Unforgiven, chapter 2
Tre shifted uneasily in his seat. Well, his floor, for he was now clinging openly to it, like a 3 year old who lost a toy. He was just holding on to Billie.....wasn't he? Wait, who WAS Billie? He thought inwardly, with struggle turning over form the floor. Aw shit. His back hurt. What happened?
His eyes, which we're large for his age, giving him a betrayingly innocent appearance, swirled with green and blue, searched around the back-seat of the car he was in. It was dark out, he could see that much, and an annoyingly bright light seemed to glow from outside. He checked the front seats, but found no one contained in either of them. Unsteadily, and tumbling messily out of the car, he fell on the pavement. From there he heard a voice.
"What the fuck are you doing? This is no time to smoke!" He looked up. Illuminated a few yards away from him was the ghostly silhouette of two boys, one of which seemed to be taking a long drag from a cigarette. Tre got up, and, making sure he was stable enough, ran over to them.
"Tre," The taller boy said...what was his name? 'Mike,' a little voice in his head seemed to tell him. Oh yeah. In all truth, he had only met them both last night, when a highly tipsy Bill (yeah... that was his name... .) had approached him and asked him to be the drummer for his band, Green Day. He was out of working at Gilman for a while, due to his tricicle 'accident' and The Lookouts! had been finished for a while, so, against his gut feeling, he agreed, and 24 hours later he found himself here. With two strange boys, somewhere in Oakland, and with a strong hangover still lingering in his mist.
"Tre?" Mike said again, looking a little annoyed, but nevertheless grinned at him, "Will you please tell Billie here that if he doesn't stop smoking right now, the fiery demons of hell will erupt from the earth and ransack him sexually for all eternity?" Creepily enough, Mike was still smiling happily, as if he was commenting about fluffy bunnies. Billie gulped hard, and gingerly threw the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath his foot. Tre let a laugh escape him, although he was still on the ground.
"Oh, Billie?" He crooned, acting more like a colonial southern house wife than a Gilman Street veteran. "Could you kindly not smoke in a lady's presence?" He batted his eyes, looking as corny as he possibly could, and acting as if he was a Stepford Wife.
He narrowed his eyes at Tre, and for a second looked as if he was going to pick up the crushed cigarette and start smoking it's remains, but instead he just remained silent over Mike's roars of laughter. Billie walked over to the car. He was now facing away from the two boys, but his piercing bright eyes still seemed to be on them. He sharply kicked one of the front tires, muttering cursewords.
"Just our luck huh?" He said, to no one unparticular, and instinctively grabbed for the cigarette he always kept behind his ear, even though he knew it was spent, and was about as useful as the car that lay, in several different directions, in front of him. It was a nervous habit of his. When something bad happened, he smoked. Didn't matter what. He just did.
A loud roaring interrupted him from thought. He looked over his shoulder, but Mike and Tre both shared the same expression of anxiousness, almost fear, as they both looked onto the road ahead of them.
A large truck rolled down the street, shabby and rusted, blaring out the most annoying hillbilly music you could think of. Mike gripped his arm. Oh, he was fucked over now. What if it was someone his step-dad knew? Luckily enough, it wasn't, but the miscreant truck still pulled up next to them.
"You boys alright?" A man with a thick Texan accent leaned over the door of the truck, looking strikingly similar to Larry the cable guy, only clothed in a particularly pink outfit for a man.
Mike shook his head, yes. That's all he could do, in fear that he would make some snide remark on the mans outfit. He looked over to his right, shocked to see Tre looking up at them like the man was his hero, rather a middle aged fat man with a trucker hat.
Two other voices came from inside the vehicle, although forcedly high pitched and raspy. In a moment, two heads appeared from the truck. They were clearly, without a doubt, men. But decked out in make-up, wearing the same uniform, which seemed to consist of a collared, pink shirt like a mechanics, (Mike later noticed the car was for an exterminator business) and pants to match.
Tre's eyes, if possible, got even wider. He had hatched a plan. A very stupid one, but, at least, a plan.
His eyes, which we're large for his age, giving him a betrayingly innocent appearance, swirled with green and blue, searched around the back-seat of the car he was in. It was dark out, he could see that much, and an annoyingly bright light seemed to glow from outside. He checked the front seats, but found no one contained in either of them. Unsteadily, and tumbling messily out of the car, he fell on the pavement. From there he heard a voice.
"What the fuck are you doing? This is no time to smoke!" He looked up. Illuminated a few yards away from him was the ghostly silhouette of two boys, one of which seemed to be taking a long drag from a cigarette. Tre got up, and, making sure he was stable enough, ran over to them.
"Tre," The taller boy said...what was his name? 'Mike,' a little voice in his head seemed to tell him. Oh yeah. In all truth, he had only met them both last night, when a highly tipsy Bill (yeah... that was his name... .) had approached him and asked him to be the drummer for his band, Green Day. He was out of working at Gilman for a while, due to his tricicle 'accident' and The Lookouts! had been finished for a while, so, against his gut feeling, he agreed, and 24 hours later he found himself here. With two strange boys, somewhere in Oakland, and with a strong hangover still lingering in his mist.
"Tre?" Mike said again, looking a little annoyed, but nevertheless grinned at him, "Will you please tell Billie here that if he doesn't stop smoking right now, the fiery demons of hell will erupt from the earth and ransack him sexually for all eternity?" Creepily enough, Mike was still smiling happily, as if he was commenting about fluffy bunnies. Billie gulped hard, and gingerly threw the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath his foot. Tre let a laugh escape him, although he was still on the ground.
"Oh, Billie?" He crooned, acting more like a colonial southern house wife than a Gilman Street veteran. "Could you kindly not smoke in a lady's presence?" He batted his eyes, looking as corny as he possibly could, and acting as if he was a Stepford Wife.
He narrowed his eyes at Tre, and for a second looked as if he was going to pick up the crushed cigarette and start smoking it's remains, but instead he just remained silent over Mike's roars of laughter. Billie walked over to the car. He was now facing away from the two boys, but his piercing bright eyes still seemed to be on them. He sharply kicked one of the front tires, muttering cursewords.
"Just our luck huh?" He said, to no one unparticular, and instinctively grabbed for the cigarette he always kept behind his ear, even though he knew it was spent, and was about as useful as the car that lay, in several different directions, in front of him. It was a nervous habit of his. When something bad happened, he smoked. Didn't matter what. He just did.
A loud roaring interrupted him from thought. He looked over his shoulder, but Mike and Tre both shared the same expression of anxiousness, almost fear, as they both looked onto the road ahead of them.
A large truck rolled down the street, shabby and rusted, blaring out the most annoying hillbilly music you could think of. Mike gripped his arm. Oh, he was fucked over now. What if it was someone his step-dad knew? Luckily enough, it wasn't, but the miscreant truck still pulled up next to them.
"You boys alright?" A man with a thick Texan accent leaned over the door of the truck, looking strikingly similar to Larry the cable guy, only clothed in a particularly pink outfit for a man.
Mike shook his head, yes. That's all he could do, in fear that he would make some snide remark on the mans outfit. He looked over to his right, shocked to see Tre looking up at them like the man was his hero, rather a middle aged fat man with a trucker hat.
Two other voices came from inside the vehicle, although forcedly high pitched and raspy. In a moment, two heads appeared from the truck. They were clearly, without a doubt, men. But decked out in make-up, wearing the same uniform, which seemed to consist of a collared, pink shirt like a mechanics, (Mike later noticed the car was for an exterminator business) and pants to match.
Tre's eyes, if possible, got even wider. He had hatched a plan. A very stupid one, but, at least, a plan.
