The Adventures of Gerard Way Vs. Soulja Boy

It is a commonly acknowledged fact that many people believe the bass player to be the most 'useless' member of a band, or at least the easiest to replace. My Chem were no different; as Mikey walked off into the horizon, occasionally turning around to flip them off, they all just shrugged and continued on their way to the venue. They weren't particularly alarmed; Mikey would almost certainly come back eventually, when he realized that he'd walked off without wearing shoes.

And even if he didn't, how hard was it to play without a bassist? What did they even do anyways? Something about the rhythm?

If the band had chosen any other song but Give 'Em Hell Kid for their opening number, they might have actually been able to do it. Practice might have gone by quite well and what happened... well, it wouldn't have happened, obviously.

However, the fact remained that the band had chosen the aforementioned song to start off their set and Gerard wasn't willing to compromise on the matter. Since Mikey's bass intro was missing, Frank kept missing where he came in, no matter how many times they played the fucking song. Even with Gerard counting the intro in, the same thing happened. Frank just couldn't do it.

"For fuck's sake Frank, it isn't that hard," Gerard groaned from center stage, where he was sitting cross legged with a book in his lap. They'd been practicing the intro for over an hour and in that time, Gerard had managed to finish half of a how-to tome on knitting. "It sounds like this-"

"I know what it sounds like!" Frank yelled, yanking his guitar over his head and dropping it to the ground. "But I can't play it without hearing it! Can't we just move onto the next song and wait for Mikey to get back?"

"No!" The book had now disappeared from Gerard's lap, replaced with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of pink yarn. "Absolutely not! We can take a break but we are not moving onto anything until you get this fucking song right!" Putting his new bright pink hat on his hat, Gerard strode off stage, nose stuck in the air. As Frank walked by, Ray, who was just plain getting pissed off, decided to give Frank a shove that was meant to be playful.

However, Ray wasn't one to release his aggression, ever and so, when he pushed Frank, all of his pent up anger from years and years on end came out through his fingertips. Therefore, the result wasn't a playful push; the result was Frank flying off the stage and landing hard on his back six feet below.

"Hey! Is someone going to help me up?" Frank screamed. In response, his guitar came flying over the edge of the stage and landed on his ribs, making him scream again. After ten minutes of severe pain, he was able to stand back up and peer over the edge of the stage, where he could see Ray, Bob and Gerard sitting in a circle, playing poker back by the drums.

"Hey! Fuckers!" Frank yelled again. This time, he only barely ducked a flying knitting needle that was on a path through his eyeball. This was the last straw. The guys had been acting like assholes all day, especially Gerard; even as Frank thought these thoughts, he could hear Gerard laughing his head off at something stupid Ray had said. None of them were even glancing his way, let alone attempting to help him up.

Frank was going to resort to drastic measures.

"Fine! I quit too!" he screeched before picking up his guitar and whipping it back onto the stage. It struck the speaker next to Ray, showering him in splinters. Still, none of them moved. After staring for another few moments, Frank stormed out of the venue, throwing swear words back over his shoulders. However, the instant he was gone, Gerard's head snapped up and he threw the blank playing cards into the air, adapting a serious face.

"You know what this means," he whispered and Ray and Bob nodded solemnly.

"The secret weapon," they replied in unison. Gerard mirrored their nod and whipped his cell phone out, scrolling through his contact list until he reached the bottom.

The secret weapon!

Somewhere in Las Vegas, a phone began to ring. A hand, covered in black ink, lazily flopped over the edge of a battered couch and answered it, opening the conversation with a massive yawn.

"'Ello?"

"Its time."