Status: I haven't the heart to delete this after committing so much time to it, but I don't have the desire or time to update it either, so it will remain unfinished until further notice.
Green Day Saves the Day
The New
For a few seconds, all that could be heard in the small mixing room was the breathing of its six occupants. If they were to stop breathing, you could probably hear their racing heartbeats—and, perhaps, their frightened, panicked thoughts that echoed within their minds. They were all still in disbelief that it had all come down to murder. Cold-blooded murder. Four men—husbands, sons, friends, even a new father—had been brutally butchered because they hadn’t done something that no one else had done in decades—make new music. One man had survived, but he could hardly be considered lucky. Never again could he play guitar. Sure, they made all kinds of prosthetic fingers nowadays, but not even the best of the best were capable of the smooth, natural movements needed to properly play the instrument. Aaron Ford, at only 22 years of age, had to give up what he loved and go through life without four of his best friends. All of this tragedy and heartache was due to one thing and one thing only: a lack of new music.
“This is fucking madness.” Robb nearly choked on his words. He gulped back his tears and bit down on his lower lip—hard. So hard, in fact, that a drop of crimson blood swelled up and dripped down his chin. He quickly wiped away the thin, red stream, as well as the clear, glistening one that had snaked down his left cheek.
Dré cleared his throat, as though to speak, but fell silent once again. What could possibly be said about what they’d all just witnessed?
“We’ve got to keep going.” Billie Joe seemed to answer Dré’s burning question. “This is all the more reason to hurry up and get new material out before…” He trailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence when every person in that room knew how it would end: “…it happens again.”
“Might as well get back in the studio, eh? Get our minds off of things…” Tré said with a weak smile on his face.
“That’s—“ Minty started.
“A great idea,” Billie finished, shooting the bassist a warning look. He refused to have Tré’s attempt at lifting everyone’s spirit shot down by Minty’s negativity.
Everyone else nodded in agreement and began to file into the recording studio once again. Billie, Mike, and Tré hung back to offer experienced ears and words of criticism and encouragement to the younger band as they experimented with different melodies.
That night turned out to be a long and, somewhere along the road, drunken one.
***
By the end of the month, the band—which had decided on calling themselves The New—had come up with three brand new songs. It seemed that the majority of the resentful spirits of dead musicians knew this for no attacks or threats occurred during this time. The future of music was looking bright.
Green Day and The New had been working day and night and decided that they finally deserved a break. Their work had brought them to a state-of-the-art recording studio in Southern California, and there was plenty to do there.
“Let’s hit the beach,” Dré suggested.
“No!” Robb protested.
“Come on, don’t be such a cloud in the sky,” Dré pleaded.
“A what in the what now?” Mike said.
“I don't question your early-2000 lingo, do I?” Dré snapped. Turning back to Robb, he continued to try to persuade him. “It’ll be fun! We haven’t been to the beach together since fifth grade. Please?”
“Fine! But I’m not going near the fucking water!”
Dré turned red. He had gotten so caught up in the excitement of getting out of the studio that he’d forgotten about his friend’s intense fear of water. “Sorry man…”
“Uh, hey, how about a bar?” Billie Joe said quickly in an attempt to change the subject.
“How about a nudie bar?” Tré said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Haven’t been to one of those in a while.”
The three younger musicians perked up at the idea, but Mike and Billie only laughed.
“Adrienne would be pissed if she ever found out,” Billie said.
“Oh, what’s she going to do? Kill you?” Tré challenged.
The room filled with laughter. After debating for several more minutes, the group agreed that taking all of Hollywood by storm was the best idea. Little did The New know that the next time they tried to step foot in Tinsel Town, they’d be mobbed down by adoring fans.
***
“Mojitos are not gay drinks!” Tré said in a loud, slurred protest. “They’re so-pisss-ticated!”
Billie, Mike, and the three rock stars formerly known as Green Day tribute band #86 laughed drunkenly.
“No Tré, you’re so-pisss-ticated.” Billie’s speech was heavily slurred and he had to lean against the bar in order to stay upright. He had downed nearly a dozen beers and a few shots of tequila, one of which might have had some ecstacy slipped into it. He could have drank the bar’s contents, though, and it still wouldn’t have mattered for hangovers and alcohol poisoning cannot touch the dead.
After exploring much of the city, the group had stumbled into a fantastic nightclub—literally. Normally, three guys in dark shades and hoodies and three other guys with punk’d up hair couldn’t have gotten into such a club, but the former group had the ability to phase right through walls. This ability was what led them all into this magical place, filled with lights, sound, color, and body heat. Early 2000-era techno music pumped through the club and its inhabitants, causing everything and everyone to pulse as one living, breathing, drinking thing. A total of six bars, four on the first floor and two on the second, and a chocolate fountain provided plenty of entertainment for the two bands.
Late into the night, they found themselves sticking whatever edible things they could find into the chocolate fountain and shoving them down each other’s throats.
Robb had to be tackled and then held down in order for Tré to stuff a green, slimy object dripping in chocolate in his mouth. It turned out to be a chewed up lime rind, which Robb tried to spit out in vain. Billie was pinching his nose and covering his mouth and the only way to breathe was to swallow the damned thing. Once it had passed down his throat, everyone cheered wildly.
“'At a boy!” Dré said loudly as he gave his friend a solid thump on the back.
“Hey everyone, let’s sing a song for Robb!” Billie Joe shouted. “One, two. One, two, three, four!”
While the drunk, giddy choir sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” off-key, a new voice broke in on the scene.
“Robby? Robb Dean Armstrong, is that really you?”
Robb spun around with a smile on his face, which vanished within seconds. Although he was drunker than holy hell and seeing double, he recognized the face he saw, the source of that new voice. He’d seen that face from beneath a layer of water.
“Wow, Robby, I haven’t seen you since junior high!”
“This is fucking madness.” Robb nearly choked on his words. He gulped back his tears and bit down on his lower lip—hard. So hard, in fact, that a drop of crimson blood swelled up and dripped down his chin. He quickly wiped away the thin, red stream, as well as the clear, glistening one that had snaked down his left cheek.
Dré cleared his throat, as though to speak, but fell silent once again. What could possibly be said about what they’d all just witnessed?
“We’ve got to keep going.” Billie Joe seemed to answer Dré’s burning question. “This is all the more reason to hurry up and get new material out before…” He trailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence when every person in that room knew how it would end: “…it happens again.”
“Might as well get back in the studio, eh? Get our minds off of things…” Tré said with a weak smile on his face.
“That’s—“ Minty started.
“A great idea,” Billie finished, shooting the bassist a warning look. He refused to have Tré’s attempt at lifting everyone’s spirit shot down by Minty’s negativity.
Everyone else nodded in agreement and began to file into the recording studio once again. Billie, Mike, and Tré hung back to offer experienced ears and words of criticism and encouragement to the younger band as they experimented with different melodies.
That night turned out to be a long and, somewhere along the road, drunken one.
***
By the end of the month, the band—which had decided on calling themselves The New—had come up with three brand new songs. It seemed that the majority of the resentful spirits of dead musicians knew this for no attacks or threats occurred during this time. The future of music was looking bright.
Green Day and The New had been working day and night and decided that they finally deserved a break. Their work had brought them to a state-of-the-art recording studio in Southern California, and there was plenty to do there.
“Let’s hit the beach,” Dré suggested.
“No!” Robb protested.
“Come on, don’t be such a cloud in the sky,” Dré pleaded.
“A what in the what now?” Mike said.
“I don't question your early-2000 lingo, do I?” Dré snapped. Turning back to Robb, he continued to try to persuade him. “It’ll be fun! We haven’t been to the beach together since fifth grade. Please?”
“Fine! But I’m not going near the fucking water!”
Dré turned red. He had gotten so caught up in the excitement of getting out of the studio that he’d forgotten about his friend’s intense fear of water. “Sorry man…”
“Uh, hey, how about a bar?” Billie Joe said quickly in an attempt to change the subject.
“How about a nudie bar?” Tré said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Haven’t been to one of those in a while.”
The three younger musicians perked up at the idea, but Mike and Billie only laughed.
“Adrienne would be pissed if she ever found out,” Billie said.
“Oh, what’s she going to do? Kill you?” Tré challenged.
The room filled with laughter. After debating for several more minutes, the group agreed that taking all of Hollywood by storm was the best idea. Little did The New know that the next time they tried to step foot in Tinsel Town, they’d be mobbed down by adoring fans.
***
“Mojitos are not gay drinks!” Tré said in a loud, slurred protest. “They’re so-pisss-ticated!”
Billie, Mike, and the three rock stars formerly known as Green Day tribute band #86 laughed drunkenly.
“No Tré, you’re so-pisss-ticated.” Billie’s speech was heavily slurred and he had to lean against the bar in order to stay upright. He had downed nearly a dozen beers and a few shots of tequila, one of which might have had some ecstacy slipped into it. He could have drank the bar’s contents, though, and it still wouldn’t have mattered for hangovers and alcohol poisoning cannot touch the dead.
After exploring much of the city, the group had stumbled into a fantastic nightclub—literally. Normally, three guys in dark shades and hoodies and three other guys with punk’d up hair couldn’t have gotten into such a club, but the former group had the ability to phase right through walls. This ability was what led them all into this magical place, filled with lights, sound, color, and body heat. Early 2000-era techno music pumped through the club and its inhabitants, causing everything and everyone to pulse as one living, breathing, drinking thing. A total of six bars, four on the first floor and two on the second, and a chocolate fountain provided plenty of entertainment for the two bands.
Late into the night, they found themselves sticking whatever edible things they could find into the chocolate fountain and shoving them down each other’s throats.
Robb had to be tackled and then held down in order for Tré to stuff a green, slimy object dripping in chocolate in his mouth. It turned out to be a chewed up lime rind, which Robb tried to spit out in vain. Billie was pinching his nose and covering his mouth and the only way to breathe was to swallow the damned thing. Once it had passed down his throat, everyone cheered wildly.
“'At a boy!” Dré said loudly as he gave his friend a solid thump on the back.
“Hey everyone, let’s sing a song for Robb!” Billie Joe shouted. “One, two. One, two, three, four!”
While the drunk, giddy choir sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” off-key, a new voice broke in on the scene.
“Robby? Robb Dean Armstrong, is that really you?”
Robb spun around with a smile on his face, which vanished within seconds. Although he was drunker than holy hell and seeing double, he recognized the face he saw, the source of that new voice. He’d seen that face from beneath a layer of water.
“Wow, Robby, I haven’t seen you since junior high!”