|Bullets And Bombs Aren't My Bag
Author: CyanideKiss PM
Scott, a nihilistic punk just finding out life's little tragedy's gets drafted with his childhood friend when Russia bombs hollywood. Decidedly..The two aren't goin..but how are they gonna get away with it? R AND R please..4 ChaptersRated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Tragedy - Chapters: 9 - Words: 10,166 - Updated: 06-29-05 - Published: 06-07-05 - id: 1933701
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"Dude..wake up..It's one in the PM and we haven't got ourselves some ultra-violence yet today."
That's how it started. Or, just as this story is started. You see, I'm not writing this for you. I'm not writing this for the population, the sheep, the punks, the losers, the drunk outside your door. I'm writing this for me. This is my life. If you happened to pop over to your nearest book-café maybe you'll check it out sometime. But I said maybe. Maybe usually announces a no, or a casual "I'll put it on my to do list." That's why it's here. My life isn't a glamorous waltz of the upper-class. My life isn't some monogamous relationship with one of the opposite sex. My life is here, in Boston with my dear friend that I have known for almost the whole of my younger days. I'm still pretty young, ya know. Just a few months over nineteen. When I say younger I mean when we were just little wankers running around in diapers and crying when our knees got skinned.
Alastair, (weird name, huh?) was my roommate in this little bunker we called home. Two mattresses next to each other on the floor. Shelves of which we stuffed our unwashed clothes on with the clean clothes. A good sniff identified which one's were clean or not. A small refrigerator which contained about a million TV Dinners of fried chicken and macaroni and cheese, stolen beer, and Red Bull cans. The walls were covered, I MEAN COVERED, in fliers, posters, newspaper clippings, hell, even some candy wrappers were thrown up there. A little apartment overlooking the streets of Boston. Life wasn't so bad.
See, I can say that now, that life isn't so bad because nothing's going on. I've got the windows open and Alastair, who we'll just call Alas because he hates it, is passed out on one of the mattresses. You can hear the cars pass by, the whores just starting to come out to play. Shit got bad, though. Of course the apartment had it's typical cheap apartment problems. The shower leaked everywhere. Sometimes the electricity would go out for no apparent reason and wouldn't come back on until Alas and I started complaining, and sometimes it would reek like high hell of cigarettes, body odor, sex, and pot. But that was just when we all had a good time. It still reeked of cigarettes and pot regardless.
"Fuck you man, I was in the middle of a dream," Alas opened one eye and curled up tighter, throwing a combat booted foot half way across my mattress. I rolled my eyes. Typical asshole not wanting to start a day. For some reason I was cool with it though. It was fine. It was fine until I kicked him. I kicked that bitch straight off my mattress. Feet shouldn't be there. They're disgusting. Alas groaned and ran a hand through his dreadlocked hair. He was about my height a tad shorter, very frail looking. Very pale. Too pale. Compared to a wall he was off white. He stood up in his Combichrist t-shirt and boxers and flipped me off. I flipped him off right back. We both beamed.
"So what's in the agenda, Scotty?" Alas stood up, scratching his ass in a very typical way and wandering off to the refrigerator to grab himself a pack of cigarettes off the top and a Red Bull. "I don't know, Johnny, what do you think?" I stared at him and he kind of laughed, throwing me a Red Bull which I caught and set off to the side. By the way, I'm Scott. But this was used in a sarcastic tense. I know some of you fucks out there, don't know what we're talking about. But like I said, I didn't write this for you. Alas leaned against the wall and slipped a cigarette between his lips. "Uh..How about we go look for a job?" He looked over at me. I pretended to think for a moment, motioned for him to bring me a cigarette and then pointed at him inquisitively. "Ya know, we could do that, we really could, but you see..I..Don't..Want to?" Alas smiled and shook his head, taking a swig from his Red Bull. "Well what the fuck do you want to do?" I thought again, took a swig of my own Red Bull and I rolled my eyes toward him. "Sit on my fat ass and drink this Red Bull?" Alas chuckled, choking on cigarette smoke and hacking up a lung. That was a normal day in the Alas/Scott residence..Just a normal day.
One thing, I know for sure, is I hated people. Yea, okay, Alas was okay for a creepy Rivet head kid who just kind of mooched of what wealth I had. But Alas was different, he was like a brother, blood bound. Everyone in this city, besides everyone that seemed to be involved with the local punk scene and probably would agree on this one. People were fucking snobs. They got in your business, liked to bitch about meaningless shit, everything was a battle. Everyone just seemed to hate each other. I hated them too. I hated the people that hated each other.
All this hate was making me a bit hungry, I popped my ass in the local run down café to check out some TV and have myself a straight black coffee with a tad of sugar. We had no cable in our little bunker so I casually stopped here every once and a while to check up on the latest shit on the news. The new president had been elected a couple weeks back but I didn't care enough about that shit. I used to be really involved in a revolution in my younger years but one morning I woke up, took a nice big sip off a cup of nihilism and now I don't give a shit. Try all you want but nothin's gettin' solved. My Red Bull drinkin' ass is just gonna sit in on my ass and drink Red Bull. With Alas. Who also doesn't give a shit. He's already convinced that the world's ended, with his fuckin' gas mask and his fuckin' goggles. Fuckin' wanker. I pulled a chair up to one of those nice quaint tables, ordered my coffee and began indulging in a little CNN. As the liberal hypocrites and the close minded conservatives babbled their bullshit I looked around the coffee shop for something to gaze upon. I saw a bunch of old people and newspapers, nothing too intriguing, until I looked right next to me. I saw a sweet devotchka of fine reading some book on pre-law. I gazed at her appearance. Blond hair pulled back in a bun with pencils stuck in it, tiny little glasses that rested on her button nose. A button down red collared shirt. I looked down at myself. A black Subhumans "The Day The Country Died" shirt with cut off sleeves, red unclean bondage pants with zippers and combat boots. Doc's. About two-hundred years old. I spit in my hand and slicked back my teal Mohawk, and crossed one leg over the other and nodded to her. I tried to look sophisticated for the college chick.
She looked over at me, and kind of smiled at me, staring me down, catching a glimpse of my clothes. She looked like she was about to regurgitate. I felt my cock soften as she turned away, sipped her coffee. Never looked at me again. I sighed, having not gotten laid in years. My eyes wandered over to the television mounted on the ceiling.