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

MM

Each member of the band stretched and jumped to rid themselves of their nervous energy backstage while tens of thousands of hysterical fans cheered their hearts out. They wanted Yellowcard and they wanted them now.

Aaron grinned as the anxious crowd began to chant the band’s name. “Sounds like it’s going to be a good show, eh?” he said, nodding towards the band’s violinist.

Nick smiled back nervously and nodded his head in agreement.

Ephraim, the drummer with a seemingly limitless stamina, bounced from leg to leg. “I can’t wait to get out there, man!” he declared.

Ephraim’s band mates smiled at his enthusiasm. No one but them needed to know that he was always the first to crash out after a show, claiming exhaustion and stating that he never wanted to perform again.
Just as they were about to make their grand entrance, Ephraim stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh crap, I forgot my drumsticks!” he exclaimed. He turned on his heels and raced to the back of the room where the spare equipment had been hastily tossed together.

The rest of the band didn’t so much as turn around. They had become accustomed to the drummer’s forgetfulness and waited for him to return.

The last they ever heard from Ephraim was a bloodcurdling scream and his lifeless body hitting the ground with a dull thump.

***

The hotel room was once again filled with a heavy, somber silence. Robb found himself utterly dumbstruck upon receiving the grim news about Ozzy’s return from beyond. He opened his mouth but his brain failed to come up with a response. After a full minute, all he could manage was a weak “Oh”.

Finally, a voice cut through the dead air and pulled everyone out of their dark, troubled thoughts. The voice belonged to Dré.

“What do we do now?” he asked shakily.

“I guess we just give up…” Minty started. “This isn’t worth getting killed over. We’re not even that popular. I mean, we’re ranked at number 86 out of 213 bands. No one would miss—”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Billie said in a calm, almost quiet voice.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, ‘Shut the fuck up’. No one needs to hear that shit.”

Minty’s face flushed red with anger. He stormed towards Billie with a bitter, angry rant on the tip of his tongue. Only half a word made it past his lips before he found himself sprawled on the floor with blood gushing from his nose. Billie stood over him with his fist still clenched and ready to deliver another blow the moment the hot-tempered bassist tried to get fresh. The other four people in the room, who had all herded to the long sofa earlier, stared on in wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise. Even Mike and Tré were shocked for they had not seen Billie knock anyone out in decades.

“Want to try that again?” Billie Joe questioned testily.

Minty only glared at him in response and pinched his injured nose.

“Well, since I have your attention, listen up. All of you listen up.” He turned around to address the entire room. “This is some scary shit we’ve gotten ourselves into but there’s only one way to solve this. Green Day band #80-something has to step up to the plate. You guys have the resources to turn the fate of music around and get these pissed off spirits off our backs. So are you going to go through with it or walk away like a bunch of pussies?”

Robb finally found a collection of words that made some sense. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to finish what I started. What about you, Mick?” His hopeful eyes locked into Dré’s as he waited for an answer.

Dré was hesitant at first but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to abandon his best friend in his time of need. “You know I’ll always have your back,” he replied with a lopsided smile.

Minty groaned and pulled himself to his feet with Billie’s help. “I’m in.”

***
That night, the two bands found themselves in a run-down recording studio. It had been decided that Robb, Minty, and Dré were going to produce their own album—with a little help, of course. They couldn’t risk anyone on the outside knowing of the original Green Day’s return, but they couldn’t bring out an album’s worth of fresh material without some—okay, a lot of guidance and coaching.
The tribute band toyed with their instruments while Billie and Mike listened with amusement. Random, jumbled melodies bounced off the walls of the sound-proof room and through the door that led into the mixing room where Tré fidgeted with the numerous buttons and switches. Eventually, he grew bored. He stuck his head out the door and asked if there was a TV around.

“Yeah,” Robb said without taking his eyes off his guitar. He jerked his head to the right and said, “It’s in the corner behind you. It’s an ancient piece of crap, but it still works.”

Tré turned around and widened his eyes. “You’re not kidding. This thing’s got to be older than me…and I’m almost a hundred!”

He flicked on the TV—which miraculously turned out to be in color—and flipped to the news.

“This is the third case, and definitely the most terrifying and gruesome, involving musicians that have seemingly come back from the dead. It was only a few days ago when a man believed to be Mick Jagger threatened to kill…”

“Oh crap. Guys, get in here! Now!” Tré hollered.

Billie, Mike, Dré, Minty, and Robb streamed into the room. They had little doubt that they weren’t going to like what they were about to hear. Each intense face turned to the small TV and glued their eyes to the glowing monitor.

“Only one survivor remains from the brutal attack. Now we go to Miranda who was able to get an interview with the survivor. Miranda?”

“I’m here now at the ‘Angels Without Wings’ hospital with Aaron Ford.” The slender reporter turned to face the man that lie in the bed behind her. Her body blocked his face. Gently she asked, “Aaron, can you tell us what happened?” She moved aside and lowered the microphone just an inch from his lips.
The younger musicians turned green in the face and looked away. Billie, Mike, and Tré cringed and fought to keep their eyes on the shattered form of Aaron Ford, ex-musician.

His eyes were swollen shut and his skin was so bruised in some areas that it appeared black. His right hand was bandaged tightly but a substantial amount of bright red blood had managed to seep through. Closer observation revealed that he was missing two fingers. Aaron struggled to speak for his lips were also swollen and badly cut.

He cleared his throat and began to talk, slowly and carefully. “We were about to do a show when we heard Ephraim screaming. We turned around and he was on the floor and there was…there was blood everywhere and he was so quiet. So quiet…” His chin began to tremble and a single tear rolled down his face.

The reporter pulled the microphone away and leaned down to whisper softly in the battered man’s ear so that no one could hear.

“You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to.”

Suppressed sobs caused Aaron to shake. Pain shot through his body but he knew he had to finish this. He turned his face upward with his jaw set firmly. Shaking only slightly less, he said, “No, I want to finish. People need to know about this.”

The reporter nodded her head and once again lowered the mic and allowed Aaron to speak.

“We all started to p-panic and then I heard a chainsaw and all this screaming. My f-friends’ bodies were just…hitting the ground and I had no idea what was happening. Then I saw him.” Aaron stopped to inhale deeply which only caused him more pain. “I saw a white face and this…eye. It was ice blue, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. I think it was—“ He stopped and took another deep, painful breath. “I think it was Marilyn Manson. I know it sounds crazy with him being long gone and everything, but it looked exactly like him.”

The reporter frowned. “Aaron, do you have a history of mental health prob—“

“No!” Aaron’s voice shook. “I know what I saw and what I saw was Marilyn Manson killing all of my friends. The only reason he left me alive was to spread the message.”

“What message?” the now deeply concerned, yet intrigued, reporter asked.

“Lean down.”

Aaron whispered in Miranda’s ear while millions of people, including two terrified bands thousands of miles away in the middle of Arizona, watched them intently.

Miranda straightened up and looked at the camera. “I cannot repeat the exact message due to foul language, but it seems that the late Marilyn Manson told Aaron that this is going to keep happening until a new artist comes along—a truly frightening thought. Who can save the world of music?”

Mike flicked the TV off without being asked. It was clear that no one in the room could bear to hear—or see—anymore.