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
Man On a Mission
Everyone knew exactly who the voice had come from, but several pairs of eyes could not help but wander from the painful concert going on below to Billie Joe Armstrong. He ambled over to the source of everyone’s complaints and shook his head sadly. For decades, he had witnessed his band’s songs being torn apart by countless groups of 20-something year olds looking for a life of fame and fortune. For far too long, he had watched his great great great grandson’s tribute band do the same routine over and over, and he finally decided that something had to be done.
I've gotta go down there and do something.
It was—and still is common knowledge that most musicians do not lead the most innocent of lives. For many of the spirits listening to Robb and his friends perform Waiting, drugs and some degree of criminal activity had been infused into their career. It was that type of ghostly musicians who were finally becoming so fed up with tribute bands that they began to consider taking drastic measures. Billie was all too aware of that.
I can’t let anything happen to this kid, he’s family. I’ve got to help him come up with something new before someone does something to shut him and his band mates up for good...
Without a word of warning to his lifelong friends Mike Dirnt and Tré, nor to anyone else, Billie Joe vanished.
***
"Hey Dré, what was up with you burning your drums?” Robb asked the drummer before taking a swig of beer.
"I dunno. I saw an old video of the real band's drummer doing that. Just thought it'd add
some authentic-ness.” Dré shrugged
"You mean authenticity. Hey, you're smoking.”
"What...How many of those things have you had?!"
"Not like that. I mean your hair, smartass,” Robb said, rolling his eyes.
"Oh crap!" Dré screamed. He raced to the bathroom across the hall.
After dousing his lime green hair in water, he reappeared in the doorway of the band’s dressing room. "Hey,” he said. Robb looked up at him lazily. “ I'm gonna try to catch some Zs in the van. See you later?"
"Yeah man...I just need to get some crap together, call some people. I'll see you...later..." Robb said absentmindedly, too absorbed in his own reflection to even notice that Dré was already gone.
"Man, I hope I wasn't that conceited when I was your age.”
"What are you talking about, Dré? We're the same--" Robb froze mid-sentence when he realized that Dré had left and the voice he was responding to was unfamiliar, the source unseen.
"H-hello?! Who's there?" Robb cried out shakily. He cleared his throat and repeated himself more confidently, trying to hide his intense fear. His eyes darted around the room as he desperately tried to find out where the voice had come from. He spun around just to see a short, lean man smiling at him wickedly. Robb’s first instinct was to shriek.
"Who the hell are you?! What are you doing here?! Why are you laughing?! Why am I still here when I could be getting help?!" he screamed frantically.
He made a dash for the door, but a strong, tattooed arm flashed out in front of him and sent him flying back.
The arm’s owner stepped over to his left side, bent down, and looked him in the eye.
"Robb, my name’s Billie. You're my great great great grandson and—there’s no easy way to say this but…I’m dead.”
Robb was too shocked and dizzy to even process that. He simply nodded in response.
"Basically, music sucks and I need you make it...not suck," Billie Joe continued.
"Wha-what?"
"You. Are going. To write. New. Sooongs", Billie Joe said slowly, pretending to write.
"No one's done that in like...30 years. And you're not really here. I just...I just had too much beer is all,” Robb mumbled.
Annoyed by his descendant’s denial and ignorance, Billie grabbed him by the shoulder and slapped his cheek just hard enough to wake him up.
"Ow! What the f--"
"Would you just listen to me? I really need your help.” Billie tried to look formidable, but in his eyes was a hint of worry and desperation. “And you’re going to need my help. So, are you going to do this or not?" He offered Robb his small hand, the fingertips callused from playing guitar for 40 years. "Well...?"
I've gotta go down there and do something.
It was—and still is common knowledge that most musicians do not lead the most innocent of lives. For many of the spirits listening to Robb and his friends perform Waiting, drugs and some degree of criminal activity had been infused into their career. It was that type of ghostly musicians who were finally becoming so fed up with tribute bands that they began to consider taking drastic measures. Billie was all too aware of that.
I can’t let anything happen to this kid, he’s family. I’ve got to help him come up with something new before someone does something to shut him and his band mates up for good...
Without a word of warning to his lifelong friends Mike Dirnt and Tré, nor to anyone else, Billie Joe vanished.
***
"Hey Dré, what was up with you burning your drums?” Robb asked the drummer before taking a swig of beer.
"I dunno. I saw an old video of the real band's drummer doing that. Just thought it'd add
some authentic-ness.” Dré shrugged
"You mean authenticity. Hey, you're smoking.”
"What...How many of those things have you had?!"
"Not like that. I mean your hair, smartass,” Robb said, rolling his eyes.
"Oh crap!" Dré screamed. He raced to the bathroom across the hall.
After dousing his lime green hair in water, he reappeared in the doorway of the band’s dressing room. "Hey,” he said. Robb looked up at him lazily. “ I'm gonna try to catch some Zs in the van. See you later?"
"Yeah man...I just need to get some crap together, call some people. I'll see you...later..." Robb said absentmindedly, too absorbed in his own reflection to even notice that Dré was already gone.
"Man, I hope I wasn't that conceited when I was your age.”
"What are you talking about, Dré? We're the same--" Robb froze mid-sentence when he realized that Dré had left and the voice he was responding to was unfamiliar, the source unseen.
"H-hello?! Who's there?" Robb cried out shakily. He cleared his throat and repeated himself more confidently, trying to hide his intense fear. His eyes darted around the room as he desperately tried to find out where the voice had come from. He spun around just to see a short, lean man smiling at him wickedly. Robb’s first instinct was to shriek.
"Who the hell are you?! What are you doing here?! Why are you laughing?! Why am I still here when I could be getting help?!" he screamed frantically.
He made a dash for the door, but a strong, tattooed arm flashed out in front of him and sent him flying back.
The arm’s owner stepped over to his left side, bent down, and looked him in the eye.
"Robb, my name’s Billie. You're my great great great grandson and—there’s no easy way to say this but…I’m dead.”
Robb was too shocked and dizzy to even process that. He simply nodded in response.
"Basically, music sucks and I need you make it...not suck," Billie Joe continued.
"Wha-what?"
"You. Are going. To write. New. Sooongs", Billie Joe said slowly, pretending to write.
"No one's done that in like...30 years. And you're not really here. I just...I just had too much beer is all,” Robb mumbled.
Annoyed by his descendant’s denial and ignorance, Billie grabbed him by the shoulder and slapped his cheek just hard enough to wake him up.
"Ow! What the f--"
"Would you just listen to me? I really need your help.” Billie tried to look formidable, but in his eyes was a hint of worry and desperation. “And you’re going to need my help. So, are you going to do this or not?" He offered Robb his small hand, the fingertips callused from playing guitar for 40 years. "Well...?"