Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Wake Me Up When The Nightmare Ends
Shoving Pete viciously to the floor, the tattooed man followed his accomplice and Patrick through the door, slamming it shut behind him. Out of earshot, Patrick spun around to face the tall man.
“What’s wrong with you, Connor? I told you I didn’t want him hurt!”
“Yeah well,” he paused as he removed the mask and lit up a cigarette, “sometimes we don’t always get what we want now, do we?”
“No, Connor, you see, I do get what I want. I get exactly what I want.”
Snatching the cigarette from Connor’s mouth, Patrick took a long soothing drag on it as he glared up him.
“You’re not supposed to be smoking,” Connor growled.
Taking another draw on the cigarette, Patrick handed it back, still glaring angrily.
“So long as he doesn’t see me do it, it isn’t a problem, is it?”
“Or write anything.”
Looking down at his left hand, Patrick nodded tiredly. “I know.”
“Or play guitar or sing,” Connor continued, delighting in angering him.
“I know! I’m aware of my limitations, but I’m aware of his too. I can Google him, he can’t exactly Google me, he doesn’t even know about me.”
“If you can smoke when he’s not around, why can’t I use your real name? It’s creepy calling you Patrick.”
“Deal with it! I don’t want you screwing up and calling me Matthew in front of him.”
“What does it matter, he’s not going anywhere is he?” Connor argued.
“I want him to believe that his life is being torn inside out by the guy he thinks is his best friend. I want him to suffer, mentally first, then physically and I want him to hate me. By the time he gets out of here, I want him angry enough to kill.”
“Himself or Patrick?” Connor chuckled.
“Preferably both!”
“Well, if you want him to hate you so much, what was all that about?” Connor asked.
“What?”
“That!” he nodded back in the direction of the cell. “Oh, Pete, I’m so sorry! Let me kiss it better!” he added, with a mocking whine.
“That was your fault! I had to see how much damage you’d done. Don’t you get it? I need him unhurt. I specifically asked that you don’t hurt him, well, not yet anyway. And what’s the first thing you do? You hang him by his wrists from the ceiling! I had to make him believe I was his friend just to get near him. If he’d known straight off that I was responsible for bringing him here, he’d have wrapped that chain so tight round my neck I’d be tasting it!”
“I still think you’re doing this all wrong. You should trust me on this, it’s not my first time.”
“And I’ve planned this for years. Listen to me, Connor,” Matthew, the man passing himself off as Patrick, raised a finger. “It’s not every day you find out you’ve got a twin brother and a rich, successful one at that. I’ve spent more than eight years in that hellhole of an institution and I think it’s his turn to suffer instead of me! And if you damage my investment any more, my side of the deal’s off!”
Connor turned a pair of frantic eyes towards Matthew.
“No! No, you can’t break the deal! You said I’d get them, man!”
“And so you will, provided you do as I ask.” Matthew grinned. “I mean, it’s not like he has any real need for them now, has he? He’s only going to end up dead or in prison.”
Connor nodded enthusiastically, an eager, sadistic smile forming on his face.
“I think I have more reason to hate Wentz than you do,” Connor announced, frowning deeply. “If it weren’t for him I’d be with her now.”
“Yeah, he stopped you seeing her, didn’t he?”
Matthew smiled vaguely as he thought back to reading in the newspapers about the restraining order that Pete and Ashlee had taken out against the man who claimed to be Ashlee’s real husband and father of Bronx. He seemed the ideal candidate to help Matthew seek revenge on his long lost twin brother.
Snatched from his buggy only a couple of months after they were born, Matthew Stumph was never found. Raised by a depressed and unstable drug addict who had lost her own child, Matthew’s life was over before it even began. Equally disturbed and paranoid, forced to take and distribute drugs from an early age, Matthew found his constantly active brain unable to settle. In and out of junior detention centres and mental institutions for most of his life, he had been shocked to see his own image on television one day. Only a little digging had revealed that a cruel twist of fate had ruined his life, while his brother had the world at his feet. Well, now it was his turn and he would make Patrick and his friends suffer. It should have been his life, but, he while he knew he couldn’t make it his life, he was willing to accept second best. He would destroy Patrick’s. It was that simple.
*
Pete pushed himself upright until he was able to sit up, unaided. His shoulders remained hunched forward and his eyes welled with salt-water, reacting to what he would have liked to believe was pain, but even he knew that it was much deeper than that. He was distraught. Kidnapped by his best friend and beaten and tortured by his lackeys; Pete’s mind reeled against the shock.
Staring up as the broad man with tattoos entered. Kneeling, he tried to take hold of Pete’s hand.
“What’s that?” Pete cried as he saw a cloth being soaked in the liquid held in a small bottle.
“It’s just antiseptic, for your wrists.”
“Oh,” Pete replied, initially relieved, but he would soon realise that for the second time, he was about to be drugged.
The hand reached up and clamped firmly over Pete’s nose and mouth, pushing his head back against the wall. Struggling was useless against the larger man’s strength, and finally, when released, Pete slumped quickly onto his side.
“What’s wrong with you, Connor? I told you I didn’t want him hurt!”
“Yeah well,” he paused as he removed the mask and lit up a cigarette, “sometimes we don’t always get what we want now, do we?”
“No, Connor, you see, I do get what I want. I get exactly what I want.”
Snatching the cigarette from Connor’s mouth, Patrick took a long soothing drag on it as he glared up him.
“You’re not supposed to be smoking,” Connor growled.
Taking another draw on the cigarette, Patrick handed it back, still glaring angrily.
“So long as he doesn’t see me do it, it isn’t a problem, is it?”
“Or write anything.”
Looking down at his left hand, Patrick nodded tiredly. “I know.”
“Or play guitar or sing,” Connor continued, delighting in angering him.
“I know! I’m aware of my limitations, but I’m aware of his too. I can Google him, he can’t exactly Google me, he doesn’t even know about me.”
“If you can smoke when he’s not around, why can’t I use your real name? It’s creepy calling you Patrick.”
“Deal with it! I don’t want you screwing up and calling me Matthew in front of him.”
“What does it matter, he’s not going anywhere is he?” Connor argued.
“I want him to believe that his life is being torn inside out by the guy he thinks is his best friend. I want him to suffer, mentally first, then physically and I want him to hate me. By the time he gets out of here, I want him angry enough to kill.”
“Himself or Patrick?” Connor chuckled.
“Preferably both!”
“Well, if you want him to hate you so much, what was all that about?” Connor asked.
“What?”
“That!” he nodded back in the direction of the cell. “Oh, Pete, I’m so sorry! Let me kiss it better!” he added, with a mocking whine.
“That was your fault! I had to see how much damage you’d done. Don’t you get it? I need him unhurt. I specifically asked that you don’t hurt him, well, not yet anyway. And what’s the first thing you do? You hang him by his wrists from the ceiling! I had to make him believe I was his friend just to get near him. If he’d known straight off that I was responsible for bringing him here, he’d have wrapped that chain so tight round my neck I’d be tasting it!”
“I still think you’re doing this all wrong. You should trust me on this, it’s not my first time.”
“And I’ve planned this for years. Listen to me, Connor,” Matthew, the man passing himself off as Patrick, raised a finger. “It’s not every day you find out you’ve got a twin brother and a rich, successful one at that. I’ve spent more than eight years in that hellhole of an institution and I think it’s his turn to suffer instead of me! And if you damage my investment any more, my side of the deal’s off!”
Connor turned a pair of frantic eyes towards Matthew.
“No! No, you can’t break the deal! You said I’d get them, man!”
“And so you will, provided you do as I ask.” Matthew grinned. “I mean, it’s not like he has any real need for them now, has he? He’s only going to end up dead or in prison.”
Connor nodded enthusiastically, an eager, sadistic smile forming on his face.
“I think I have more reason to hate Wentz than you do,” Connor announced, frowning deeply. “If it weren’t for him I’d be with her now.”
“Yeah, he stopped you seeing her, didn’t he?”
Matthew smiled vaguely as he thought back to reading in the newspapers about the restraining order that Pete and Ashlee had taken out against the man who claimed to be Ashlee’s real husband and father of Bronx. He seemed the ideal candidate to help Matthew seek revenge on his long lost twin brother.
Snatched from his buggy only a couple of months after they were born, Matthew Stumph was never found. Raised by a depressed and unstable drug addict who had lost her own child, Matthew’s life was over before it even began. Equally disturbed and paranoid, forced to take and distribute drugs from an early age, Matthew found his constantly active brain unable to settle. In and out of junior detention centres and mental institutions for most of his life, he had been shocked to see his own image on television one day. Only a little digging had revealed that a cruel twist of fate had ruined his life, while his brother had the world at his feet. Well, now it was his turn and he would make Patrick and his friends suffer. It should have been his life, but, he while he knew he couldn’t make it his life, he was willing to accept second best. He would destroy Patrick’s. It was that simple.
*
Pete pushed himself upright until he was able to sit up, unaided. His shoulders remained hunched forward and his eyes welled with salt-water, reacting to what he would have liked to believe was pain, but even he knew that it was much deeper than that. He was distraught. Kidnapped by his best friend and beaten and tortured by his lackeys; Pete’s mind reeled against the shock.
Staring up as the broad man with tattoos entered. Kneeling, he tried to take hold of Pete’s hand.
“What’s that?” Pete cried as he saw a cloth being soaked in the liquid held in a small bottle.
“It’s just antiseptic, for your wrists.”
“Oh,” Pete replied, initially relieved, but he would soon realise that for the second time, he was about to be drugged.
The hand reached up and clamped firmly over Pete’s nose and mouth, pushing his head back against the wall. Struggling was useless against the larger man’s strength, and finally, when released, Pete slumped quickly onto his side.
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