And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 32
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*Tré*
Some time in the wee hours of the morning, Tré lay wide awake.
Can life get any more stupid? I mean, really! I've been molested by two bitches in one night. The guy I'd like to play around with is going to be obsessively in love with his girl for-fucking-ever. And to top it all off, freaky broad from hell is out to get us all. He lay very still in his bed as a very important thought came to him. Not out to get us all.Just out to get some of us.[i] A small smile fitted itself onto Tré face. He snuggled into his pillow and drifted off peacefully.
*Wren*
She leaned over the bathroom counter, skilfully applying the last of her make-up. She'd chosen her old favourite: vampire. As she finished the blood trails on her neck, she nodded in satisfaction. [i]This looks good. I don't look like a fake vampire. It's authentic. Pale, but not white. Bloody, but not ridiculously gorey. Ten points to me for presentation. Wren adjusted her cape and checked herself out in the mirror one last time. Perfect
Stepping out into the hall, she looked around for the guys. Finding Billie and Tré on the couch, not dressed up, caused her to frown. "Where's your Halloween spirit?"
"It's around here somewhere. Besides, Halloween isn't 'till tomorrow. It's just a high school dance." Billie Joe replied languidly.
"Oh, I get it. You're too old to play. You're probably going somewhere with Adrienne," she teased.
Billie Joe mumbled, "No." Wren did not bother to even contradict him because his blush was telling a completely different story.
"What about you?" Wren demanded of Tré.
"I don't want to chance meeting up with Mira-bitch."
"Ta-da!" Mike leapt into the room, a swirling mass of black cloth. "It is I, Mike-orro!" he proclaimed in a thick Spanish accent. Flamboyantly, he sketched out an M with his toy sword. His blue eyes twinkled from under a black bandana that had two eye holes in it. Another bandana rested around his neck. "Saviour of Vampyresses from evil bitches!" In one long stride, he crossed over to Wren and hoisted her up into his arms. With a flourish, he tipped his black hat to her, "At my lady's service. You look especially dead this evening, my dear vampyress, if I may be so bold. Shall we away to the dance?" Carefully, he set her down, and took her hand.
Wren joined in the role playing by affecting a cold English accent. "Let us go, and leave these soulless ones to their misery."
"I've got a soul!" Tré protested, "It's just I put it somewhere and I can't remember where exactly. I'm bored; can I come for a car ride?"
"What if you get caught?" Mike queried.
Tré steepled his fingers together. "I'll show her what I can do when I'm fully awake. This is no little thing any more. She has seriously pissed off the Emperor."
At the school, Wren and Mike headed for the gym with Tré in tow. He had chattered the entire way, and worked himself into a fit. Mumbling and grumbling to himself, he disappeared somewhere between the entrance of the school and the entrance of the gym. Wren and Mike were so enthralled with each other that they did not even notice.
After a few songs, they headed for the punch bowl. Mike slung an arm around her shoulder as he looked around. "Doesn't look like she's around, does it?"
Wren slowly surveyed the costumed teenagers. "I don't see anyone dressed up like Satan, but that might be too obvious." Winking, she reached for a cup.
There was a huge thump and a creak. The refreshment table toppled over, spraying drinks everywhere. Wren tried to jump back, but it was too late. She was hit in a spray of sticky, wet, punch.
Tré popped up from his position under the table. "That's a public one!"
"You asshole!" Mike snarled.
Giggling, Tré took to his heels as the enraged bassist made a jump for him. Brandishing his plastic sabre, Mike chased him out of the room. For a horrible second, Wren stood in the gym with all eyes on her. She did not know whether to burst into hysterical laughter, to cry, or to chase after the manic drummer. In the end, she headed for the bathroom.
*Mike*
He burst out of the gym, anger lending speed to his stride. Tré's fear was stronger, and he whipped around a corner and out of sight. Grinding his teeth, Mike sprinted faster. Rounding the corner, he slowed upon realising no one was there. A distant clang of the heavy outside doors set him back on track. Holding onto his hat, Mike exploded outside.
As soon as he took one step, another kind of explosion happened in his vision. Pain flared from a spot above his ear. Light, followed by a flood of darkness overwhelmed him. Mike toppled to the ground, senseless.
*Tré*
He shook his bruised knuckles, and knelt at Mike's side. Briskly, he rifled through the bassist's pockets. Finding the car keys, he struggled to lift up his friend. God, he's fucking heavy! He looks like skin and bones, but there's a lot of him. With a grunt, Tré dragged Mike to the car. Quickly, he put the bassist inside and then hopped in himself. Hands slick with sweat, Tré put the car in gear and roared out of the parking lot.
Some time in the wee hours of the morning, Tré lay wide awake.
Can life get any more stupid? I mean, really! I've been molested by two bitches in one night. The guy I'd like to play around with is going to be obsessively in love with his girl for-fucking-ever. And to top it all off, freaky broad from hell is out to get us all. He lay very still in his bed as a very important thought came to him. Not out to get us all.Just out to get some of us.[i] A small smile fitted itself onto Tré face. He snuggled into his pillow and drifted off peacefully.
*Wren*
She leaned over the bathroom counter, skilfully applying the last of her make-up. She'd chosen her old favourite: vampire. As she finished the blood trails on her neck, she nodded in satisfaction. [i]This looks good. I don't look like a fake vampire. It's authentic. Pale, but not white. Bloody, but not ridiculously gorey. Ten points to me for presentation. Wren adjusted her cape and checked herself out in the mirror one last time. Perfect
Stepping out into the hall, she looked around for the guys. Finding Billie and Tré on the couch, not dressed up, caused her to frown. "Where's your Halloween spirit?"
"It's around here somewhere. Besides, Halloween isn't 'till tomorrow. It's just a high school dance." Billie Joe replied languidly.
"Oh, I get it. You're too old to play. You're probably going somewhere with Adrienne," she teased.
Billie Joe mumbled, "No." Wren did not bother to even contradict him because his blush was telling a completely different story.
"What about you?" Wren demanded of Tré.
"I don't want to chance meeting up with Mira-bitch."
"Ta-da!" Mike leapt into the room, a swirling mass of black cloth. "It is I, Mike-orro!" he proclaimed in a thick Spanish accent. Flamboyantly, he sketched out an M with his toy sword. His blue eyes twinkled from under a black bandana that had two eye holes in it. Another bandana rested around his neck. "Saviour of Vampyresses from evil bitches!" In one long stride, he crossed over to Wren and hoisted her up into his arms. With a flourish, he tipped his black hat to her, "At my lady's service. You look especially dead this evening, my dear vampyress, if I may be so bold. Shall we away to the dance?" Carefully, he set her down, and took her hand.
Wren joined in the role playing by affecting a cold English accent. "Let us go, and leave these soulless ones to their misery."
"I've got a soul!" Tré protested, "It's just I put it somewhere and I can't remember where exactly. I'm bored; can I come for a car ride?"
"What if you get caught?" Mike queried.
Tré steepled his fingers together. "I'll show her what I can do when I'm fully awake. This is no little thing any more. She has seriously pissed off the Emperor."
At the school, Wren and Mike headed for the gym with Tré in tow. He had chattered the entire way, and worked himself into a fit. Mumbling and grumbling to himself, he disappeared somewhere between the entrance of the school and the entrance of the gym. Wren and Mike were so enthralled with each other that they did not even notice.
After a few songs, they headed for the punch bowl. Mike slung an arm around her shoulder as he looked around. "Doesn't look like she's around, does it?"
Wren slowly surveyed the costumed teenagers. "I don't see anyone dressed up like Satan, but that might be too obvious." Winking, she reached for a cup.
There was a huge thump and a creak. The refreshment table toppled over, spraying drinks everywhere. Wren tried to jump back, but it was too late. She was hit in a spray of sticky, wet, punch.
Tré popped up from his position under the table. "That's a public one!"
"You asshole!" Mike snarled.
Giggling, Tré took to his heels as the enraged bassist made a jump for him. Brandishing his plastic sabre, Mike chased him out of the room. For a horrible second, Wren stood in the gym with all eyes on her. She did not know whether to burst into hysterical laughter, to cry, or to chase after the manic drummer. In the end, she headed for the bathroom.
*Mike*
He burst out of the gym, anger lending speed to his stride. Tré's fear was stronger, and he whipped around a corner and out of sight. Grinding his teeth, Mike sprinted faster. Rounding the corner, he slowed upon realising no one was there. A distant clang of the heavy outside doors set him back on track. Holding onto his hat, Mike exploded outside.
As soon as he took one step, another kind of explosion happened in his vision. Pain flared from a spot above his ear. Light, followed by a flood of darkness overwhelmed him. Mike toppled to the ground, senseless.
*Tré*
He shook his bruised knuckles, and knelt at Mike's side. Briskly, he rifled through the bassist's pockets. Finding the car keys, he struggled to lift up his friend. God, he's fucking heavy! He looks like skin and bones, but there's a lot of him. With a grunt, Tré dragged Mike to the car. Quickly, he put the bassist inside and then hopped in himself. Hands slick with sweat, Tré put the car in gear and roared out of the parking lot.
