Frank Iero is the awesome, very straight Mighty Midget- until he is forced into driving lessons and reduced to a un-awesome, very gay wreck by his ridiculously touchy-feely driving instructor.
To The End (With Me Driving, It Sure As Hell Will Be)
The Wrong Way To Celebrate Friday
Frank Iero, or, as he was perhaps more commonly known- The Mighty Midget of Bellville High- was not a happy bunny.
It was a damp, dreary Friday afternoon somewhere in the depths of mid-April, and instead of pigging out on strawberry jelly and having a celebratory-end-of-the-week-horror-movie-fest like any normal sixteen year old should be, Frank was sitting, shivering and scowling, on the sidewalk outside his best friend’s house.
At least he wasn’t on his own; he was kindly accompanied an expression that would turn sour milk radioactive, a bearded dude, and frozen feet, because no, Converse weren’t waterproof- not even the super-cool neon pink and green striped ones- he’d learnt that the hard way after a spot of misguided paddling in a giant puddle outside the school gates less than twenty minutes ago, and now his feet were deciding to make his life hell.
Also, his ass was wet, which really sucked. Having gotten an A in his last science exam, Frank really should have been mentally-equipped enough to have figured out that that rain equalled wet sidewalks and sitting on wet sidewalks equalled two wet and unhappy buttocks- but hey, it was a Friday, he wasn’t eating jelly and watching gore, and was therefore the complete opposite of a happy bunny.
Yes, he did need to be a cheerful lagomorph to reach logical conclusions, in case that wasn’t obvious. Duh.
Actually, what would be the opposite of a happy bunny? A morose slug? Pff. Frank did not know. Neither did he care- either way, it seemed pretty clear that he was the last thing from a happy bunny; he was not smiling, and he did not have a fluffy white bobtail. Simple pimples.
He did sort of have whiskers, actually, but not rabbity ones- just those of a stunted teenager failing to sprout an alluring goatee on his chin.
Anyway, the reason Frank- or rather, The Mighty Midget Of Bellville High- looked a little like someone had dunked his lunchtime bagel in liquidized faeces was because he was fucked. As in completely and utterly and horrifically fucked.
Well, figuratively completely and utterly and horrifically fucked. Yes, Frank might be the only sixteen year old in Bellville High School with a two-toned, floppy Mohican and jeans so tight he had to waddle like a penguin down the corridors- but he was not a slut. No sir.
In fact, contrary to most of his classmates, The Mighty Midget Of Bellville High was actually still a virgin. See- clean and pure and innocent.
Well. Maybe not. But his cherry was still un-popped, and that had to count for something, right? The only guy that had fucked him was fate, and he fucked everyone, didn’t he? God damn manwhore.
“I swear to god, if that skinny little motherfucker isn’t out here in thirty fucking seconds, I’m going to go watch The Crow and eat popsicles,” Frank announced huffily, blowing his damp fringe out of his heavily outlined eyes and turning to the bearded dude sitting beside him in the soggy, bleak rain.
“Stop getting those prissy little knickers of yours in a tangle, Iero,” Bob Bryar sighed, taking a swig of Monster energy drink and checking his reflection in the can. He smoothed his beard and suavely raised an eyebrow.
Bob was Frank’s English buddy. And his Maths buddy. And his Art and Physics buddy. In the end, Bob had ended up being Frank’s ‘buddy’ for almost every class, so Frank had proudly declared the muscled, fearsome-baby-duckling look-alike his ‘Life Buddy’- although sadly, life wasn’t proving to be so easy as double maths as yet.
But Frank had hope. Well, he used to. After the traumatising experience this afternoon promised, he wasn’t sure he was going to have even the tiniest shred of hope left in his slightly damp body.
“Don’t piss me off, Bobbert,” Frank scowled grumpily. “Or I’ll bite you.”
“Dude, please,” Bob snorted. “Your puny little fangs couldn’t tear through my muscles if their life depended on it.”
“Wanna bet, Bryar?” Frank narrowed his eyes threateningly, because Frank Iero did not take kindly to being belittled. Pun intended.
“Sure,” Bob said carelessly, taking another sip of Monster and raising the other eyebrow equally suavely as the first while nodding seductively.
Frank glared. “I’m warning you, Bob Bryar- don’t fuck with me right now. My ass feels like someone’s poured blue slushie all over it, my eyeliner’s gunna run from all this fucking rain- seriously, god must have one fucked up bladder- and in case it hadn’t escaped your notice, these are my last few moments of precious life before I die violently because my own mother decided to completely destroy my existence and no one comes to my funeral because they’re all jealous of my awesomeness, and-”
“How do you spell ‘Bibliotheque’?” Bob asked suddenly, eyes glued to the screen of his blackberry phone, which omitted a small, unhealthy glow into the glum rainfall.
“Were you even listening to my tragic speech, you fucktard?” Frank exclaimed indignantly, peering under Bob’s hood and snapping his fingers commandingly. “Oi! It was practically fucking Shakespeare, man! See, if I wasn’t going to be gruesomely killed in the next couple of hours, I could have been a famous writer- the next Shakespeare- or the even the next Macbeth!”
“Does it start B-I-B-L-I-O-”
“Bobbert!” Frank snarled, snatching the phone away in fury and glaring at Bob. With his running red eyeliner and death-ray green glare, Frank liked to imagine he looked rather formidable. “Listen to me, you insensitive asswipe!”
“I was. What do you want me to say?” Bob shrugged, sipping from the can. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you dying. Oh, and just for your information- Macbeth was not a famous playwrite or genius with words- he was a cold-blooded Scottish king from one of Shakespeare’s most famous plays. In all honesty, I could quite easily see you being the next Macbeth. But Shakespeare? I think not, oh mentally-challenged one.”
“Fuck you,” Frank scowled huffily. “And why do you want to know how to spell Bibliotheque, anyway? Isn’t that like, morgue in French or something?”
“Same difference,” Frank said dismissively. “But why…?”
“I’m helping my sister cheat in her external exam,” Bob explained, rolling his eyes as if it should be obvious.
“Nice one,” Frank rolled his eyes back at Bob. “But I’m going to die, remember?”
“Oh dear,” Bob said insincerely, patting Frank patronisingly on the head.
“Like, seriously, Bob!” Frank snapped angrily, jerking his head out of Bob’s reach. “I am so, so fucked, thanks to my motherfucking Mom.”
“Your Mom fucks other moms?”
“Where the fuck did you get that from?” Frank yelped.
Bob took another sip of Monster and shrugged. “You said ‘motherfucking Mom’. That kinda implies…Mom fucking and…yeah…” he trailed off, smoothing his beard in the reflection of the can again. Then he caught sight of the ominous scowl on Frank’s face. “What? You should be grateful that was all I said. I mean, that sentence just had so many opportunities for sick jokes.”
“Bobbert!” Frank exclaimed incredulously.
“What?” Bob protested again, shrugging carelessly. “You said you were ‘fucked thanks to your motherfucking Mom’… I mean, doesn’t that even sound the slightest bit dodgy, even to your unhinged brain?”
Frank sighed and sloshed his foot around in the overflowing gutter. “I guess it wasn’t my best sentence.”
“Look, just fuck you, Bryar,” Frank growled. “I’m not standing for this bullshit any longer, okay? I’m going home.”
“Dude, stop being such a chicken. He’s only five minutes late,” Bob sighed, texting away frantically. Frank caught a glimpse of the words ‘Boulangerie’ and ‘Merde’ on the screen, and wished he’d taken French so he could have known if Bob was sending secret messages to the French government or not.
Then what Bob had just called him sunk in.
“…Chicken?!” Frank yelped indignantly as Bob paused in his text to offer Frank a consolation sip of Monster. “How dare you! I am Frank the mighty! I am brave and fearless! I am-”
“A puny scaredy-cat,” Bob supplied unhelpfully, still jiggling the can in Frank’s face. “With mental issues. And the height of a stunted garden gnome.”
In response, Frank snatched the can and stamped on it. Hard. And really, the poor little can didn’t really stand a chance, because yes, Frank might be small, but goddamn, he liked to think that he had the strength of several large sumo wrestlers- and sure enough, the poor little can hissed pitifully, then went silent in the grimy gutter.
“You fuckbottom!” Bob exclaimed in anguish, abandoning his multi-lingual texting and glaring at Frank as though the latter had just disembowelled a small baby. “What the hell was that for?”
“You called me scared,” Frank growled. “I am Frank Iero, Mighty Midget. I am fearless. I am the-”
“Oh, give it a rest, goblin,” Bob rolled his eyes. “And leave me to mourn the death of my Monster.”
Frank turned round huffily, pulling the hood of his Marilyn Manson hoodie more closely round him and sticking his nose sulkily in the air. He was not scared AT ALL, no matter what Bobbert the aggressive duckling said.
Those flesh-eating butterflies intent on devouring his gut? They were just awesomeness.
The way his hands kept trembling? That was just cold, because fuck, it was pouring with rain, and he was sitting on the sidewalk and it was motherfucking April, for fuck’s sake.
And the fact it felt disturbingly like he’d wet himself? Well, that was just the dampness of the pavement seeping through his skinnies- at least, he really hoped it was, because otherwise it would just be Thanksgiving all over again, and Bob would be hospitalized with violent hiccups.
“Look,” Bob sighed after several moments of offended silence, during which the rain began to fall even more thickly. “How bad can it be?”
Frank turned to look at his duckling-body-builder resembling Life Buddy with a face of stony incredulity. “Are you actually serious, Bryar?”
“Dude, I am actually going to die!” Frank exclaimed incredulously, flailing his arms out for impact. “DIE.”
“Oooh! Who’s dying?” An inappropriately chirpy voice interrupted, making both Frank and Bob look up through the murky rain to see their accomplice and resident evil genius of the gang, Mikey Way, standing over them in his trademark woman’s-cut jeans and owlish glasses. He was also wearing the ‘Avenged Sevenfold’ hoodie Frank had lost months back and holding a tub of brownies.
“Frank’s dying,” Bob replied, not sounding as upset as Frank would have liked, considering the circumstances. He glared at Bob, who didn’t even appear to notice as he prised himself up off the pavement with one last sorrowful glance at his mangled Monster-can. Bastard.
“Oh dear,” Mikey beamed, offering Frank a hand up. “Well, if it’s any consolation, we all do someday.”
“Death is for the weak,” Frank sniffed huffily, refusing Mikey’s hand and falling on his ass as he tried, misguidedly, to get up in his ridiculously tight skinny jeans.
“Death is for the living, you fucktard,” Bob rolled his eyes. “And what are you doing, kissing the pavement goodbye?” He added, smirking infuriatingly at Frank’s little skinny jean and gravity mishap.
“I fell over,” Frank scowled, finally clambering to his feet and digging his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, cursing Bob’s existence. One day, when Frank was rich and evil, he would set his flock of incontinent polar bears on Bobbert as revenge. Never, ever, should you underestimate the power of a midget. Because it WILL come back and bite you in the ass.
Well. The ankles.
“Shit, Iero, did you piss yourself or something?” Mikey yelped, jumping back from Frank as he caught sight of Frank’s damp jeans.
“Oh, go fuck yourself, Way. It was the pavement,” Frank snapped, flipping him off and stalking penguin-ishly down the road.
“How the fuck does one even fuck one’s self?” Frank heard Mikey ask just behind him, as he and Bob set off down the bleak street after Frank.
“Double joints,” Bob said wisely.
“Oh,” Mikey said, looking enlightened.
They walked in silence for a few moments, while Frank wondered if the local church would allow ‘Mighty Midget’ to be engraved on his tombstone. The priest was one bad-tempered motherfucker, but maybe that was just because Frank had caught him jacking off to ‘Brokeback Mountain’ after the mass on Christmas Eve. He also flipped off three people who sniggered at his unfortunately damp jeans.
Frank, that was, not the priest. The priest didn’t really go in for rude hand gestures at innocent pedestrians.
Well, Frank sort of managed to turn the third flipping-off into some kind of odd salute when he realised the last person who’d sniggered was actually a five year old in a buggy. In all honesty, that in itself wouldn’t have stopped him- Frank had his pride, after all- but the mother- or rather, demon- pushing the buggy looked as though she snacked on murderous jocks for breakfast, and yes, Frank was mighty and fearless, but he could not run very fast in these jeans, and although he was going to die, he didn’t want to die at the cannibalism of a single Mom. That just wasn’t a very masculine way to bite the dust.
Then again, neither was the way Frank really was about to die…
“So, how was school?” Mikey chirped conversationally, dragging Frank from his thoughts of death by skinny jeans. Ripped knees, he decided, was the way forward.
“Fuck you,” Frank said grumpily, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie and wincing as his jeans stuck to the back of his thighs. “Skiver.”
“It was alright,” Bob shrugged, somewhat more politely. “Frank got jammed in Mr. Arnolds locker again, though.”
“Oh, Bernie again?”
“Yeah. Fuck, I’d hate to think of the size that kid’ll be at our age.”
“I know right! At least he’s vegetarian.”
“I did NOT let Bernie lock me in,” Frank cut in angrily in protest, turning round to face his two moronic friends just in time to see Mikey and Bob’s eyebrows do the sceptical eyebrow dance.
The sceptical eyebrow dance, for those sad, sad people who did not know, was when both Frank’s sidekicks decided to join eyebrow forces in the name of scepticism and wiggle in synchronicity. It was more than slightly unnerving to watch.
“Oh, so you deliberately shut yourself in a locker that smells of mouldy garlic bread?” Bob snorted.
“I like garlic,” Frank insisted stubbornly. It wasn’t his best argument, but hey, it was raining, his ass was cold and wet and alone, and people were making fun of his height. Plus, he was about to die, and that never helped things.
“Sure thing, Oreobum,” Mikey sniggered. Frank shot him The Glare Of Death.
“Wow, watch out, Mikey Way! The midget’s eyes are glinting!” Bob cackled.
“Oh no, I’m dying!” Mikey mock-wailed, clutching the tub of brownies dramatically to his chest. “Save me, save me, oh precious Bobbertbuns!”
“Don’t,” Bob said, suddenly deadly serious. “Call me Bobbertbuns.”
“Awww, you love it really,” Mikey grinned, blowing Bob a kiss.
Bob went pale, but he’d always been oddly squeamish about affection. Frank could remember only too well the mistake that was a ‘Group Hug’ at last year’s end-of-term party. Bob had spent the remainder of the evening with the school nurse.
And no, not in a romantic-fucking-on-the-medical-table-way, more in a squeamish-quivering-under-the-desk-way. The dude had issues, but then again, he was friends with Frank, so that was kinda in the job description.
“Hey, Frankiebottom!” Mikey called suddenly, looking evil. “Do you want a kiss too?”
“Go get eaten by your own ass,” was Frank’s snappy- and awesome- retort.
“Awww, are you sure?” Mikey cackled, like the little life-destroyer he was and always had been. “I thought you liked the lips of males.” It was real life, not instant messaging, but if it had been instant messaging, Frank was certain Mikey would have added a perverted winky-face at the end of that sentence.
“For the last god damn time,” Frank growled furiously, glaring at Mikey. “I am not homosexual. I do not like peni. I am masculinity personified, okay?”
This was Frank’s favourite nickname- masculinity personified. Or awesome personified. Or sex on legs. Either was fine- Frank wasn’t really fussy, but most days, he did prefer ‘masculinity personified’- it just sounded more sophisticated and well, masculine.
This of course, was all fine and dandy as long as no one, ever, ever found out about his pink glitter fetish. Hey, what people didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them- but Frank might. His teeth had rather a feared reputation around Bellville High after the previous year’s sports day.
“Just asking,” Bob’s voice cut through Frank’s reminiscence of chasing the sports mistress around the playing field with a javelin. “But what’s ‘peni’?”
“The plural for penis,” Mikey replied instantly. “Frank made it up, ‘cause he likes lots and lots of them.” He grinned, and Frank felt sure that it was another insert-perverted-winky-smiley-face-emoticon-here moment.
He huffed and puffed and spent the next five minutes plotting Mikey’s demise, because he was The Mighty Midget Of Bellville High, and, under NO GOD DAMN CIRUMSTANCES, NOT EVEN DRUNKEN HALLOWEENS IN A TREE HOUSE, did he feel any need to like a penis as more than a friend.
“Which way?” Frank shook himself out of his furious thoughts and snarled at Mikey, realising they had reached a fork in the road. One led to the town centre, the other to the outskirts of the town. Both ways looked rapidly darkening, raining, and like the path to hell.
“Left,” Mikey smiled brightly, rattling the box of brownies as though he was father Christmas. A severely skinny father Christmas who was leading Frank to his death. So actually more like the Grimm Reaper that father fucking Christmas.
Frank huffed, stuck his nose in the air and stalked in a penguin-ish yet sexy way down the chewing gum speckled road, feeling very superior and awesome compared to the brainless minions behind him.
Frank’s seductive strutting was interrupted by Mikey’s yell.
“What?” Frank snarled, whirling round.
“You’re going right, not left,” Mikey informed him kindly.
Frank took one look at Mikey, the two conflicting routes, and silently broke down, because really, if he couldn’t even tell left from right, he had no hope left whatsoever. This afternoon really, really was going to be the death of him. He was going to die, a virgin, at sixteen and never discover the wonders of the world or legalized drinking or putting his penis in unspeakable places. How much more tragic could his life become? And for once, the weather was actually doing that dramatic, pathetic-fallacy thing his English teacher was always on about, and it actually felt pretty cool if he forgot about the fact he was silently breaking down because he was actually going to die.
“He’s silently breaking down again, Mikey,” Bob sighed, pulling his hood more closely around his head.
Mikey sighed too, and got out a brownie. “I know.”
It took three of Mikey’s home-made brownies- the kid worked magic in the kitchen, seriously, Frank didn’t know what it was, but the food Mikey made always tasted as though God himself had shat it- two very masculine pats on the back from Bob, and watching a walking tangerine get her non-existent skirt get all caught up in her thong in front of her boyfriend, for Frank to be coaxed down from his metaphorical cliff-edge and continue along the bleak, rainy streets to his death.
The rain was thinning slightly now as they turned into yet another boring, damp suburban street. Bob had returned to his multi-lingual texting, Mikey was skipping excitedly because he was a sadistic little fucker and the thought of a close friend dying was clearly something thrilling, and Frank was wishing for death. Which, actually, was pretty pointless, because he was going to die in the next half hour anyway.
Actually, they must be nearly there now, because Mikey had told him yesterday it was in Laurel Street, and hold the herd of rabid elves, this was Laurel Street. Frank gulped and slowly raised his gaze from the grotty pavement where there was a piece of spat-out chewing gum in the shape of a kidney. Frank knew this was a bad omen, because really, it’s never good when you start seeing vital organs splatted on the ground before you.
“Nearly there,” Mikey announced happily, confirming Frank’s worst fears as they trudged through another grimy puddle filled with unattractive bits of spat-out chewing gum. “We’re just on time, too!”
“You’re Frank the Fearless now, are you?” Bob smirked smugly.
“I want my Mom,” Frank whimpered, clutching hold of Mikey’s sleeve and forgetting it was actually his Mom that had pushed him into this in the first place, and if she hadn’t offered this bombshell along with the promise of tickets to see Iron Maiden if he succeeded, Frank wouldn’t even have stopped to let the matter enter his brain. But seriously, who in their right mind wouldn’t do anything to go and see the greatest band of all time? Frank was even willing to put his god damn life on the line.
He was sort of regretting that now, though, because it was raining and Satan was leering down at him from the sky, just ready to scoop him up and plonk him down in hell all because Frank had stolen that apple pie as a kid and Frank would be tortured with spiders and demons and giants to mock his height and someone would have taken his teeth out so he couldn’t even bite and-
“Inhale, you fuckfart.”
Frank blinked and resurfaced from his thoughts of premature doom. Bob was snapping his fingers in front of Frank’s face and looking vaguely worried, which, for Bob, was really saying something.
Frank inhaled obediently, and felt a little of the sensation come back into his legs.
“Hey, how bad can it be?” Mikey said in some way that was probably meant to be consoling. He patted Frank cheerily on the shoulder. “I mean, it’ll be my brother.”
Personally, Frank wasn’t really sure how this piece of information was meant to reassure him; he had only met Mikey’s older brother Gerard three times. All three times, Gerard had been silent, twitchy, paint-spattered and had worn an eyepatch. A pink eyepatch.
“Your brother’s weird,” Frank summarised unfeelingly, because no, he did not care about offending Mikey- he was about to die.
Bob snorted. “Frank. He’s related to Mikey. Of course he’s a little odd.”
“He’s a very talented individual,” Mikey sniffed loyally.
“When it comes to being weird,” Frank snapped.
“No, when it comes to-”
“Being weird?” Bob supplied unhelpfully.
“Fucketh you,” Mikey huffed, hitting Bob over the head with the brownie box. Bob winced and did a funny nose-twitch, but didn’t say anything.
“Fucketh?” Frank questioned curiously.
“Yeah. I feel in a Shakespearian mood.”
“But,” Frank said desperately, clutching onto Mikey’s Tupperware box of brownies for comfort, while continuing to look scared in a very, very manly way . “I’m not ready to die, guys. I could have been so many wondrous things, done so much…”
“He wants to become the next Macbeth,” Bob supplied helpfully.
“Ooh, I could actually see that!” Mikey beamed in a congratulatory fashion.
Frank hit Bob.
“Don’t hit Bob!” Mikey reprimanded him primly. “He bruises easily.”
“I do not bruise easily!” Bob exclaimed indignantly.
“You were the one who just hit him with a box of brownies!” Frank exclaimed equally indignantly.
However, both their indignant remarks were drowned out by a car driving past and turning into the little entrance just beside them. The car was a small red polo with a large ‘L’ sticker stamped across the back, and looked distinctly battered, as though someone with little experience had been driving it.
“Oooh, isn’t that a pretty car! I wonder if you’ll get that one?”
“…Are those entrails hanging from the exhaust pipe?”
“Goodbye, fair world!”
Frank stared at the rickety car making its way unevenly along and began to sob, because standing just across the road from them, like the waiting room to hell, was a modern, clean looking business building across a large, wet yard, which was dotted with orange cones. A large, black thundercloud loomed ominously above it, and over the doorway to the building, in clear blue, life-destroying bold lettering read ‘Way’s Driving School.’
This was it, Frank decided, as Mikey and Bob grabbed one of his arms each, and hauled him unceremoniously towards the doors.
This was the end.
So...thoughts? Is this something you guys would like me to continue? Let me know, 'cause I already have like, two stories on the go, and I don't want to waste my time writing a third if you're not particularly bothered. Like I said, this is just a taster, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same :D Rates? Reviews? Did you have a favourite part?
It's actually my birthday tomorrow (spending your sixteenth birthday all alone because you have no social life, how sad is that? :L), and having feedback on this would kinda make my day xD Thanks so much for reading, let me know if I should continue and keep on being awesome, because seriously, I love you guys so much :'D