"Fuckin' A, man. How the fuck did you get out in only twenty months?" Rob said, chewing on a burnt sausage.
"Good behavior. Now I only have fifty-four hours of community service left, and I'll be off the hook," Tommy said, looking down the table of people he'd gotten to known in his jail time. "I'm gonna fucking miss you guys. You're all fuckin' awesome," Tommy said, taking a sip of his sour orange juice. Eddie laughed hysterically. "We're not getting out of here, ever. I hope you get arrested again soon,"
"In a weird fucking way, I hope so too," Tommy said, earning laughter from the guys at his table. After breakfast, they were escorted back to their cells. Tommy had gotten a bigger cell with a roommate, and luckily Jeremy was his roommate. They sat on their respective bunks and started talking. "What are you gonna do when you get out of here, Tommy?" Jeremy asked, picking his teeth with a piece of his shattered toothbrush. Tommy kicked his slippered feet on his mattress. "Probably see the guys, try to forget the accident, get used to real food again," Tommy threw in sarcastically, which earned him a laugh from Jeremy. "I miss real food. And I'll never be able to have it again. Sucks ass," Jeremy said.
"The food here actually tastes good, though," Tommy put in. He heard Jeremy approve.
"So, man, seen Nikki lately?" Jeremy asked him. Tommy had no choice but to tell him when Nikki popped up in their room late at night one time, and he found it hard to believe, too.
"Yeah, a lot actually. He's been telling me shit that I can't seem to remember. But I think it all has to do with everything will be alright if I don't drink, do drugs, or smoke ever again," Tommy said. He groaned as the warden called him for shower duty, probably the most disgusting job since guys masturbated in the showers with the water off and let it dry up in the stalls very often. Tommy was guilty of a few of those splatters.
"Tommy Lee, pack up your shit. Tommy Lee, pack up your shit," Tommy heard the warden say over the loud-speaker. He looked up at Jeremy and smiled sadly. "I'll miss 'ya bro. If I'm still in the area, since I live with Vince and I don't know where he lives right now, I'll come visit you on visiting days. You're a fucking awesome dude. And maybe I'll sneak you some real food," Tommy said, laughing. Jeremy smiled. "Bye, bro. Nice knowing your ass."
Tommy laughed and grabbed his stuff, heading towards the warden's office. He took the stuff he had when he got there, which included two hundred dollars in cash, a crumpled up piece of paper, his leather pants, his chain belt, his sunglasses, and his wallet. "Thanks, man," Tommy told the warden before leaving. Nobody was waiting for him, and he didn't intend on anyone doing so. He ran across the street to the McDonald's and walked into the bathroom. He stood in one of the stalls and pulled his pants on, taking off the sweatpants the police station had provided for him. He put on his belt and his sunglasses, and put everything else in his pockets. He hailed a taxi and gave him the address to Vince's house, and arrived to a Sold sign in the yard. He sighed inwardly, and raced to get the cab back. He gave him the directions to Mick's place, and it said Sold, too. He did the last thing he could think of and went to Elektra's building, and climbed up to the 17th floor. He saw his manager on the phone with somebody.
"I already told you I don't want him on the label! He's a cheesy-ass mother fucker!" He shouted into the phone. He slammed it down and looked up at Tommy.
"Holy fuck, why are you here?" He asked. "Break out of jail?"
"Actually, if anybody gave a fuck about me, you'd know I was released for good behavior. Y'know, if anybody visited me," Tommy complained. He sighed. "Do you know where Vince, Erik, or Mick are living? I need to crash someplace."
His manager frowned. "They specifically told me not to tell you their whereabouts. They sold their homes so you couldn't find them. They found a new drummer during your incarceration and you've been fired. You'll still be receiving 5 percent of their sales, and 5 million dollars for liability reasons. They bought you a house in southern LA. I have the directions here somewhere." His manager found the piece of paper and handed it to Tommy. "It's been nice managing you. I suggest you watch some TV and catch up on some current events. Motley's bigger and badder than ever."
Tommy, pissed off, stormed out of Elektra's headquarters and hailed down another taxi, and gave him the address on the paper. The driver pulled up on the place, and he got out. The house was average-sized, two floors, and looked neat. He walked up to the front door and saw a note on the Welcome mat in front of the door. It told him to look underneath the mat. He found the key, and unlocked the door. The house inside was sort of bare, littered with his belongings from Vince's house. A decent sized TV sat on the floor in what was presumably the living room, and he walked past it to the kitchen. A note was sitting on the counter, gathering dust. It was dated about eighteen months ago.
We feel bad about saying this, but we don't think we could ever forgive you for what happened. We bought you this place so you could have somewhere to live once you got out of jail, but we don't want any contact with you ever again. We've fired you, and we'll be looking for a new drummer soon. Hope your new life goes on well.
Vince, Erik, and Mick
Tommy crumpled it up and chucked it across the kitchen. He wandered aimlessly throughout the house and found his bed in one room upstairs. He sat down on it and fell asleep to the sound of his ears ringing.
He was awoken soon after falling asleep to a harmonious noise coming from the bathroom. Tommy tiredly made his way to the bathroom and turned the light on. There he saw Nikki floating on the air. He floated past him and sat on Tommy's bed. "Beautiful Tommy..." Nikki whispered. "Time to move on... Be yourself..."
"Nikki, I don't have anybody left," Tommy told the spirit restlessly. "My band-mates have deserted me, you're dead, and everybody else that cared about me now hates me. What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Be yourself... You don't need others... To be yourself..." Nikki started to fade away into thin air, and Tommy sighed exasperated as he realized he was talking to air again. He should really see a doctor for his hallucinations.
"Perhaps it is your conscience taking a humanoid form, telling you things you refuse to listen to?" His psychologist suggested. Tommy scrunched his eyebrows.
"Like, the thing inside of me that's my decision maker, is taking a spirit like figure in the form of my fucking ex-boyfriend?" Tommy said, disbelieving. The doctor nodded his head. "It's quite common, actually. It's also a coping mechanism, to try to get over his death. I know it was traumatic on you. Now, it's a coping mechanism because you've lost everyone you've ever cared about. So now you're seeing things that aren't really there."
"You're probably right," Tommy said, finally believing the words the doctor said to him. He thanked the doctor and left, walking back to his house. A few people came up to him and asked if he heard about Motley Crue lately, to which he replied no. Frustrated that he did not know what was going on with the band he was in, he turned on the TV when he got home and sat in front of it. An interview came on with Erik, Vince, and Mick, and some ugly guy with orange hair shooting out of his head in all directions who were sitting on barstools next to each other. The volume was busted, so Tommy read the subtitles.
Interviewer: So, Vince, what's it like being on tour with Dan?
Vince: It's different. Much better without Tommy around.
Interviewer: Any regrets on kicking Tommy out of the band?
Mick: Fuck no. I mean, he crippled me, he scarred Vince's face so bad he looks like a different person, and Erik is in agony every single day because his burns totally fucked his body up! The only thing I have to thank him for is Dan joining our band.
Interviewer: What exactly happened the night this accident took place?
Erik: Tommy had something to drink, something to smoke. He got behind the driver's wheel and fucked everything up.
Tommy could see that Erik was not upbeat and cool anymore. He looked desolate, abandoned.
Interviewer: Have you heard that Tommy got out of jail recently?
Vince: Seriously? That fucker should have stayed in jail for life. I hope I never see his ugly mug around here again.
Interviewer: So, how's your new album going?
Tommy read a few more stupid details about their upcoming album and shut the TV off. He smashed in a few windows with his fists and ripped a few curtains down. He then punched a hole through the wall before finally calming down. His conscious was right. He needed to just be himself by himself. And not give a shit about those backstabbers. He walked into the basement for the first time and realized it was totally fucking decked out. There were three drum sets strewn across the room carefully, and one entire wall was open to him to draw on, by the looks of the white tarp underneath it with paint supplies on it. Tommy stared in disbelief at the beauty of it. A small corner of the room was carpeted, and housed a small cot, a couch, and a few chairs, with plenty of blankets and pillows. Amps lined the walls, and microphone stands were organized in a line across one wall of the basement. Tommy found a thick, heavy envelope on one of the cymbals on a drum set. It said TOMMY on the front cover. He ripped it open, and found a few letters, some pictures, and a couple checks. He opened up the first note.
Hope you're doing okay. We actually do care about you.
The next one was from Erik.
I hope jail wasn't too excruciating. Don't tell the public that we actually care about you. It's a big joke right now.
PS that night we spent together was amazing.
The third was from Mick.
Wishing you the best of luck.
A fourth letter was strewn inside the envelope as well.
I never knew you, but I admire you so much.
Tommy flipped through the pictures. The first one was Vince in a hospital bed, smiling, and waving at the camera. The second one was Erik learning how to walk again after getting both of his legs completely burnt. The third was Mick doing a wheelie in his wheelchair, a smile on his face. The fourth was the three of them together, which looked recent, smiling and seemingly accepting who they were. Last, he looked at the checks. They were all signed to his name, and there was one from Vince, Mick, and Erik. Vince left him 20,000 dollars, Mick left him 15,000 dollars, and Erik left him 45,000 dollars. Tommy stared at the contents in the envelope in shock. He didn't know what to believe. First, they say they hate him. Now, they're giving him money and shit? Tommy shook his head, but nonetheless walked to the nearest bank to deposit his checks into his bank account.
A/N - Hey guys. This is the second-to-last chapter! Keep your eyes out for the next chapter!