Return To Sender

This is the kind of motel room that amateur porn flicks are shot in, where babies are born in the bathtub, where ruined salesmen come to die in obscurity. This is the kind of motel room where you're scared to bring in a black light for fear of what you'll see. This is the kind of fucking motel room where drug deals go wrong, where you can hear gun shots two feet outside your fucking window!

In other words, this is exactly the kind of room that Mikey Way would have avoided in his past life, when he was corrupted, before he was saved.

Frank wiped his slate clean, made him completely pure again. He has showed him what life really meant, the real important things. Money, fast cars, houses, none of this is important. When you die, no one really gives a fuck if you paid ten million dollars for a 30 room mansion that is covered in dust. No one is going to remember if you once slept with every stripper in the club in one night.

No, no one, or at least not the whole world, is going to remember any of this stuff when you finally kick the bucket.

Eat dirt. Go to the castle in the sky or the fire down below. Give the creepy-crawlies a brand new meal.

What people are going to remember is your impact on the world. What did you do to change everything?

Frank and Mikey are on their way to the history books.

***

The television picture is wavering in and out, but the audio blares, filling the room. Mikey and Frank are sitting on the twin bed that has the least amount of semen on it, legs crossed, eyes locked firmly on the snowy screen. A woman is weeping loudly, the sound grating, but neither of them cares; they are too entranced by the newscast depicting the fall of the Way family.

"I just want Mikey back," Donna sobs, hiding her face in the faux fur collar of her blouse. "Please, whoever you are... don't take both our sons away from us."

"Crocodile tears," Frank snorts and Mikey nods, smirking as his mother is replaced by the chief of police, a fat man with donut crumbs stuck in his blond mustache.

"We're asking for anyone, anyone who has any clues about the murders of Gerard Way and Juan Hernandez or the disappearance of Michael Way to please come forward or call our toll free hotline." The camera pulls away to a woman journalist in a pantsuit, her good looks ruined by her manly haircut and stern gaze.

"For those viewers who have just joined us, that was police chief Bruins speaking out about the recent tragedy that has struck a local family, the Way's, who have had their gardener and son murdered in the last week, as well as having their second son disappear." Pictures of the three pop up on screen for a few seconds while the number the chief was talking about flashes at the bottom. "Truly a tragedy."

Mikey hasn't been paying attention since the chief finished his speech. His gaze looks empty and withdrawn, his eyes huge as saucers. Frank doesn't seem to notice as he watches the news move onto a happier note, hand clamped across his mouth to try and contain his hysterical laughter.

"Did you hear that?" he exclaims, pouncing on Mikey and knocking him onto the stained carpet. "They have no idea who it was!" His grin, which almost stretched from ear to ear, instantly disappears at the look on Mikey's face. His mouth hangs open slightly and his very skin looks pulled back, leaving his cheekbones gaunt and his eyes sunken.

"Mikey, what's wrong?" he whispers, sitting up and stroking his cheek. "Honey, what did I do?"

"Frank, they know!" he screamed, bolting forward and grabbing Frank around the neck, slamming him back against the frame of the bed. "They know that it wasn't a suicide, they know someone killed him! What the fuck did you do?!"

"Mikey! Calm down!" Their eyes lock together in a battle of the wills and Frank wins almost instantly. Mikey slumps against him, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, stomach lurching. He looks down at his hands and nearly throws up, disgusted at what he allowed himself to do. Frank has given him everything, has saved him from a life of trash and how does he repay him? He doesn't deserve to be loved by such a beautiful creature.

"Mikey, look at me." Mikey reluctantly looks up, but averts his eyes to hide his shame. However, Frank puts just the right amount of pressure on his cheeks, pressing painfully against his prominent bones.

"Fucking look at me," he hisses and Mikey obediently looks into his eyes, wincing from Frank's thumbs pressing into his skin.

"It doesn't matter if they know!" he says quietly, smile returning in full force until it's terrifying, almost like a carved grin on a Jack O'Lantern. "Don't you get it? This is exactly what we want! This is what the world needs to hear!"

Somewhere in his mind, Mikey doesn't understand what Frank is saying. He doesn't get why Frank's not nervous, why he's so calm and cool, almost excited, about this. But none of that matters. Frank has brought him alive.

"Come here." They both climb up onto the hard, stained bed, bodies pressed against each other so they don't fall off. The sweet words dripping in Mikey's ears are like honey, the only nourishment he'll ever need.

"You and me are gonna be famous babe. We're going to let people know we're not afraid to make this world different.." As Mikey falls asleep, Frank lays kisses on his temple, lulling him into dreamland.

"We're going to rewrite history."

***

When Mikey wakes up, it's dark out and the television is blaring again, locked onto another newscast. Frank is nowhere to be seen so Mikey sits up, eyes once again earning that empty look when he realizes that what he's staring at is undoubtedly Frank's work.

An office building in downtown Camden lights up the screen, completely engulfed in flames. The smoke rises up and up towards the sky, so thick it'll probably block out the sun when it rises in the morning. At least eight fire trucks circle the base, spraying water from a good distance back, but it doesn't seem to be doing any good.

The door flies open and Frank comes in covered in soot, giggling hysterically. He coughs and ashes puff out but he only laughs harder, collapsing onto the ground and turning the carpet into an ugly off white.

"Look at that!" he yells, pointing at the television. "Just look at that! Isn't it beautiful?" He pulls himself up onto the bed, leaving streaks on the flowered bedspread. He collapses with his head in Mikey's lap and finishes watching the coverage on the fire, stifling his giggles the entire time. Mikey briefly twirls his hair but recoils at the greasy, dirty feeling of it between his fingers.

"Why did you do it Frank?" he asks when the newscast is over and some syndicated show comes on.

"Because Mikey, no one should have to resist their urges. We get the urges to fuck, to eat, to fight because these are our basic needs! We need to reproduce, we need to survive and we need to defend ourselves! Why should we deny what our bodies and minds tell us to do? Because society doesn't deem these urges right? Fuck them!" He leans up and presses his lips hard against Mikey's, so hard their teeth bang together and blood starts trickling onto the bedspread.

"I need a shower," he says through reddened lips, pulling away and skipping off to the bathroom, throwing his clothes off as he goes. Mikey scratches at his face with his fingernails, trying to peel off the thick feeling of soot but only makes his skin gouged and sore.

"Are you going to join me?" There's just a hint of seduction in the words and even though he is completely confused, Mikey starts stripping as well, lust already coursing through his veins.

An hour later, the water finally goes cold and they stumble out, slipping across the soaked floor, their laughter echoing off the wall. Mikey slips and falls, landing half in and half out of the door. All the unhappiness is completely washed away along with their dirt and he stays on the carpet, laughing and laughing and laughing.

"Breaking news in the double homicide and disappearance in a New Jersey suburb..."

With these words, Mikey shoots up and is on the bed in a flash, leaving his towel on the floor. Frank is still oblivious, toweling off his hair and flicking water like a dog.

"The murder weapon for Juan Hernandez, gardener to the Way family, has been found." The screen cut to the Chief of Police surrounded by officers, one of whom was closing up a large bag marked "EVIDENCE" in bold letters. The reporter was the same woman as before, only wearing a different pantsuit and more makeup.

"We are now being told that the alleged weapon was a crowbar, found during a sweep of Michael Way's room for clues to his disappearance. The young man is now being considered a suspect in the murder of both Hernandez and Michael's older brother Gerard Way, and anyone with information is strongly urged to call the toll free number at the bottom of the screen."

"So, what's shaking now?" Frank asks, giggling as he struts out of the bathroom door in time to see Mikey slam his fist into the television screen, sending glass and sparks flying everywhere before collapsing onto the floor in a sobbing heap. In response, Frank calmly reaches over and flicks on the radio he'd "borrowed" from the lobby and sits calmly on the bed, listening intently to the news.

His expression changes from that of mild curiosity to blank faced worry to almost a serenity as he rips the antenna off, making the voices turn into babbles of static.

"Mikey, we're going to leave now," he says to the blubbering mess on the floor. "We're going to go upstate a little and hide out for a bit. Does that sound good to you?"

"We're not done just yet."

Eye on the tv, 'cause tragedy thrills me, whatever flavor, it happens to be.