I bet that you look good in my wife's clothes.

“Billie?” He shouted.

“Yeah?” A voice from the kitchen asked.

“I’m bored” Tré shuffled a little on the sofa and laid backwards, crossing one leg over the other and closing his eyes.

A dark-haired man emerged from the next room, clutching a beer lovingly as if it were a small child. “Amuse yourself then”, he said, flopping down lazily on the opposite couch and cracking open the can.

“I would” Tré said, eying the cold beer in the Billie Joe’s hand lustfully,
“But I promised daddy I’d only do that when no one’s watching”

Billie laughed, spilling a little beer down his front as he did so.
“As if you’d keep that promise”

Tré’s eyes flew swiftly from the tips of the other man’s ruffled locks to the scuffed toes of his battered converse in mock disgust, and he shrugged.
“At least I don’t spill beer down myself. Honestly woman, get some self-respect”

Billie stuck out his tongue, leaning forwards and fishing the TV guide from under the chair, then turned to the day’s listings and quickly scanned the page.
“I really don’t know why Adie even bothers to buy these things” he said “There’s never even anything--Hey, survivors’ on!”

His friend raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I hate that show. I swear, the same people go on there every single year, it’s that damn predictable. I‘ll bet I could do a lot better.” He paused for a second, thinking, “Hey, we could make our own version! How about it? We’re stranded…on your sofas. With only each other and a can of ice…. Cold… beer for company. Whoever caves and gets up for a piss or whatever first loses”

Billie raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “You just want my beer”

“No, no. Well, yes. But, okay, lets make this interesting. If you win, I will give you…” He shifted sideways and stuck his hand in his back pocket, pulling out a small, plastic object. “….This pick!” He waved the plectrum triumphantly, waiting for the other man’s reaction.

The man opposite was not convinced. “Oh, yeah, ‘cause I’ve always wanted one of those--and, wait- isn’t that mine?” He hoisted himself up, trying to focus on the item clasped between Tré’s finger and thumb.

“Alright...” Tré said, tutting and hastily shoving the pick back in his pocket then rooting around in his other pockets. “Ungrateful--” he muttered, suddenly shouting “…aha!” as he yanked a twenty dollar bill from one of his front pockets.

“If you win, I give you this-and the same goes for you, if I win”

Billie paused for a second, then smirked mischievously, setting down his beer.
“Fine. But I hope you don’t mind to lose, because-”

And It was then that the phone rang. Tré laughed as he jabbed a finger towards his friend.

“Now-you-have-to-get uhhhh-up!” He sing-songed gleefully.

“Nooooooo! You can’t make me!” Billie yelled, while Tré laughed again.

“Besides,” He pouted, pointing his chin slightly for glamorous effect,
“I shouldn’t have to lose, I’m the prettiest!” Billie flicked the back of his half-spiked hair with some difficulty, and began twirling a piece around one of his fingers.

“You are so not” Tré gasped, positively outraged “We both know who looks hotter in a dress now, don’t we?”

Billie was almost speechless. He recovered quickly, sticking out his bottom lip this time in childish protest. “Nuh-uhhhh! I’m still not getting it”, The thirty-five year old whined.

Tré grinned wickedly, leaning over “Oh yes you areeee!”

“No, I’m--Hey!--what? Oi!” Billie protested as he felt someone shove his side. His lighter frame toppled off the sofa with ease. He pulled himself up, sticking out his lip again, and grabbed the still-ringing phone from its cradle nearby.

“Hello?” He said, finding a second to straighten his clothes and mouth ‘Bitch’ in the direction of a very smug-looking man on his sofa, who blew him a swift kiss in return.

“I’m looking for a--” A tight, nasal voice squeaked on the other end. Billie heard a quick shuffling of papers, and finally; “--Mr Armstrong. Is he there?”

Biting the side of his lip to keep himself from laughing, Billie Joe desperately attempted to compose himself as he watched Tré drum enthusiastically on the side of the couch, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes.

“Yeah….Uh, that’d be me” Billie said uncertainly as he gazed pointedly in the opposite direction of the other man in the room.

“Mr Armstrong, my name is Edgar Albert Williams, second deputy manager of a large selection of deputy assistants to assistants to America’s own president” The twee man on the phone said all this very quickly, very like he was reading information from a business card.

This time, Billie simply couldn’t help himself.
“Bush? Then why are you calling me?” he scoffed, giggling.

Clearly, Edgar was not amused in the slightest. “President George W. Bush, who in my opinion is one of the greatest presidents this fine country has ever had, wishes to speak with you and your--ah, band” This man said that particular word with the air of a someone who had never had the difficulty of associating himself with such affairs.

“However, I must say that for once on this occasion I don’t agree on any level with the president’s decision. In fact-” He began, as all professional graces left his voice abruptly,
“-Well, I know you all about you, William Joseph, you, and your silly music and your awful tattoos- and, oh! Those despicable lyrics! How dare you insult our good, kind president as you do?! It’s just not right! Everyone else might have forgotten all about it, but I certainly haven’t”

It seemed that the man on the phone had been wanting to say all of this for a long time, and he was he was breathing deeply.

Billie frowned for a second, then giggled again.
“William Joseph? The name’s Billie Joe, arsehole!”

Mr. Edgar Williams gasped.

“Well, well. I didn’t think it would be too long before I heard that kind of foul language from you”

He sighed, beginning to say something else once or twice, then eventually restrained himself, probably reminding himself of his status and reputation.

“The three of you are to meet the president in room 250 of the Harper building on the 5th September- the president is visiting the British prime minister in his US quarters there. You will be sent, by post, ID cards that you must present at entry. Obviously, we try to keep as much riff-raff from visiting the president as possible”

Billie Joe could see that it must be taking every inch of this man’s self control to prevent himself from finishing this sentence with another quick attempt at a snide comment. However, his once-furious tones returned to the usual stupor of tight, rehearsed drone as he continued.

“You will also be sent full details of your visit. Most importantly, I must point out that this meeting is completely unavoidable. Under no circumstances must you not attend. Do you understand, Mr. Armstrong?”

Billie narrowed his eyes.
“Well, actually, I’m not really sure…” he said sarcastically, now grinning to himself.
“Such riff-raff as myself don’t really have too many brain cells”

“Do you understand?” Edgar said, heavily emphasising the final word. Billie Joe could almost hear the gritted teeth.

“Yes. Yes. Whatever” He said, eager to get rid of him. The line immediately went dead.

Billie stood there for a moment, holding the silent phone to his ear, then returned it to it’s cradle beside him. He turned to Tré, both annoyed and slightly bemused.

“Who was that?” He asked from the sofa, confused.

“Bush wants to speak to us. We have to-”,Billie’s voice grew higher in an attempt to mimic that of the man on the phone, “-Attend a meeting with the president that is completely and utterly unavoidable”

There was a silence as the two men stared at each other.
Then, suddenly, Tré grew wide- eyed and leapt from the couch.

“Oh, Shit, Billie! He’s going to kill us!”