the Underbelly except a few years older and not all that much wiser. It was the Underbelly all over again.

Damn nostalgia.

Whatsername had always said that trial and error are going to be the best judges, with everything, all the time. I personally knew – and I still know, for that matter – how many people had died at the Underbelly’s first few violent riots. I knew how hard it had hit him, and I knew how he struggled to pull it together enough to try again.
I didn’t know why Billie Joe hadn’t picked up on what – well, to me, anyway – seemed obvious… that Whatsername had failed his first few times. It had all gone wrong, and – like all of Whatsername’s first tries, and like anyone’s first tries -- it would all go wrong here.

The catalyst that shook me – literally, shook me – out of my thoughts was the first bomb that went off, somewhere in the middle of that crowd. The ground rumbled beneath my feet, the concrete an angry monster. I could hear people’s screams as they fell, metal and other “who knows what”s embedding in their skin and probably going deeper.

I darted out of the way of the guns’ aim and made a Mike shaped beeline to the edge of the crowd, carelessly parting the Human Sea (and cracking a few bones in the process) with my shovel. My panic button had been pressed and I knew something was direly wrong now.

Get the fuck out of here, Dirnt… run run run away… it’s not gonna end well Mike, not gonna end well…

My thoughts were a non-stop repetition of, basically, get the fucking hell out of here or you are going to die. Alone. With a piece of metal through your heart and lead in your veins.

“Mike, you fucking pessimist,” I muttered to myself as I kept hitting people blindly with my shovel.

I heard the police sirens then, and saw a flock of these morons running toward it. No! They’re gonna gas us or something!

I still knew, in that severely pessimist part of my mind, that all of us -- or, at least, a lot of us -- were going to be killed in this mess. At that point, I didn’t know whether I’d live to see the next day, or even the next few hours as the crowd thickened with armed officers, but thinned with the constantly falling dead.

You know what it was?

This riot was mass hysteria, plain and simple. It was hysteria, a mob like hive mind lead by a severely screwed up teen who believed in Hell and that Bush was the Anti Christ or some shit like that.

Which was fairly close to the truth. But, oh well, it didn’t matter since I was determined that we were all gonna die.

Is this what Billie Joe called having fun? Or was it his way of making a point?

Oh yeah, we were having a fucking blast.

You know, since no one there was gonna get out alive. No one would live to tell the tale.
So said my brain, which lied. I’m still alive, but so many people died that night…

A few more hours of this goddamn mass hysteria passed. The battlefield cleared, and I had already walked to a nearby bar to get a cold drink. I needed it.

And I trekked across what was now no man’s land to where Billie Joe stood, alone, looking out at the ruin and devastation.

All of which he had caused.

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.

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.

Act Two: Charlatans and Saints :: Chapter Eight: East Jesus Nowhere

(1000 words)
(Tré's POV)

June 17th, 2013.

Today my parents forced me to go to church again. I don’t even see why, however, as I’m nineteen and they can’t force me anywhere now, or make me prescribe to one religion. Still, they made me on the chance of losing my internet and text privileges -- both of which I need to talk to Billie Joe with. So I reluctantly went along on what became a fucking nightmare. Too bad…

I wanted to burn the damn church down, and I swear, I almost did. I was tempted as all Hell (hahaha, get it?), that’s for sure, and I felt capable of murder there in those too neat, white, unstained aisles full of the echoing and irritating sound of so called angels singing. I knew -- well, I think we all knew -- that it was a hidden choir singing. Not damn angels. Not damn angels that don’t fucking exist.

I felt so ready to burn in Hell as I listened to them. If this God is so cruel and gives out cruel and unusual, ruled UNCONSTI fucking TUTIONAL punishment for loving people, then I don’t want to go to Heaven and spend eternity with that corrupt son of a bitch.

Today, they happened to be talking about premarital sex and gayness -- both so called sins that I was guilty, very guilty of (through I couldn’t help the sex before marriage thing, since I can’t even get fucking married). I felt like screaming, but I don’t think I could take it without any access to my boyfriend for months, at the very least. So I stayed silent and pretended to be a good little straight virgin Christian boy. Oh my God, don’t you get it? I am Christian! Hahaha…

Oh, yeah, they also sang a song with the repeating background line of “Gloria!” and even though I knew that it was for glory, I couldn’t help but think of my boyfriend and the Class of Thirteen.

These people were the opposite of the Class of Thirteen -- more or less the people yelling out against Billie Joe. Some of these kids I knew from the damn high school. Some of them had been right there as I had launched out and assaulted my then boyfriend to be with my mouth… they were the ones who had been disgusted by it… they were the ones being brainwashed into a corrupt army.

I knew it. They were all being brainwashed and I could do nothing to help them. They were being assimilated into a corrupt and religion ruled army, serving under a broken and discarded and poisoned and corrupt God. I was so angry that these people were being taken into this steaming pile of hatred and martyrdom, thinking it would be for some form of some greater good or some shit like that.

They were hiding their eyes, shielding them from the terrible, terrible truth and the horrid reality. In some sort of a promise of Heaven or something. Some utter bullshit like that, anyway.

Then, they ranted about the Holy Crusade that this damn War on Terror supposedly is. That it was good. They ranted like George W. fucking Bush is the Second Coming of Christ, which they no doubt believed, probably.

Then -- the goddamn nerve of them! -- they made me confess. All of my sins. And so I did.

“Heresy,” I said. “Disbelief in your God, in Jesus fucking Christ.” They jumped at my swearing. I just laughed and continued listing off my many sins. “Homosexuality -- except I can’t see that as a sin, since I was just born this damn way. Drug abuse. Sex before marriage, or fornication, or premarital sex -- but, really, what choice do I have since I can’t get married, not legally, not here, not in the US of fucking America, the glorious country it is.”

“But,” I continued, “my biggest sin of all has to be my gay relationship with Gloria, the leader of the Class of Thirteen. He’s really, really good at fucking, did you know that? That time, you know last night, it was my first time as bottom. I loved it.”

I watched as their eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yes, I loved saying all of that. I just hope, soon, that a fire will burn soon, of all your blasphemy and genocide. That the fires of decay will infiltrate the faith fanatics…”

It sounded like something Billie would write. I was proud, so proud of myself as I promptly walked out of the damn church and went home. I want to share those verses with him and see if he likes them. I think he will -- I mean, stylistically, it’s just like his stuff. It’s dark and opposite.

Like those lines he showed me earlier: “I pledge allegiance to the Underworld. One nation under god here of which I stand alone. A face in the crowd, unsung against the mold. Without a doubt, singled out, the only way I know.”

As soon as I finished writing my diary entry, I looked my watch, hitting light and looking at the black numbers seared onto the green glow. Two ante meridian. I sighed as I closed my diary and flipped my phone open for the first time that day, checking for new messages.

Two from Billie Joe. I frowned and looked at them.

The first one read, “If I lose everything in the fire, I’m sending all my love to you… if I lose everything in the fire… did I ever make it through?” I couldn’t quite get what it meant.

The second was from just a few minutes ago and said, “Class of Thirteen meeting, Friday. Be there or be square.”

I smiled to myself as I marked the date down on my calendar.

Then I flicked off my light and fell asleep, my old diary still open next to me and my cell phone closed but still on in my hand.

Act Two :: Charlatans and Saints

Chapter Eight: East Jesus Nowhere
Chapter Nine: Peacemaker
Chapter Ten: Last of the American Feminine Guys
Chapter Ten Point Five: Death to the Ones at the End of the Serenade
Chapter Eleven: Murder City
Chapter Twelve: Viva La Billie Joe? (Little Boy)
Chapter Thirteen: Restless Heart Syndrome

Little girl, little girl
Your life is calling
The Charlatans and Saints
Of your abandon
Little one, little one
The sky is falling...