An off-base, hopefully the slightest bit comedic, tale of cliches and how to approach cliches, and eventually how to demolish the fuck out of them.
“Knock it off, F.” Grumbled a guy who balanced a can of beans out of a helmet that said “Good Luck” but apparently that luck was tried or used up. Or some shit. The point is that the god-awful singing wouldn’t be sung and we would have better food than some expired, cheap (which means it was very, very old from the start), beat up as Frank’s singing, can of beans. Actually. It was Cann o’ Beens. Unfortunately, the words “can” and "beans" have been trademarked.
“dliketobreakyourfuckingteethstick---” Frank got up and glared directly at the guy who had sneered at him a second before. Sneered. From Frank’s perspective. He began to serenade the guy. Lovely song.
“Good luck.” Laughed a red headed fucker with angry stubble sticking out of his unwashed chin. Frank took a small pause on a high note and turned his attention to the laugher.
“That joke ain’t fucking funny anymore, man. Stopped being funny in 2015. aknifeinthecenterofyourbackIfightdirtyjustlikeyourlookscan’---” The guy laughed again and threw an empty Cann o’ Beens at the “singer”. It hit and tumbled to the dusty ground.
“Ouch. I was rooting for you…” His chuckle died down. “That song stopped being played in 1997.” To which he received a simple gesture of Fuck you, my dear, dear friend. I turned my attention towards the group, but decided I should just talk to the red head (fakecoughcough) as the other two were busy settling their dispute with a manly game of thumb wars.
“Why do I always have to be the buzzkill?” I growled as I pulled out a run of where we were and how long we had left.
“’Cause someone’s gotta.” He leaned back and shut his bagfilled eyes.
“Inspirational, thank you so much, G.” He murmered a peaceful agreement. I sighed and tossed a stack of papers, rudely awakening his sleep.
“Huh? What the fuck is that?” He squinted at the stack.
“Homework.” I replied sarcastically. He looked at me like C’mon. “You have eyes. Use them, by all means!” I grabbed swig of what was supposed to be water. Unfortunately, it was not and I sprayed it everywhere as G didn’t bother to look up.
“Yeah, that’s vodka.”
“You could’ve mentioned it before.” I tried to regain my throat.
“You could’ve read to me.” He growled and flipped the pages intently.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were a grown up.” In unison, Frank and the Good Luck kid looked up from their game of thumb wars.
“I don’t grow up, I shut up and when I look at you I throw up.” Sticking out their tongues I face palmed my self.
“That quote is oh so very wrong.”
“I’m sorry; I thought you were a man.” Gerard flipped the pages. I don’t think he was actually reading them. His eyebrows drifted lazily upwards. “My mistake!”
“Ahah! Mikey, I win!” Frank laughed and jumped up and down. “And, for my consolation prize, I get to eat your beans.”
“Yeah? Well…” Mikey spat in them and grinned, holding them out. “Enjoy.” Frank was quick on his feet…or hands…and grabbed the can, dumping it with ease onto Mikey’s head.
“Who’s laughin’ now, chump?” Frank smiled manically. Gerard flipped to the end and tossed the book at me, holding his hand against his forehead like a housewife with a bad “headache”.
“Nobody is. I’m not laughing. See. Look at my face. There’s bean juice all over it! And, no, G, it’s not human bean juice but you just watch, fanboy and all of the human bean juice you could want will be coming out of that poor sap's horribly out of tune mouth!”
“Well, if you’d let me finish a god damned song then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be dumping shit on your head! Besides, we played a fair game----“
“Of thumb wars!”
“Every idiot knows it doesn’t.”
“I’m not an idiot! And those beans were mine. As they were. You spat in them!” Mikey and Frank started going at it.
“God dammit, you two! We’re stuck on a goddamned war zone and all you can think about is ‘beens’?” Gerard shouted angrily, like the mother he was destitute to be. “That’s not the way we behave. Not us. We’re supposed to stick together, so Mikey wash the fucking beans off your face and Frank, for the love of god, stop singing those shit-ass tunes from the 1900s.”
“To hell with you! It’s Green Day, moron.” Frank said.
“Yeah, you’re not our mother!” Mikey toned in. Gerard just got up and kicked some sand, walking away. Frank and Mikey barked at each other more. I sighed and looked at the sand Gerard left. Such divas.