Welcome to the dark side, young Skywalker. Welcome to the streets in a not-so-nice wonderland. Welcome, welcome.
So here's the deal. This is a revamp of my story based of Green Day's song Saint Jimmy with bits of the musical thrown in. This is the story of how someone from the outside gets to know the Underbelly, Jimmy and Whatshername. Moved here from fictionpress after editing. Keep all appendages inside the vehicle; have a nice flight.
Before Johnny came along, St. Jimmy was lost. I knew him. The Saint. The sinner. He was fascinating, a spark- bright and brief and dangerous.
I didn't know who he was when I met him. And I didn't know what he was going to get me into. Maybe I would've walked away if I'd known. Probably not. That's the thing about St. Jimmy. You know he's not a nice guy, you know he could care less if the whole world went up in flames, and you still want to follow him.
But that's the end, not the beginning. So I'll start there.
I was in college. USC. Not too far away from the glamour of Beverly Hills. Not too far away from the worst of the slums either. Mostly, you knew where to be careful and walk with friends. Don't venture into the rougher places in L.A. And most definitely do not wear your shiny new Rolex or wave wads of $20s in the air.
Simple, right?
That's what we thought. My friends and I thought we had it down pat. I mean we weren't push-overs physically and there were four of us. We were twenty years old, soon-to-be-Juniors, and thought we knew everything. So we all pulled on our jackets and went for an adventure.
Our object was a seedy place where there was supposed to be crazy underground concerts. It was fair to say that we weren't just going for the music. I was in a band with a couple of the other guys but it was nothing serious. Mostly, we heard there was some great weed and an unhealthy amount of alcohol.
Why didn't we go to a frat party? Well, we wanted that edge of danger.
The club didn't look like anything on the outside. Just a big boxy white warehouse stained with reddish brown rust and graffiti.
But I remember the people. I remember how they looked to me, like I'd stepped into some alien world where normal hair colors didn't exist and piercing something was a must. It wasn't like I hadn't been around this kind of thing before. I lived in LA, right? There was enough diversity there for a World Cultures Convention. But here, well it was like everything had been turned upside down and now we were the ones that didn't belong. It was…uncomfortable.
We went in anyway. We weren't going to be intimidated by these freaks. Not us, nooooo. I was determined to enjoy myself; getting beaten into one giant bruise in the pit, hearing punk-rock music screaming through the haze. I remember stumbling outside at God-knows-what hour because Mike couldn't hold his liquor. We helped him up, laughing as he groaned.
I don't remember why Tony went back inside. I think he was going to give his number to a chick. I don't remember why Mike ambled away- maybe to throw up again. It doesn't matter. What matters are the results.
The second-hand smoke and endorphins made the world into a strange mix of clarity and haze.
Tye was the only one who stayed where he was, finishing up the last of the weed he'd gotten off some girl. He was standing there chatting with her (purple contacts, cat-ears, and all) when she wrapped her arms around his middle and held on tight.
That was about the funniest thing I'd seen all night and I was in the process of laughing my ass off and trying to get a good picture with my cell when a guy goes up to Tye and grabs the girl clinging to him. He looked like a regular: leather-clad and scowling. He tried to pry this girl away from Tye, but she absolutely refused to let go of him, and was giggling madly, just loving all the attention, her purple cat ears hanging crookedly off her head. Tye, for his part, was looking at both of them with a bemused smile on his face and didn't react at all when Mr. Jealous Boyfriend started yelling.
"What the hell, Elfie?" Or was it Effie, or Luffy? I'm not sure. But whatever her name was, she rolled her eyes at him. The boyfriend then turned to Tye, "Get your hands of my girl!"
By this point I was trying to telepathically make Tye step away. Slowly. The guy's friend was huge and looked even taller thanks to his outrageous Mohawk. But Tye, the idiot, just grinned, and this was apparently all it took for the punk kid to decide to break Tye's nose. At which point I stepped in.
And got punched in the throat by Mr. Jealousy's mohawked friend.
Street fighting is not as glorious as Hollywood makes it look. Mostly it's just rolling around trying to punch whatever part of the other person is closest. And I was getting beaten up. My head hit the pavement sending a jolt through my body. My vision went white for a second. I swear Mohawk was wearing steel-toed boots. My ribs felt like they were caving in and panic flashed through me. Pure terror. And then suddenly there was nothing. No one was there.
I sat up slowly, confused as hell.
He was silhouetted against the grungy orange street light. A black outline against the backdrop of the boulevard.
Review and I edit/update. Don't review, I think nobody cares, I take it down, yeah? Peachy keen.
This is in no way passive aggressive. Don't tell my therapist.