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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 6 2011, 11:36 PM (846 Views) | |
| D. Black | Jan 6 2011, 11:36 PM Post #1 |
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I'm not breathing, I must be in heaven
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Hey yeall. I've seperated this into three parts, to make things easier. PART I Spoiler: click to toggle PART I: Teenage Lobotomy Hey! How’re you doing? Good, I hope. Now, let’s see if I can find a good place to start. I’m a little new to this sort of thing, so bear with me. I suppose the most logical place to start would be the beginning, but more like before the beginning. Wait, what’s before the beginning? Aw, screw it; I’ll just keep going. So then, the beginning before the beginning… If I had to name one influence on my life, I’d have to say that I owe everything to the Ramones. I mean, I suppose that every punk rock fan owes everything to the Ramones, but those four guys were legendary to me. In fact, my earliest memory was when I was four or five years old, bouncing to Rocket to Russia in my dad’s study. He’d sit in his rocking chair, smiling away at me dancing in front of that old record player. I’d always try to shout the lyrics along with Joey Ramone, playing air guitar at the same time. Dad would laugh at me, sometimes joining me on air drums. Mom would shout from the hall for us to turn it down, and dad would reach down and turn the volume up higher one notch. Years later, I suppose those 30 minutes of glorious, unadulterated punk rock are part of how I got where I am today. So, I guess I am right; I do owe everything to the Ramones. From there, everything else was easy. I had all of the lyrics of London Calling memorized by the time I was seven, I dressed up as Johnny Rotten for Halloween at least four times, and I had the words “Hey ho, let’s go!” written on all of my school notebooks. When I was 10, I saved up my allowance for nearly three months and bought a Fender jazz bass and an amplifier at a pawn shop. My dad taught me how to play. We’d sit in the garage and he’d teach me to play using his old acoustic guitar. By the time I was 15, I had a job and enough money to help pay for a private instructor. Since then, I’ve been shredding away on that tired old jazz bass till my fingers bled. I started a band with my friend Marcus Strummer, although it’s kind of hard to have a band with just a bassist and drummer. We grew our hair, turned the volume up loud, blew at least five amps, and broke countless drumsticks. Actually, I’m probably boring you with needless flashbacks and unnecessary exposition. I suppose I should’ve introduced myself first; my apologies. My name is Jonathan Armstrong. I’m 17 years old, I’ve drawn the anarchy symbol on my arm in Sharpie enough that it’s never coming out, and I love punk rock more than anything. Well, except for one thing, but I’ll get to her later. I suppose I should start three weeks prior to the talent show. At least, I think that would be the best place to start. Wow, I’m doing a really poor job of narrating this, aren’t I? Sorry. Anyways, it was Sunday afternoon and I was over at Marcus Strummer’s house for “band” practice. As usual, we had been there for three hours and hadn’t even touched our instruments. We were sitting on the couch in his living room, dicking around on Left 4 Dead 2. “Um, how about we talk to Jake?” I said. “He mentioned that he can play guitar.” Marcus Strummer sat next to me, with his hands gripped around the controller and his eyes glued to the screen. His fingers flipped and danced on the buttons. He was lost in another world, a world of chainsaws and carnivals filled with ravenous undead creatures. “Marcus?” I asked. “Did you hear me?” “Johnny, you’re getting eaten alive here,” he simply replied. “Well, pause the goddamn game!” Marcus obliged and slowly turned to me. “You were saying?” I groaned and rolled my eyes back at him. “Well, Marc, I was saying that Jake could be our guitarist. He mentioned that he played to me a while ago and---” “---Are you really bringing up band business now? We’re in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, for Christ’s sake.” “Marcus, shut your face! We’re going to need a guitarist if we’re going to play the talent show in three weeks.” Marcus sighed loudly, defeated. He got up from the couch, shut off the Xbox 360, and plopped back down. “What did you say his name was?” he asked. “Jake? Jake McLaren? The kid that’s been in your English class for the past two years?” “Jake…Jake.” Marcus’ eyes lit up. “Oh, Jake! Yeah, yeah…no I don’t think so. Nope.” “Why not?” Marcus stared off into space for a minute, his scraggly hair slightly hanging over his eyes. Either he was studying a speck on the ceiling with great intensity, or he had been smoking too much weed before practice. Finally, he snapped back to reality and reached for the notebook sitting on the table next to the couch. It was our official band notebook. He pulled the pen out of the spiral binding and flipped open to a page full of band names and stage names we had written. He immediately started scribbling. After a few seconds, he threw the pen and notebook down. “Because I can’t think of a good stage name for him,” he declared. “I mean, you’re Johnny Carnage and I’m Marky Cyanide and well…no, I can’t think of anything. And, he’s a douchebag. Find someone else.” I sighed and put my head in my hands. “Marcus,” I said, “You are such a dumbass. You know what, I’m going home. Screw this.” I stood up, walked over the front door, and grabbed my bass. Marcus shouted from the living room. “Same time next week, Armstrong?” I opened the door and shouted back. “We’re going to need a miracle if we’re going to play this talent show!” “Okay…see you at school tomorrow, man. Oh, and I copied your chemistry homework. Hope you don’t mind.” I shook my head and stormed out of Marcus’ house…the ***tard. He was still my best friend, even if he was a prick at times. More importantly, he was a damn good drummer. We had been trying to get this band together for nearly two years now, and it had been a failure from the start. If we were going to play the talent show, we needed something, someone, and we needed it fast. The next day, I met Nikki Lydon. PART II Spoiler: click to toggle PART II: Rock N Roll High School Okay, so I didn’t really meet her the next day, but that was her first day of school. Fairview High School sits in the center of the sweet little town of Wolfsblood, Utah. To be honest, the name is probably the coolest thing about this sweaty sphincter of a city. It’s 98 degrees most of the year, it’s at least a two hour drive to anywhere cool, and it’s full of Mormons. To this day, I wonder how they decided to name the town Wolfsblood. But I digress. The high school itself has 678 students in it, 20 of which are decent human beings, 657 of which are worthless assholes, and 1 of which is named Marcus Strummer. The teachers are okay, ranging from above average to terrible. The food tastes like dog feces. To be honest, I could be here all day, but I should probably advance the plot of this little autobiography before I put you to sleep, so let’s continue. So, as I said, that Monday was Nikki Lydon’s first day of school. Until I actually saw her, though, it was a day like any other. My first period was chemistry class with Marcus Strummer, and he forgot my page of homework he had copied. I told him to go suck a dick and that I’d see him at lunch. My second period Algebra II class was pretty uneventful. I fell asleep halfway through U.S. History, but we were watching a movie. English was pretty good overall. Then lunchtime finally rolled around. Marcus and I sat in our usual spot in the hall outside of our chemistry class. We did some planning for the talent show, which consisted of us drawing band logos and coming up with more band names. It happened after lunch. My fifth period class is probably my favorite, because it’s my History of American Music class. We were studying the British Invasion. Mr. Byrne was about halfway through his PowerPoint presentation when she walked in. Although it was a little hard to see with the lights off, she was wearing torn up black jeans, a black jacket with what looked like safety pinned band patches, and tall black boots. She was about 5’10”, although the boots probably added 2 inches. She had her backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair was long and red, like blooming roses …you know what, she was just really cute, okay? Jesus. Sorry I’m so pathetic. She quickly strode over to Mr. Byrne with a note in her hand. “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she handed him the note. “That’s alright; the office told me you were running a little late.” Mr. Byrne assured her. He read the note she had handed him. “Students, this is Nicole Lydon. She has just moved here from Salt Lake City. Oh, is there another name you’d like to go by?” “I prefer Nikki, but either’s fine,” she replied. Mr. Byrne kindly smiled. “Alright then, Nikki. Now, let’s see if we can find an open seat. Ah, there’s one,” he said. “You can sit there.” He gestured to an open desk towards the front left of the room. She walked over, slid her backpack off, and sat down. She reached down in her bag and pulled out her notebook and small purse. She searched around for a pen, taking out a makeup kit, iPod, cell phone, gum, and some guitar picks in the process (yes, dear reader, guitar picks. I think you know where this is going). After she found her pen and had put her purse back into her backpack, Nikki brushed her fiery hair off of her back. The next thing I saw was a giant Ramones patch safety pinned across her shoulders. I think it at one point she caught me staring, because I swore she smiled at me. Granted, it was a pretty faint smile and there were several guys around my seat she could’ve been looking at, but I still think she smiled at me. Either way, I nearly shat my pants. * * * I didn’t get around to talking to her that week. I know, you’re probably thinking “Johnny, you dumbass,” and I’ll admit that I probably should’ve paid more attention to her. But I wasn’t about to stalk her and risk getting those sexy boots slammed up into my crotch. Those guitar picks I saw had given me some hope that maybe I had found our guitarist after all, but I wanted to take it easy for a little while. I had more important things to focus on: schoolwork, practicing bass, and deciding a band name. I figured that we could pull the band together in two weeks. “Oh! I thought of one the other night: Sex Raptor Forever,” Marcus Strummer exclaimed. “Eh, sounds good to me. Go ahead and write it down.” I replied, half paying attention. I was too busy thinking about that crazy redhead. Marcus jotted the band name down. It was Friday morning in chemistry. We had a substitute that day, so Marcus and I were being anything but productive. “What do you think of Sentient Refrigerator?” Marcus asked. “Yeah, it’s fine.” “Oh, and I was thinking that we could figure out a way to play the song hanging from the ceiling…” “Marcus?” I asked. “Yes?” he said, a few seconds late. “Have you smoked weed today?” His head lowered. “No,” he muttered. “Well, a little.” I chuckled and looked at him. He had mustered a small smile. “That’s a really good idea, actually. Write it down at the bottom of the page.” I said. I looked back up at the front of the room, making sure the coast was still clear. The substitute teacher was busy dealing with some pricks who were hitting each other with their ID lanyards. I turned back to Marcus. “I think I’ve found a girlfriend.” I said. “….a girlfriend?” Damn it, idiot! I thought to myself. ThinkofsomethingthinkofsomethingNOW! How could have I let that slip? I finally thought of a way to cover my mistake up. “No, man. I said ‘guitarist.’ Jeez, are you still high?” I joked. “There’s a new girl in my music history class, Nikki…Lydon, I think. I’m pretty sure she can play guitar.” Marcus held up two bony fingers. “Two questions, Johnny. Does she like punk, and is she hot?” “Yes…well, I think so. I saw a few punk patches on her jacket at least. Oh, and yes, definitely hot.” Marcus thought hard for a few seconds. “Alright, we’ll find her at lunch today,” he concluded. My pulse was doing the Daytona 500 up until lunchtime. I ate my lunch in fourth period so I could devote my entire 35 minutes of freedom to finding Nikki and talking to her about joining our band. Marcus and I met up in the lunchroom and started looking for her. After walking around the school for about 15 minutes, we found her in the band room. From the hall I could hear her singing “I got something to say/I killed a baby today...” I poked my head in the doorway. There were several kids in the room, all separated into their friendship circles and eating. Nikki was sitting alone in the corner of the room, strumming on a beat-up acoustic guitar, her backpack sitting at her side. She looked sad and beautiful: her head tilted to one side, eyes closed, black nail polished fingers draped over that acoustic. I could feel my heart trying to break the land speed record. I made sure my Sex Pistols shirt was free of ketchup stains, and Marcus and I stepped inside. “Holy balls, Johnny,” Marcus whispered. “She’s playing the Misfits. And she’s freakin’ good.” “Don’t forget hot,” I added. “But I don’t know if—” “Shhh,” Marcus raised a hand to stop me. “Patience, my friend. Listen.” She continued. “Well I got somethin’ to say/I raped your---” Nikki stopped playing and looked up at us. Shitshitshitshitshit, I thought. Say something before she has the chance to stab you! “Um…hey.” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the wet spot spreading on my jeans. “Hey Jonathan.” She replied. Spank my ass and call me your b****, she knows my name. DON’T MESS THIS UP. “How did you know my--? Never mind. Uh, this is my friend Marcus Strummer,” I gestured to the idiot standing next to me. “And we were wondering if you’d like to like to uh, come and play with our band.” Her eyes lit up and she smiled as she set the guitar down next to her. “Who’s in your band? I’m assuming you play punk.” “ Yeah,” I was almost shaking. “Uh, I play bass guitar, and Marcus plays drums, when he isn’t smoking weed that is.” She let out a short laugh. “Do you guys suck?” “No! Of course not! We’ve just never had a singer or a guitarist. I was…I mean, we were just hoping you might be interested in playing with us.” “You really want me to play in your band? Come on, I’m not even that good.” “What? What are you talking about? Play ‘Last Caress’ again.” She nervously picked up her guitar and played through the song again. “That was great,” I spoke the truth. She was fantastic, better than anyone else we had ever considered for the band. “Look, Nikki, there’s a talent show in a couple weeks and---” Nikki held up her hand to stop me. “You really want me in your band?” Marcus and I looked at each other, and then both nodded. She dug a paper and pencil out of her bag. She wrote a couple things on it, and then handed it to me. It was her phone number and address. “What time do you think you’ll have practice?” I could barely speak, I was so shocked. “Um…2 o clock on Sunday, a...at Marcus’ house.” “Pick me up at 1:30,” she said. “I’ll bring my Gibson and amp. Do you have a microphone?” “Yeah we do. It’s kind of shitty, though.” “That’s fine.” “Okay, cool.” Thankfully, the bell to fifth period rung before I could make an ass of myself anymore. The other kids in the band room stood up, grabbed their things, and threw out their trash, stuff like that. Hoping she’d be distracted, Marcus and I did a quick 180 degree turn so we could get the hell out of there. She stopped me before I could leave the room though. “Hey, Johnny!” she said. I slowly turned around, saying nothing. “See you in class,” she smiled and strolled out the other door. We couldn’t help but stare as she walked out. Marcus turned to me. “Dude, we scored,” he observed. “We’ve got this talent show in the bag for sure. Oh, and what do you think about Kurt Vonnegut’s Joyful Spleen Club Band?” * * * I stared at her for about 75% of fifth period that day. I’m not even sure what happened in sixth period, because I couldn’t stop thinking about her. At home that night, I listened to “Punk Rock Girl” by the Dead Milkmen at least 35 times. I didn’t fall asleep until about three in the morning. On Saturday, I stared at her phone number and address for about two hours. I also wrote about 234 stage names for her. Was I obsessed? You could say so. To be honest, I wasn’t really “in love” with Nikki Lydon. She was just an insanely good-looking girl that happened to like punk and also happened to want to be in a band with me. More than that, she was an exceptional musician as far as I could tell. I couldn’t wait for Sunday’s band practice. It wasn’t too hard to find her house. I arrived at 1:30, just like she said. She looked as good as ever, wearing a Talking Heads shirt, blue jeans, and black Chuck Taylor’s. I helped her load her Gibson Les Paul and amplifier in the trunk of my car, shoving my bass and amp out of the way first, like a gentleman. I put Double Nickels on a Dime in the car stereo for the 20 minute drive to Marcus’ house outside of town. We had a good chat along the way; she told me about where she had come from. “My mother had been living and teaching in Salt Lake City for about 20 years, and she was just tired of it. She finally found a job at the elementary school here, and just took me and our cats out here.” I kept the conversation going and tried my best to keep my eyes on the road. Surprisingly, practice at Marcus’ house went extremely well. As far as I know, Marcus hadn’t smoked any weed that day, so we were able to actually accomplish something for once. Nikki actually brought an extra microphone with her, so she sang lead and played guitar while I chimed in with backing vocals and tore shit up on my bass. Marcus and I had actually learned a few songs over the years, so we blazed through “God Save the Queen,” “Last Caress,” “London Calling,” “Psycho Killer,” and “Gloria.” Damn, that girl could was a freakin’ machine. My jaw dropped several times. She had perfect rhythm, feel, and stage presence. Her guitar sounded like a goddamn chainsaw, her voice soared, and her hair whipped around like the fires of Hell. Marcus was right; we had scored. Big time. After we ran through those songs, we formally invited her to join the band. Waiting for her answer was like staring up into the sky as you watched a bomb fall on your town. She agreed, and afterwards I felt like I could fly. Our next order of business was to decide on a song to play at the talent show, a band name (big surprise), stage names, and other plans for the show. Since Marcus and I created stage names for ourselves (Johnny Carnage and Marky Cyanide) years ago, we decided to stick with those and come up with one for Nikki. Eventually, she decided to call herself “Nikki Wicked.” Next, we voted on all of the band names that Marcus and I had ever come up with. Finally, we narrowed it down to Mandatory Clown Zombie. Our final, and most important order of business, was to pick one song to play for the talent show. We talked about hundreds and hundreds of our favorite punk songs, but eventually, we all agreed that we had to, had to, had to play “Anarchy in the U.K.” We all agreed on a time for our next practice, and I drove Nikki home at about 7:30. We said a friendly goodnight at the door, she gave me a hug, and told me she’d see me in class tomorrow. After I’d pulled out of the driveway, I took Double Nickles on a Dime out of the stereo and put in my CD copy of Rocket to Russia in. I listened to “Sheena is a Punk Rocker” on repeat the whole way home. PART III Spoiler: click to toggle PART III: Today Your Love, Tomorrow The World Over the course of the next week, Mandatory Clown Zombie continued to practice at Marcus’ house for about an hour every day after school. We had made a great progression ever since that first practice. Nikki had adjusted to being in the band very well, and we became good friends at school. We always hung out at lunch, I gave her rides to band practice after school, and we also saw each other in Mr. Byrne’s History of American Music class. Nikki also invited me over to her house a few times. She introduced me to her mother, a very kind and likable schoolteacher who had raised Nikki by herself. Nikki and I did homework together in her room, with punk rock playing loud and proud. Mr. Byrne had recently assigned the class a research project on an important musical artist who affected popular music of the past 50 years. Nikki and I decided to do the Velvet Underground, so we spent most of our time working on that paper, but she also helped me out with my Algebra II and I gave her help on her Biology homework. When we weren’t doing homework, we talked about music, played video games, and talked about the band. She actually told me that she had a case of stage fright. For a while, I almost forgot that I had a massive crush on that sweet redheaded angel. She had become one of my closest friends. Unfortunately, all was not well in Wolfsblood, Utah, as Marcus Strummer revealed to me on the Monday the week of the talent show. “You know that kid in my English class, Jake McLaren? He has a band, and they’re playing the talent show,” he told me in chemistry. “He is? What song are they playing?” I asked. “I don’t know, but they’re…a punk band.” “What a dick!” “I know! I’m glad he’s not in our band,” he said. “Anyway, keep your eye on him. The ***tard tried to steal my drumsticks this morning before school.” “You bring your drumsticks to school?” Most of the week turned out to be one shitstorm after another. I was swamped with homework in all of my classes, dad wanted me to do some extra work around the house, leaving Nikki and I almost no time to work on our report on the Velvet Underground. However, everything seemed to calm down by Thursday night. We had a special two-hour practice to get ready for Friday’s talent show. We played through “Anarchy in the U.K.” about 10 or 12 times, with a couple slower songs in between to give ourselves a break. Mrs. Strummer made us a little bit of dinner, and we spent some time playing GoldenEye 007 on Marcus’ Nintendo 64 after practice. Nikki kicked my ass. I brought her home that night, and told her to get a goodnight’s rest. It turns out I could’ve used my own advice; I barely slept that night. Early the next morning, I grabbed my bass, borrowed my mom’s van, and drove out to Marcus’ house. He had spent last night painting the words “Mandatory Clown Zombie” in block letters on his drumhead. We loaded his drum set into the back, and then drove back into town together to pick up Nikki. We all crammed into the van and drove to school. The instruments were unloaded and stored in the auditorium, and I met with the student council kids running it to make sure everything was going okay. Now all that was left for us was to make it through the school day. It was a nightmare. Even though we had shorter periods because of the talent show, I couldn’t pay attention in any of my classes. Lunch time was a blur; I resolved to eat alone so I could at least be at peace, but that didn’t work. I felt like I was a death row inmate eating his last meal. History of American Music was absolute Hell; I couldn’t stop looking at Nikki and worrying that the whole show was going to be a disaster. I just wanted to get to the end of the day, so we could get to the talent show, play our song, and get used to be the laughing stock of Fairview High School. I’m sure Nikki was thinking the same thing. All of the talent show performers were released from their sixth period classes 30 minutes early, in order to get ready. I met Nikki and Marcus at the front door of the auditorium with everyone else, and the student council let us inside. They took us backstage, and informed us of the order of acts. We were about three-fourths of the way down after Jake McLaren’s band. And they were playing “Blitzkrieg Bop.” I felt like punching a baby. We did a last minute check on our instruments, and then we hung around the backstage area until the show started, mostly keeping to ourselves. At about 1:30, a kid from student council informed us that we had five minutes until the show started. I went to the dressing rooms backstage to splash some water on my face and relax until our turn. Principal Marchand did his opening speech, and then the show began. I spent the entire time trying to remember my bass lines and my few vocal parts, while also trying to keep calm and stop thinking about Nikki. Of course, I was doing pretty well until she found me. I was sitting on the icy tile floor of the men’s dressing room, with my back on the wall. I was trying to study a speck on the wall opposite from me when she walked in. I heard the door creak open and turned me. She peered out from the doorway. “Hey, Johnny,” she whispered. “Hey, Nikki,” I replied. “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?” I shook my head. She stepped inside and sat down beside me. Neither of us said anything for a few painful, awkward seconds. “How much time do we have left?” I finally asked. “I’m not sure. Marcus checked a few minutes ago,” she answered, “And it sounded like there were only four acts until Jake McLaren’s band.” “Are you feeling nervous?” She nodded. “Yeah.” I chortled and said, “You and me both. But we’ll do okay, won’t we?” “Yeah, I think we will.” I turned and looked into those gray eyes of hers, with those tiny glimmers of light in the centers. It was almost like looking at the moon at night through rain clouds. Dear reader, I swear to God, I was just about to lean forward slightly, pucker my lips, close my eyes, and kiss that amazing girl when Marcus Strummer burst open the door the dressing room. “Guys! We have a problem!” he shouted. I snapped back to reality. Nikki and I both stood up. “Marcus, what do you mean?” I said. “That asshat! That god damn asshat! I can’t believe he would do that, that no-good, dog-kissing, pig-fuc---” I slapped Marcus across his face. “Speak some sense, man!” “It’s Jake McLaren! He detuned all of our instruments!” “And you didn’t see him do it? What were you doing?” I demanded. “Well, I had stepped outside to smoke some weed, and when I came back inside to do some last minute checking, the guitar and bass were all out of tune!” “Okay, okay, Marcus. Calm the hell down. We still have time to tune them up.” “No, we don’t man! Jake’s band is on right now! We’re next!” “Alright,” I said. I stepped to the side and did a couple of quick stretches. Then I gritted my teeth, strolled out of the dressing room to backstage, found our instruments, and tuned them in 30 seconds. “Holy shit,” Marcus said when I was finished. “Indeed, Marcus, indeed,” I concurred. “Dear God, is that what I think it is?” A terrible sound was drifting through the air from the stage. It was Jake McLaren’s band absolutely butchering “Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones. For the second time that day, I felt like punching a baby. After an eternity, Jake’s band was finished. They strode offstage, accompanied by resounding cheers from the ignorant and tasteless student body of Fairview High School. Jake snickered as he walked past us. “Good luck,” he sneered. “Hey, go get raped.” I shot back. I grabbed my bass and said a silent prayer to the Gods of Punk. The student council kids loaded our amps, mics, and drums out to the stage, and surprisingly set up everything perfectly. The principal was just about to go up on stage to announce us when Nikki pulled me to the side. “Hey, Johnny,” she said as she pulled me close. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, whatever you want to call it, she wrapped her long arms around me, closed her gray eyes, and kissed me. Not on the cheek, on the lips. Full on, no holding back, kissed me on the god damn lips. I could taste her cherry lip gloss. I took me a few seconds to recover from the initial shock, but I finally closed my eyes and leaned back into it. After what seemed like an eternity, we broke apart. Both of us were smiling broadly. “And,” she said, “I’ll take you out to the movies after the show. It’s my turn to drive your ass around for once.” She grabbed her guitar and said, “Now let’s go bring the thunder.” I stood there dumbfounded for a few moments, until Marcus finally hit me on the head and shouted, “Dude! Have you been smoking or something? We have some god damn music to play!” Our timing couldn’t have been better. Principal Marchand had just finished saying, “…please welcome Mandatory Clown Zombie!” and had left the stage. We strolled out on stage, bathed in stage lights and glory. Nikki and I plugged in our guitars, and Marcus sat himself behind the drum kit. A silence settled over the crowd. I draped my fingers over my bass. Marcus gripped his sticks so hard his knuckles were white. Nikki turned her back to the audience, guitar at the ready. We all looked at each other making sure we were ready. Our fingers twitched. Our mouths forgot how to breathe. She shot Marcus a quick look, and then looked at me. Nikki shook her inferno hair back a little bit, smiled at me with those cherry lips, and winked. All of a sudden she raised her guitar like a battle axe and screamed, “Play it f*cking loud!” Marcus shouted the count-in and clicked his sticks together. The entire earth exploded as we hit the first chords of “Anarchy in the U.K.” I looked back at the drums. Marcus Strummer was smiling and banging away at that kit. I turned back to face the front of the stage. An expression of pure bliss and punk rock fury broke over Nikki Lydon’s face as she shredded her Les Paul, strode up to the microphone, and howled, “I am an ANTICHRIST!/I am an ANARCHIST!” I could barely hear the drums over the sound of my own heartbeat. THE END |
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| kelseyyy. | Jan 15 2011, 11:59 PM Post #2 |
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Set down your eyes for a moment and breathe.
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I love thissssss David =D. dialogue sucks to write though, it's impossible (for me anyways). So kudos =]. and i like how it's organized too. like the spastic-but-not-ness of it. I approveee. |
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