Warning, chapter 1
"What the fuck Armstrong? You know I wanted that Sex Pistols story!" A man flailed a piece of white paper filled with black letter characters in front of a bored man's face.
"Oops." Billie Joe Armstrong barely glanced at the upset man from his computer screen where his fingers were busy typing something. His tone wasn't in the least apologetic. "Sorry, Ron. I thought you would better fit for a Backstreet Boy thing or something like that. Thought I did you a favor."
Ron, red in the face, crumpled up the paper and threw it at Billie Joe. He saw it hit Billie Joe in the shoulder before he turned and left.
Billie Joe spared a glance for his retreating coworker's back and laughed a bit under his breath. Ron could be such a child sometimes.
Billie Joe had been working at the music magazine 'Warning' for the past eight years after he had gotten his degree in Journalism. Warning fit him like a glove because he was able to write about things he knew and cared about as Warning was a music magazine tailored for punks and rock fans. Unlike writing about how the streets of Oakland needed to be re-paved, like he did at his previous post at a smaller newspaper. Warning was all about rock bands, guitars and concerts.
Warning also fit him because it fleshed out small, underground punk bands to a larger, non-cooperate audience. Billie Joe had once been in a popular punk band himself in his younger days. The band had been called Green Day. He had been in it with two former friends, Mike 'Dirnt' Pritchard and Frank 'Tré Cool' Wright. His experiences helped him write articles for the younger generations.
Green Day had set independent album records, toured Europe and the US several times and had been offered a bigger recording contract deal with Reprise records before Billie Joe was in a horrific car accident that severed his vocal cords.
Billie Joe had since recovered, but by time he had they were not all in the same musical mind frame anymore. They bid their platonic good-byes and went their separate ways. For Billie Joe, that meant getting his GED and going to college to find something to better his life with and occupy his time.
A small icon appeared on Billie Joe's computer. He had a new inter-office message. It read 'Don't forget about the staff meeting in five! :-)' He rolled his eyes at the waste of letters. How could anyone forget about a staff meeting? The day of they sent countdown messages to the employees so they wouldn't forget.
Billie Joe saw several of the people around his cubicle get up and head to the conference room where the staff meeting would be held. Billie Joe groaned and hung his head back. He hated to be shepherded like sheep to listen to the same things as last week. He, however, got up and followed the crowd to the room.
"Don't you want to wear a nice blazer for once?" Mary, one of Billie Joe's coworkers, asked in a disapproving tone. She gave the visible tattoos on his arms a glance.
"Don't you want to buy some Slim Fast?" Billie Joe looked at her obvious wide hips and stomach.
"Okay guys, take a seat." Wesley, the editor of Warning, said. His comment interrupted the possible verbal war between Mary and Billie Joe. "Okay guys remember, we have a deadline Friday so get everything in to me by then. Billie Joe," He spread his arms out to his favorite writer. "Awesome job on that Sex Pistols piece. Really inspiring."
Billie Joe nodded in Wesley's direction in thanks, noticing Ron's peevish look not too far down on the table. He crossed his art covered arms in a smug manner and leaned back comfortably in his chair as several of his coworkers glared at him viciously.
An hour later Billie Joe sat down to his computer and noticed that he had a new message. He opened the little icon to find a formal letter from Wesley that made his jaw drop and his green eyes see red.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"What the fuck?" Billie Joe roared at Wesley. He had slammed Wesley's office door shut so hard it had bounced back opened. His breathing was hard and his blood was boiling.
"Billie, I had to do it." Wesley stated calmly.
"No, you didn't. You did it because it would make damn Mary all the other bitches happy. You could have told them to fuck off since they can't write shit like me." Billie Joe put his hands on his hips in an attempt not to strangle a man he had grown to respect and become friends with. Heads popped out of cubicles to see what was going on.
"That may have been the initial problem Billie Joe, but I got orders from Cindy." Wesley stood out of his chair. Cindy Crabbe was the owner of Warning and whom Billie Joe had never had the displeasure of meeting.
"Why? I don't get it. What does Cindy have against me. I helped build this damn magazine from nothing. Nothing, Wes. She did nothing but sit and shit in her fancy office that her daddy bought her and had him give a grant to some punks her then-boyfriend knew. That's all she did. She never had any say in anything. Not who was hired, what was written, nothing. If it wasn't for my piece on that East Bay band, Little Type, seven years ago, we would still be sitting in a fucking cardboard box eating Roman Noodles and writing on each other's backs."
"I'm not denying that Billie Joe." Wesley said softly as he shut the still open door. Billie Joe had flopped down into one of the chairs in front of his desk, his face in his hands. "But, Cindy feels that you're trying to break away from Warning with what you've been writing. You've been getting political in your pieces and we don't do politics. We're music."
"But music is political." Billie Joe interjected roughly. "We are in a fucking idiotic prozac era Wes. How can I not write about that?"
Both men fell silent. Billie Joe scratched his nose while Wesley took his seat again. "Billie Joe,"
"What?" Billie Joe's head was hanging back and he stared at the ceiling in rage.
"It's not the end of the world." Wes tried to reason.
"It's the end of my world. Dammit Wes, you're fucking firing me." Billie Joe lifted his head to meet Wesley's eyes. "And you're not even standing up for me. Thanks a lot."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Billie Joe put down the half eaten carton of Lo Mien and picked up the bottle of Vodka from the pile of still full moving boxes he was using as a table. Billie Joe had moved into his apartment three years ago after splitting with his fiancée, Karen, and had yet to unpack.
Billie Joe took a healthy drink from the bottle and flipped the channels on the television in the corner that was propped up on moving boxes. Getting frustrated with the lack of decent shows, Billie Joe stood and stumbled to his bedroom to pull something out from under his bed.
Billie Joe sat down heavily on the unmade mess of a bed and strummed his guitar absently as he hummed a random tune to himself. "Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the hand, directs you where to go. It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right. I hope you had the time of your life."
Billie Joe stopped to take another drink. Just as he passed out, the phone rang in the living room. It rang for several beats until the answering machine picked up.
"Hey Dad, it's Joey. Uh, just wanted to talk to you, so, um, call me later. Bye."
"Oops." Billie Joe Armstrong barely glanced at the upset man from his computer screen where his fingers were busy typing something. His tone wasn't in the least apologetic. "Sorry, Ron. I thought you would better fit for a Backstreet Boy thing or something like that. Thought I did you a favor."
Ron, red in the face, crumpled up the paper and threw it at Billie Joe. He saw it hit Billie Joe in the shoulder before he turned and left.
Billie Joe spared a glance for his retreating coworker's back and laughed a bit under his breath. Ron could be such a child sometimes.
Billie Joe had been working at the music magazine 'Warning' for the past eight years after he had gotten his degree in Journalism. Warning fit him like a glove because he was able to write about things he knew and cared about as Warning was a music magazine tailored for punks and rock fans. Unlike writing about how the streets of Oakland needed to be re-paved, like he did at his previous post at a smaller newspaper. Warning was all about rock bands, guitars and concerts.
Warning also fit him because it fleshed out small, underground punk bands to a larger, non-cooperate audience. Billie Joe had once been in a popular punk band himself in his younger days. The band had been called Green Day. He had been in it with two former friends, Mike 'Dirnt' Pritchard and Frank 'Tré Cool' Wright. His experiences helped him write articles for the younger generations.
Green Day had set independent album records, toured Europe and the US several times and had been offered a bigger recording contract deal with Reprise records before Billie Joe was in a horrific car accident that severed his vocal cords.
Billie Joe had since recovered, but by time he had they were not all in the same musical mind frame anymore. They bid their platonic good-byes and went their separate ways. For Billie Joe, that meant getting his GED and going to college to find something to better his life with and occupy his time.
A small icon appeared on Billie Joe's computer. He had a new inter-office message. It read 'Don't forget about the staff meeting in five! :-)' He rolled his eyes at the waste of letters. How could anyone forget about a staff meeting? The day of they sent countdown messages to the employees so they wouldn't forget.
Billie Joe saw several of the people around his cubicle get up and head to the conference room where the staff meeting would be held. Billie Joe groaned and hung his head back. He hated to be shepherded like sheep to listen to the same things as last week. He, however, got up and followed the crowd to the room.
"Don't you want to wear a nice blazer for once?" Mary, one of Billie Joe's coworkers, asked in a disapproving tone. She gave the visible tattoos on his arms a glance.
"Don't you want to buy some Slim Fast?" Billie Joe looked at her obvious wide hips and stomach.
"Okay guys, take a seat." Wesley, the editor of Warning, said. His comment interrupted the possible verbal war between Mary and Billie Joe. "Okay guys remember, we have a deadline Friday so get everything in to me by then. Billie Joe," He spread his arms out to his favorite writer. "Awesome job on that Sex Pistols piece. Really inspiring."
Billie Joe nodded in Wesley's direction in thanks, noticing Ron's peevish look not too far down on the table. He crossed his art covered arms in a smug manner and leaned back comfortably in his chair as several of his coworkers glared at him viciously.
An hour later Billie Joe sat down to his computer and noticed that he had a new message. He opened the little icon to find a formal letter from Wesley that made his jaw drop and his green eyes see red.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"What the fuck?" Billie Joe roared at Wesley. He had slammed Wesley's office door shut so hard it had bounced back opened. His breathing was hard and his blood was boiling.
"Billie, I had to do it." Wesley stated calmly.
"No, you didn't. You did it because it would make damn Mary all the other bitches happy. You could have told them to fuck off since they can't write shit like me." Billie Joe put his hands on his hips in an attempt not to strangle a man he had grown to respect and become friends with. Heads popped out of cubicles to see what was going on.
"That may have been the initial problem Billie Joe, but I got orders from Cindy." Wesley stood out of his chair. Cindy Crabbe was the owner of Warning and whom Billie Joe had never had the displeasure of meeting.
"Why? I don't get it. What does Cindy have against me. I helped build this damn magazine from nothing. Nothing, Wes. She did nothing but sit and shit in her fancy office that her daddy bought her and had him give a grant to some punks her then-boyfriend knew. That's all she did. She never had any say in anything. Not who was hired, what was written, nothing. If it wasn't for my piece on that East Bay band, Little Type, seven years ago, we would still be sitting in a fucking cardboard box eating Roman Noodles and writing on each other's backs."
"I'm not denying that Billie Joe." Wesley said softly as he shut the still open door. Billie Joe had flopped down into one of the chairs in front of his desk, his face in his hands. "But, Cindy feels that you're trying to break away from Warning with what you've been writing. You've been getting political in your pieces and we don't do politics. We're music."
"But music is political." Billie Joe interjected roughly. "We are in a fucking idiotic prozac era Wes. How can I not write about that?"
Both men fell silent. Billie Joe scratched his nose while Wesley took his seat again. "Billie Joe,"
"What?" Billie Joe's head was hanging back and he stared at the ceiling in rage.
"It's not the end of the world." Wes tried to reason.
"It's the end of my world. Dammit Wes, you're fucking firing me." Billie Joe lifted his head to meet Wesley's eyes. "And you're not even standing up for me. Thanks a lot."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Billie Joe put down the half eaten carton of Lo Mien and picked up the bottle of Vodka from the pile of still full moving boxes he was using as a table. Billie Joe had moved into his apartment three years ago after splitting with his fiancée, Karen, and had yet to unpack.
Billie Joe took a healthy drink from the bottle and flipped the channels on the television in the corner that was propped up on moving boxes. Getting frustrated with the lack of decent shows, Billie Joe stood and stumbled to his bedroom to pull something out from under his bed.
Billie Joe sat down heavily on the unmade mess of a bed and strummed his guitar absently as he hummed a random tune to himself. "Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the hand, directs you where to go. It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right. I hope you had the time of your life."
Billie Joe stopped to take another drink. Just as he passed out, the phone rang in the living room. It rang for several beats until the answering machine picked up.
"Hey Dad, it's Joey. Uh, just wanted to talk to you, so, um, call me later. Bye."
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