Alkaline Eyes

A/N: ZOMFG, I'm so sorry that I was gone for so long. My parents found out that I cut, so I was grounded from my computer for like, a month. They also put me in therapy. It's hell. I don't want to discuss my problems. No one could ever fucking relate. Only Samantha (or, at least, she did) and Green Day could ever share the common root of my problem. Anyway, I hope all of my lovelies have been fine and I hope you enjoy the new chapter. Stay (Arm)strong!

Everything went downhill after that. I was dreading the second when Billie Joe would awaken and realize that I would never leave his glorious, admirable life. He was the burning sun to my cold, desolate moon. The sweet tea bag in the boiling water of my fucked up life. Something I would always strive to be like, but could never accomplish. Billie Joe, my idol forever and always. There was a large gash on his forehead, from when he smacked himself in the head. But, the crowds had picked him up and dusted him off as if he was a fragile porcelain doll; it sickened me to a degree. Billie Joe had the word strong in his last name! He wasn't weak, he was fucking godlike.

Tre, who found the situation quite amusing, led us to his private quarters. In our absence, he had constructed a large pink and yellow tent that had various stuffed animals with their eyes gouged out hung by glittery nooses to it. Their stuffing reminded me of cotton candy and marshmallows. There were several belly dancers of both genders at the front of the tent, wearing nothing but torn pillow cases around their lank waists. They swayed, while caressing statues of hamsters. I was beginning to think that Tre had a serious problem... But, then I saw something that almost made me drop Billie Joe onto to the sweltering ground. One of the belly dancers had a hideous pink mohawk, and was missing both of her tits. This was a serious problem because for one thing, girls are not attractive without their tits, and I had come face to face with the bully that had squirted all over me last year. My skin crawled, remembering the ink splatters that had marred it.

And then... She noticed me. Her eyes scanned me as if I was nothing more than a piece of meat left to rot in the hot sun. As if, I was a worm. She stopped dancing and slunk over to me, her pillow case hanging dangerously low off of her waist. I looked around for Mike, so that I could use him as a shield, but he was nowhere to be found. But, instead of getting more ink sprayed on me, the girl who had my my life a living hell only smiled. She touched my shoulder and whispered "My, aren't you gorgeous...?". She pointed downwards towards her waist.

Was she hitting on me?

"Uh, no, definitely not interested in a whore like you. You have a dirty looking mohawk, and I only go for emo girls. I don't date crackheads like you who have a fetish for ink. And you fucking bullied me!" I snarled, tightly balling my fists. Mohawk girl looked taken aback, as if she was sad. She wasn't even attractive, why would I even be interested in someone as dirt-like as her?

"Ah, I remember you quite well, Heather..." She whispered contemplatively. "I do not blame you for your hatred. But, we are all one under the great pancake, so I pray that you will forgive me."

Forgive a disgusting punk scumbag? Fuck no! I glared at her, trying to decide if I should break her fragile face like she did to me countless times. That's when I noticed her bulging stomach that was subtly hidden beneath the pillowcase. She was pregant, just like she was last year. Someone people should be kept from reproducing, so that way the human gene pool isn't clouded with so much corruption. If only I could ship her dead carcass off to Africa, like I did with all of the other unworthy souls. I did the next best thing though, and rammed my fist as hard as I could into her swollen stomach. Yelping, my enemy fell to the ground, blood now dotting her thighs. She clutched wildly at her stomach, while I stood there smirking. I laughed as she cried out to the "great pancake" to save her and her unborn child.

Tre burst out from his tent, armed with a syringe full of a certain black liquid and a determined look on his face. There was no one else around, they had retired to their sleeping quarters for the night. Tre gently knelt beside the sobbing filth-bag and cradled her in his arms. I looked at them with disgust. He injected the syringe into the girl's stomach. What is it? No, he wouldn't do that, would he...?

"Tre, is that ink?" I asked hesitantly. Tre glanced up for a few moments.

"Who is this "Tre" thou continues to speak of? And yes, dearest child, this is ink. It will calm my dearest wife's pain and save her child." He whispered hypnotically, while rocking the girl back and forth. What? Tre was married to this skank? I see people still needed the guidance of the president to help them make correct, informed choices. The ink, however, wasn't saving the dumb bitch's life, it was actually killing her and Tre was too blind to see it. Her eyes began to turn black, and she began to vomit profusely. She twitched rapidly, and Tre wailed prayers to the great pancake. It would've been a heartwarming sight, but since it was some anarchist who deserved to die anyway, it just made me laugh. And then, just like that, she was gone. I yawned and wondered what time it was.

People must have heard the loud commotion from in front of Tre's tent, because they began to scamper over in large herds. Soon, the whole courtyard was echoing with the sound of wailing, and it was beginning to make my ears hurt. The crowd tore at their clothes, and threw marshmallows on the now (dead) girl. I didn't see how that was helping the situation, but freedom of expression is a great thing so I wasn't going to complain. And then, Tre spoke...

"Ladies and gentleman, weeds and flowers. I, Snoo, have taken five hundred wives and husbands over the past few months, but never in my glittery days would I have hoped to bury any of them until they were ripe enough. This is a day of sadness, and celebration, as my lovely one has taken refuge in the arms of the great pancake. We must prepare for a funeral at once... I, Snoo, hope such a tragic acccident would never befall any of thee." Tre stated sadly. The crowd bowed their heads, but then, a voice spoke out of the crowd.

"Accident? Who the fuck are you kidding? Heather punched your wife, and that's why she died." Mike sarcastically said. The crowds turned and glared at me with demonic eys. Mike simply smirked at me and waved. I flipped him off. How dare he turn on me like that? Green Day would have kicked his ass outta the band a LONG time ago if I wasn't around t constantly fix his mistakes. Tre simply gazed at me, tears dripping from his eyes. Dammit, no, I didn't want to feel guilty for this. I didn't have to, his "wife" deserved her fate. Hearing the loud whispers of the so-called peaceful crowd, I watched as they swarmed around me like vultures waiting to eat a decaying frog.

And that's why I'm on trial with the great and motherfucking mighty council of the dust pans next week...