Beyond Paradise
Bring Me Blood and Pain
Billie reached behind him to grab the edge of the sink; if he hadn't, he was sure his knees would have buckled. Before his astonished eyes stretched the dark interior of 924 Gilman Street, empty save for himself standing dumbstruck on the center of the small stage. The message painted on the wall loomed before him, just as it had haunted his dreams for so long after the band had been rudely excommunicated for signing with their label. The all too familiar cold sweat trickled down his back, and his breath came rapid and shallow. Iron bands seemed to tighten around his chest, pulse slamming wildly against his temples.
He was losing his mind.
It was the only explanation there could be. Something inside him almost seemed to unwind in relief at the thought of it--at least there was no need to fight it anymore. Pressure began to rise in his throat, making him look around frantically for somewhere to be sick, but what erupted was not vomit, but insane, staccato laughter. The echo bounced off the walls and back at him as though there were five Billies, all cackling like drunken maniacs, and the sound swirled around him until he crumpled to the floor, covering his ears, the laughter turning to sobs of terror.
The steady clack of slow footsteps made its way through the chaos in his mind, and he raised his head slowly, desperately afraid of what he might see. Easing himself into a folding chair near the sound board, a distinguished looking man of middle age, graying around the temples and wearing a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, and burgundy cravat, folded his hands in his lap and looked down at Billie with a faint smile at the corners of his lips.
"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Armstrong?" he asked, and the accent in his baritone voice was cultured, almost British.
Billie willed his mouth to move, but words had abandoned him entirely, and he lay in a pathetic heap, unable to think, or speak, or move.
"Please excuse my poor manners," the man said smoothly. "Allow me to introduce myself. Townsend Stroud, at your service." He approached Billie, more gliding than walking, and extended his well-manicured hand.
Billie could do nothing but watch.
"No? Well, that's quite alright. Understandable, I suppose, considering that you've had quite a bit to take in. Perhaps I can be of some assistance in that regard?" He reached into his lapel pocket and produced a flat silver case and an engraved lighter. Flipping open the lid, he offered a cigarette, and Billie shook his head numbly. Stroud sat down again, crossing his legs, and lit the tip of a Dunhill, inhaling elegantly.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I believe we were talking about your...situation, shall we say?. It has come to my attention that you are seeking something, something that means rather a great deal to you. That happens to be my specialty, my stock in trade. I am something of a broker in uniquities, things that are exceedingly rare and precious only to one particular individual. And your loss has recently come to my attention, owing to its immaterial nature."
It sounded like bullshit on china to Billie. The man was rattling on and on as though they were discussing some kind of antique trading, and meanwhile, Adrienne, Joey and Jakob were back home in the house where he should have been, probably sitting down to dinner. And unless he missed his guess, Adie was giving him holy hell for being late.
"I only have one question, mister," he managed to rasp at last. "How the hell do I get out of this place?"
The smile that slowly lifted Stroud's lips was more serpentine than human. "You are to the point, Mr. Armstrong, I will give you that. You are a man who knows what he wants, and prefers the most direct route to get there. I respect that. However, I'm afraid I'll have to answer your question with one of my own." The dark eyes narrowed, piercing through the dimness of the room. "Where exactly is it that you think you are?"
Billie slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and lifted himself to his feet. "If I knew that, I'd be home by now."
"Ah, yes--home. That's a sensitive subject, now, isn't it? Those we take for granted take on a certain...sentimental appeal when we are separated from them, don't they? A kind of immunity from the flaws and imperfections that we know them to possess when we see them every day. N'est ce pas?" Another deep draw from his cigarette as smoke drifted in paisley whorls around his head.
"Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I don't have time to stand here talking in philosophical circles."
"On the contrary, Mr. Armstrong, it would appear that at the moment, all you do have is time!"
No amount of fear or uncertainty could completely suppress the rage that surged up in him. He had been thrown into this madness, stripped of everything familiar and certain, and left with control over nothing. But whatever this was, this crumbling of reality, he was still Billie Joe Armstrong, and he refused to be toyed with.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" he bellowed, his index finger jabbing the air in front of Stroud's serene face.
A deep chuckle resonated deep in the man's throat. "It's very simple, really. I want to find out what it is that means more to you than anything else. I want to know what's in your heart. And then I want to take it from you."
He was losing his mind.
It was the only explanation there could be. Something inside him almost seemed to unwind in relief at the thought of it--at least there was no need to fight it anymore. Pressure began to rise in his throat, making him look around frantically for somewhere to be sick, but what erupted was not vomit, but insane, staccato laughter. The echo bounced off the walls and back at him as though there were five Billies, all cackling like drunken maniacs, and the sound swirled around him until he crumpled to the floor, covering his ears, the laughter turning to sobs of terror.
The steady clack of slow footsteps made its way through the chaos in his mind, and he raised his head slowly, desperately afraid of what he might see. Easing himself into a folding chair near the sound board, a distinguished looking man of middle age, graying around the temples and wearing a charcoal gray pinstripe suit, and burgundy cravat, folded his hands in his lap and looked down at Billie with a faint smile at the corners of his lips.
"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Armstrong?" he asked, and the accent in his baritone voice was cultured, almost British.
Billie willed his mouth to move, but words had abandoned him entirely, and he lay in a pathetic heap, unable to think, or speak, or move.
"Please excuse my poor manners," the man said smoothly. "Allow me to introduce myself. Townsend Stroud, at your service." He approached Billie, more gliding than walking, and extended his well-manicured hand.
Billie could do nothing but watch.
"No? Well, that's quite alright. Understandable, I suppose, considering that you've had quite a bit to take in. Perhaps I can be of some assistance in that regard?" He reached into his lapel pocket and produced a flat silver case and an engraved lighter. Flipping open the lid, he offered a cigarette, and Billie shook his head numbly. Stroud sat down again, crossing his legs, and lit the tip of a Dunhill, inhaling elegantly.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I believe we were talking about your...situation, shall we say?. It has come to my attention that you are seeking something, something that means rather a great deal to you. That happens to be my specialty, my stock in trade. I am something of a broker in uniquities, things that are exceedingly rare and precious only to one particular individual. And your loss has recently come to my attention, owing to its immaterial nature."
It sounded like bullshit on china to Billie. The man was rattling on and on as though they were discussing some kind of antique trading, and meanwhile, Adrienne, Joey and Jakob were back home in the house where he should have been, probably sitting down to dinner. And unless he missed his guess, Adie was giving him holy hell for being late.
"I only have one question, mister," he managed to rasp at last. "How the hell do I get out of this place?"
The smile that slowly lifted Stroud's lips was more serpentine than human. "You are to the point, Mr. Armstrong, I will give you that. You are a man who knows what he wants, and prefers the most direct route to get there. I respect that. However, I'm afraid I'll have to answer your question with one of my own." The dark eyes narrowed, piercing through the dimness of the room. "Where exactly is it that you think you are?"
Billie slowly pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and lifted himself to his feet. "If I knew that, I'd be home by now."
"Ah, yes--home. That's a sensitive subject, now, isn't it? Those we take for granted take on a certain...sentimental appeal when we are separated from them, don't they? A kind of immunity from the flaws and imperfections that we know them to possess when we see them every day. N'est ce pas?" Another deep draw from his cigarette as smoke drifted in paisley whorls around his head.
"Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I don't have time to stand here talking in philosophical circles."
"On the contrary, Mr. Armstrong, it would appear that at the moment, all you do have is time!"
No amount of fear or uncertainty could completely suppress the rage that surged up in him. He had been thrown into this madness, stripped of everything familiar and certain, and left with control over nothing. But whatever this was, this crumbling of reality, he was still Billie Joe Armstrong, and he refused to be toyed with.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" he bellowed, his index finger jabbing the air in front of Stroud's serene face.
A deep chuckle resonated deep in the man's throat. "It's very simple, really. I want to find out what it is that means more to you than anything else. I want to know what's in your heart. And then I want to take it from you."