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
Unmistaken Identity
“I’m dead serious.”
Robb let out a defeated sigh. He knew this insane little man wasn't going to leave him alone until he had ‘saved music’ or whatever. “Okay, okay. I think I'm going to need some help, though.”
***
Mike slumped against the dirty tiled wall of a gas station bathroom in the middle of nowhere. “I told you to go before we left!”
“I did but I had a fucking Big Gulp!” Tré whined from the other side of the gray door marked ‘ EN’. “Ow, fuck!”
“You had hot wings, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. Hold on, I’m almost done.”
“Hey, two shakes! We don’t have all day.”
“…Sorry.”
The toilet flushed in an alarming fashion and Tré stepped out with a small smirk on his face. “So, where to?” he asked.
Mike looked out on the dusty horizon. They were surrounded by desert. A wide black strip of deserted highway lay between the gas station where they stood and a seemingly endless stretch of sand. A few worn down buildings decorated the vast emptiness. Then, something off in the distance caught his eye. He couldn’t help but smile. “Do you see what I see?”
“Those two cacti that look like they’re humping?”
Mike shook his head and smiled. Turning his friend’s head slightly to the right, he said, “Touring van, straight ahead.”
***
“How’s this sound? I can’t believe I trusted you. Now I don’t know what to do.”
Billie cringed ever so slightly at Robb’s fourth attempt at songwriting. “It’s a little too female
pop star-esque. Rhythm’s good, though.”
Robb angrily tore the page out of the notebook, which was growing thinner by the hour. He crumpled it up and added it to the growing pile of rejected lyrics. “Why can’t I fucking do anything right no matter how hard I try?!”
“Robb—“
“What?!”
“I think you’re onto something.”
***
Mike and Tré began to trudge over to the white van with the sun beaming down overhead.
“Why the hell,” Tré panted, “Are we walking when we could just—” He stopped to take a deep breath. “—blink or snap our fingers or whatever and be over there in half a second?”
“Because the last time you tried doing that, we ended up in the middle of a Brazilian rain forest. Come on, we’re almost there.”
A minute later, the tired and somewhat sweaty duo arrived at the van. Mike peered inside to see two guys, one with green hair and one with red, mumbling in their sleep. He turned to Tré and said, “Crashed out in the middle of nowhere in a crappy tour van at two in the afternoon. Sound familiar?”
Tré ignored him and took a look inside the van for himself. “Probably resting up for their next gig, huh?” He smiled devilishly. “Should we wake them up?”
“Won’t they recognize us and freak out?"
“Bitch, please. These tribute bands never know anything about the ones they’re imitating.
They probably won’t even know who we are.”
“Holy fucking shit, it’s Tré Cool!” The new, slightly high-pitched voice caused the two elder musicians to widen their eyes in alarm.
Mike glared at Tré who looked away and mumbled, “Never mind.”
Robb let out a defeated sigh. He knew this insane little man wasn't going to leave him alone until he had ‘saved music’ or whatever. “Okay, okay. I think I'm going to need some help, though.”
***
Mike slumped against the dirty tiled wall of a gas station bathroom in the middle of nowhere. “I told you to go before we left!”
“I did but I had a fucking Big Gulp!” Tré whined from the other side of the gray door marked ‘ EN’. “Ow, fuck!”
“You had hot wings, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. Hold on, I’m almost done.”
“Hey, two shakes! We don’t have all day.”
“…Sorry.”
The toilet flushed in an alarming fashion and Tré stepped out with a small smirk on his face. “So, where to?” he asked.
Mike looked out on the dusty horizon. They were surrounded by desert. A wide black strip of deserted highway lay between the gas station where they stood and a seemingly endless stretch of sand. A few worn down buildings decorated the vast emptiness. Then, something off in the distance caught his eye. He couldn’t help but smile. “Do you see what I see?”
“Those two cacti that look like they’re humping?”
Mike shook his head and smiled. Turning his friend’s head slightly to the right, he said, “Touring van, straight ahead.”
***
“How’s this sound? I can’t believe I trusted you. Now I don’t know what to do.”
Billie cringed ever so slightly at Robb’s fourth attempt at songwriting. “It’s a little too female
pop star-esque. Rhythm’s good, though.”
Robb angrily tore the page out of the notebook, which was growing thinner by the hour. He crumpled it up and added it to the growing pile of rejected lyrics. “Why can’t I fucking do anything right no matter how hard I try?!”
“Robb—“
“What?!”
“I think you’re onto something.”
***
Mike and Tré began to trudge over to the white van with the sun beaming down overhead.
“Why the hell,” Tré panted, “Are we walking when we could just—” He stopped to take a deep breath. “—blink or snap our fingers or whatever and be over there in half a second?”
“Because the last time you tried doing that, we ended up in the middle of a Brazilian rain forest. Come on, we’re almost there.”
A minute later, the tired and somewhat sweaty duo arrived at the van. Mike peered inside to see two guys, one with green hair and one with red, mumbling in their sleep. He turned to Tré and said, “Crashed out in the middle of nowhere in a crappy tour van at two in the afternoon. Sound familiar?”
Tré ignored him and took a look inside the van for himself. “Probably resting up for their next gig, huh?” He smiled devilishly. “Should we wake them up?”
“Won’t they recognize us and freak out?"
“Bitch, please. These tribute bands never know anything about the ones they’re imitating.
They probably won’t even know who we are.”
“Holy fucking shit, it’s Tré Cool!” The new, slightly high-pitched voice caused the two elder musicians to widen their eyes in alarm.
Mike glared at Tré who looked away and mumbled, “Never mind.”