Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Derisory Tale
Goodbye, 43
3 ReviewsGaaaaaaaaawsh. Is anybody reading this? Hah...anyhow. It's still a chapter.
“You look like hell!” Mikey laughs at his brother, as he pulls on his winter coat. The artist does indeed look like hell. He’s got a black eye, so he’s squinting terribly, he’s limping and his stomach still hurts.
“Oh, fuck you, Michael.” He sneers and puts on his dark shades. This just makes his brother laugh even more.
“Like you look better that way.” He snorts and walks out the door, holding it open for his brother. The artist stumbles around for his boots and shoves them on. Following his brother out the door, the artist slams it shut walks awkwardly. “What the fuck happened?” Mikey asks.
“What the hell do you think?” He says sourly. “You let that asshole in our house and the maniac attacked me!”
“He attacked you?” Mikey questions, a bit apathetically. The artist pulls of his sunglasses, taking Mikey aside.
“No, I gave myself a fucking black eye for no reason!”
“Why would you do that?” His brother laughs as the artist pushes his sunglasses back on. He flips his arms around violently.
“Because I’m all that crazy!”
And so on.
They bamboozle around like this for an odd amount of time. Flaunting their nerdiness about. They discussed such things as 42, Vonnegut and of course, their hero in the world of Nerd, Buffy.
They entered the school building at precisely eight o’ clock. The principal was amazingly like Vice Principal Strickland from Back to the Future. He would always be like ‘You’re a slacker!’ when you arrived two minutes before eight.
You’d be better off dead than going in so absolutely late.
At eight.
When the beatniks saunter in. When the punks arrive with the common ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude.
That was a bit of an exaggeration. And a complete bullshit line to say. Beatniks are all different. Fuckin’ contradiction…and the punks never come that early.
So the brothers part ways…or Ways, if you prefer.
“Eight o’ one, boys. You’re late!” The principal bellows at the brothers, who kind of do one of those power walks that the ladies in the neighborhood do. Only, these guys keep their heads down and skid off to class. He shakes his head and marks something down on a clipboard with pristine white paper. Always white paper. “Three tardies make a detention, remember that, you punks.” The words follow the two brothers to their classes, the air feeling heavier and just…well, like shit, for one of them indeed has three tardies.
“Oh, fuck you, Michael.” He sneers and puts on his dark shades. This just makes his brother laugh even more.
“Like you look better that way.” He snorts and walks out the door, holding it open for his brother. The artist stumbles around for his boots and shoves them on. Following his brother out the door, the artist slams it shut walks awkwardly. “What the fuck happened?” Mikey asks.
“What the hell do you think?” He says sourly. “You let that asshole in our house and the maniac attacked me!”
“He attacked you?” Mikey questions, a bit apathetically. The artist pulls of his sunglasses, taking Mikey aside.
“No, I gave myself a fucking black eye for no reason!”
“Why would you do that?” His brother laughs as the artist pushes his sunglasses back on. He flips his arms around violently.
“Because I’m all that crazy!”
And so on.
They bamboozle around like this for an odd amount of time. Flaunting their nerdiness about. They discussed such things as 42, Vonnegut and of course, their hero in the world of Nerd, Buffy.
They entered the school building at precisely eight o’ clock. The principal was amazingly like Vice Principal Strickland from Back to the Future. He would always be like ‘You’re a slacker!’ when you arrived two minutes before eight.
You’d be better off dead than going in so absolutely late.
At eight.
When the beatniks saunter in. When the punks arrive with the common ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude.
That was a bit of an exaggeration. And a complete bullshit line to say. Beatniks are all different. Fuckin’ contradiction…and the punks never come that early.
So the brothers part ways…or Ways, if you prefer.
“Eight o’ one, boys. You’re late!” The principal bellows at the brothers, who kind of do one of those power walks that the ladies in the neighborhood do. Only, these guys keep their heads down and skid off to class. He shakes his head and marks something down on a clipboard with pristine white paper. Always white paper. “Three tardies make a detention, remember that, you punks.” The words follow the two brothers to their classes, the air feeling heavier and just…well, like shit, for one of them indeed has three tardies.
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