Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > My Own Sins
“Look, I don’t know what…”
“Patrick, I need your help, I told you!” Dr. Benzedrine pleaded, somehow maintaining a stern expression. “Don’t you want to help me? Do you really want Mr. Sandman to win and a permanent sleep state take over?”
“Well… no… but…”
“There is no but!” Benzedrine insisted. “You must help me defeat him, it’s the only way.”
“Look,” Patrick began firmly, “I don’t even know if you’re real!”
Benzedrine cocked his head on one side and raised an eyebrow; his painted red lips seemed to get even smaller still as he pouted at what he viewed as an insult.
“Would you like me to prove how real I am?” he snapped haughtily.
At first taken aback, Patrick was just about to agree to whatever demonstration Benzedrine had in mind, but at the last moment he hesitated.
“Is this going to hurt?” he asked tentatively.
“Not in the slightest!” Benzedrine announced confidentially.
“Okay then,” Patrick agreed, somewhat hesitantly.
Hastily clenching his fist, Dr. Benzedrine swung a right hook across Patrick’s jaw, watching as he spun to his right and collapsed on the floor, dazed and confused.
Patrick moaned with pain as he pushed himself to his knees.
“You told me that wouldn’t hurt!” Patrick complained bitterly as pushed himself to his knees.
“It didn’t!” Benzedrine protested. “Well, it didn’t hurt me anyway!”
“Huh!” Patrick cradled his painful jaw in his left hand. “Not what I meant and you know it!”
“Possibly, but would you have let me do it if you’d known?”
“Oddly enough – no!”
“And you’d still be wondering, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m sure there are other ways!” Patrick grumbled.
“Nothing quite so effective,” Benzedrine admitted with a shrug.
“Well, why can’t anyone see you?” Patrick asked, possibly even more confused than ever.
Benzedrine sighed, he had a confession to make and Patrick wasn’t going to like it. But he had to get past the ‘are you real’ stage.
“They can see me, when I choose to be seen. And when I don’t, they forget me. I am the reason you wake. I will wake you from sleep. At the very moment that happens, you will see me and know me and then you forget and you don’t know why you woke, all you know is that you did.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows as he took it all in; in a strange way, it seemed so very plausible.
“So… how can I help?” he asked finally.
“You won’t regret this! I promise you!” Benzedrine nodded, at once his tone suggested relief, excitement and indifference.
“Hey! Wait up!” Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t say I’d do it, I just asked what you need me for.”
Benzedrine gave a harsh glare that cut through Patrick like a knife, chilling him as he looked back, uncomfortable, but unwilling to look away.
“You will, trust me, you will.”
Patrick wasn’t sure if Benzedrine was confident about his sales pitch that would make it obvious why he should help, or if… if he was actually being threatened.
“Let me explain,” Benzedrine added gently.
Somehow, it did nothing to settle Patrick’s mind. Something had triggered warning bells in his mind and he was not about to ignore them. Benzedrine was certainly an odd, strangely painted, unsmiling version of himself; but was he just serious or dangerous?
*
“Hey!” Pete called. “Slow down, can’t you? How can you walk so fast anyway?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Donnie frowned to see Pete over ten feet behind him and losing more distance with every stride.
“I know what’s good for me!” Donnie snapped as he waited for Pete to catch up. Only a few feet apart, Donnie turned to walk briskly away again leaving Pete to make up the extra few feet, but once again he was easily putting distance between them. A sudden clang of metal slamming onto stone, followed by a slight shudder beneath his feet caused Donnie to turn.
“What the…” Pete cried in surprise as a barred gate dropped from the tunnel ceiling separating the two sections roughly in half. Rushing forward, Pete pushed and pulled on the bars without success.
“I told you to keep up!” Donnie hissed in frustration.
“What is this? What’s going on?” Pete asked urgently, hoping Donnie would not only know, but also have a plan of action.
“You have to get out!” Donnie yelled pointing down the tunnel in the direction they had walked in. “Get out before they arrive.”
“Who?” Pete asked his eyes widening. “Before who gets here?”
Donnie took a deep breath as his gaze focussed beyond where Pete now stood.
“It’s too late, they’re here.”
Pete turned slowly. Less than twenty feet away, dark shapes loomed in the shadows, with more seeming to emerge from the walls. Stepping closer, they were within ten feet before Pete even recognised them as human.
“Who are they?” Pete turned back to Donnie, only to find he had backed away from the bars, his expression one of nervous attention. “Donnie!” Pete yelled. “Who are they? What do I do?”
“The photographers,” Donnie replied darkly.
Turning again, Pete saw them now within five feet. Some of them were middle-aged, mostly in suits or shirts and vests, all wore hats and carried large old-fashioned cameras with wide flash attachments. Suddenly unafraid of these very ordinary looking people, Pete wondered why Donnie was so concerned. Okay, they had him cornered against a barred gate and there were five of them, but Pete was more than capable of handling himself in a fight. Watching them carefully, and ready to simply plough through them, Pete eyed what he hoped would be a good escape route.
“So now,” one of them asked menacingly, “what do we have here? This is quite a story! Mr Sandman trespassing in The Hills.”
“You don’t have your dreams and parlour tricks to help you here,” said another.
Pete frowned; they were, without doubt, the creepiest Paparazzi he had ever seen. Clearly, despite his clothes and lack of outlandish make-up, they thought he was Mr. Sandman. Perhaps not so unreasonable, he thought, given their facial similarities. One of the photographers raised his camera, offering a sinister grin as he did.
“I’m not…”
It was all Pete managed to say before Donnie yelled from the other side of the bars.
“Don’t look at the camera!”
It was too late. Still watching the only photographer that seemed to be moving, Pete was blinded by a sudden dazzling flash and was instantly overwhelmed by a heavy, dragging sensation. The tunnel whirled around him as the light from the flash burned as an after image in his eyes. Then he was falling, out cold before he even landed.
Donnie looked on, wide-eyed as Pete disappeared from the tunnel. The photographer lowered the camera and pulled the square of thick shiny white paper from a thin slot at the base. Grinning as the photograph developed, the man looked up and waved the square of paper at Donnie, revealing a picture of Pete lying unconscious on the floor.
“Sorry, Donnie, we’ve got him now. The Guv’nor will pay well for Mr Sandman.”
Donnie watched silently as the photographers left the tunnel, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Unsure whether it would be more dangerous for Pete to tell them he wasn’t Mr Sandman, Donnie said nothing. This was… a problem.
“Patrick, I need your help, I told you!” Dr. Benzedrine pleaded, somehow maintaining a stern expression. “Don’t you want to help me? Do you really want Mr. Sandman to win and a permanent sleep state take over?”
“Well… no… but…”
“There is no but!” Benzedrine insisted. “You must help me defeat him, it’s the only way.”
“Look,” Patrick began firmly, “I don’t even know if you’re real!”
Benzedrine cocked his head on one side and raised an eyebrow; his painted red lips seemed to get even smaller still as he pouted at what he viewed as an insult.
“Would you like me to prove how real I am?” he snapped haughtily.
At first taken aback, Patrick was just about to agree to whatever demonstration Benzedrine had in mind, but at the last moment he hesitated.
“Is this going to hurt?” he asked tentatively.
“Not in the slightest!” Benzedrine announced confidentially.
“Okay then,” Patrick agreed, somewhat hesitantly.
Hastily clenching his fist, Dr. Benzedrine swung a right hook across Patrick’s jaw, watching as he spun to his right and collapsed on the floor, dazed and confused.
Patrick moaned with pain as he pushed himself to his knees.
“You told me that wouldn’t hurt!” Patrick complained bitterly as pushed himself to his knees.
“It didn’t!” Benzedrine protested. “Well, it didn’t hurt me anyway!”
“Huh!” Patrick cradled his painful jaw in his left hand. “Not what I meant and you know it!”
“Possibly, but would you have let me do it if you’d known?”
“Oddly enough – no!”
“And you’d still be wondering, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m sure there are other ways!” Patrick grumbled.
“Nothing quite so effective,” Benzedrine admitted with a shrug.
“Well, why can’t anyone see you?” Patrick asked, possibly even more confused than ever.
Benzedrine sighed, he had a confession to make and Patrick wasn’t going to like it. But he had to get past the ‘are you real’ stage.
“They can see me, when I choose to be seen. And when I don’t, they forget me. I am the reason you wake. I will wake you from sleep. At the very moment that happens, you will see me and know me and then you forget and you don’t know why you woke, all you know is that you did.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows as he took it all in; in a strange way, it seemed so very plausible.
“So… how can I help?” he asked finally.
“You won’t regret this! I promise you!” Benzedrine nodded, at once his tone suggested relief, excitement and indifference.
“Hey! Wait up!” Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t say I’d do it, I just asked what you need me for.”
Benzedrine gave a harsh glare that cut through Patrick like a knife, chilling him as he looked back, uncomfortable, but unwilling to look away.
“You will, trust me, you will.”
Patrick wasn’t sure if Benzedrine was confident about his sales pitch that would make it obvious why he should help, or if… if he was actually being threatened.
“Let me explain,” Benzedrine added gently.
Somehow, it did nothing to settle Patrick’s mind. Something had triggered warning bells in his mind and he was not about to ignore them. Benzedrine was certainly an odd, strangely painted, unsmiling version of himself; but was he just serious or dangerous?
*
“Hey!” Pete called. “Slow down, can’t you? How can you walk so fast anyway?”
Glancing over his shoulder, Donnie frowned to see Pete over ten feet behind him and losing more distance with every stride.
“I know what’s good for me!” Donnie snapped as he waited for Pete to catch up. Only a few feet apart, Donnie turned to walk briskly away again leaving Pete to make up the extra few feet, but once again he was easily putting distance between them. A sudden clang of metal slamming onto stone, followed by a slight shudder beneath his feet caused Donnie to turn.
“What the…” Pete cried in surprise as a barred gate dropped from the tunnel ceiling separating the two sections roughly in half. Rushing forward, Pete pushed and pulled on the bars without success.
“I told you to keep up!” Donnie hissed in frustration.
“What is this? What’s going on?” Pete asked urgently, hoping Donnie would not only know, but also have a plan of action.
“You have to get out!” Donnie yelled pointing down the tunnel in the direction they had walked in. “Get out before they arrive.”
“Who?” Pete asked his eyes widening. “Before who gets here?”
Donnie took a deep breath as his gaze focussed beyond where Pete now stood.
“It’s too late, they’re here.”
Pete turned slowly. Less than twenty feet away, dark shapes loomed in the shadows, with more seeming to emerge from the walls. Stepping closer, they were within ten feet before Pete even recognised them as human.
“Who are they?” Pete turned back to Donnie, only to find he had backed away from the bars, his expression one of nervous attention. “Donnie!” Pete yelled. “Who are they? What do I do?”
“The photographers,” Donnie replied darkly.
Turning again, Pete saw them now within five feet. Some of them were middle-aged, mostly in suits or shirts and vests, all wore hats and carried large old-fashioned cameras with wide flash attachments. Suddenly unafraid of these very ordinary looking people, Pete wondered why Donnie was so concerned. Okay, they had him cornered against a barred gate and there were five of them, but Pete was more than capable of handling himself in a fight. Watching them carefully, and ready to simply plough through them, Pete eyed what he hoped would be a good escape route.
“So now,” one of them asked menacingly, “what do we have here? This is quite a story! Mr Sandman trespassing in The Hills.”
“You don’t have your dreams and parlour tricks to help you here,” said another.
Pete frowned; they were, without doubt, the creepiest Paparazzi he had ever seen. Clearly, despite his clothes and lack of outlandish make-up, they thought he was Mr. Sandman. Perhaps not so unreasonable, he thought, given their facial similarities. One of the photographers raised his camera, offering a sinister grin as he did.
“I’m not…”
It was all Pete managed to say before Donnie yelled from the other side of the bars.
“Don’t look at the camera!”
It was too late. Still watching the only photographer that seemed to be moving, Pete was blinded by a sudden dazzling flash and was instantly overwhelmed by a heavy, dragging sensation. The tunnel whirled around him as the light from the flash burned as an after image in his eyes. Then he was falling, out cold before he even landed.
Donnie looked on, wide-eyed as Pete disappeared from the tunnel. The photographer lowered the camera and pulled the square of thick shiny white paper from a thin slot at the base. Grinning as the photograph developed, the man looked up and waved the square of paper at Donnie, revealing a picture of Pete lying unconscious on the floor.
“Sorry, Donnie, we’ve got him now. The Guv’nor will pay well for Mr Sandman.”
Donnie watched silently as the photographers left the tunnel, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Unsure whether it would be more dangerous for Pete to tell them he wasn’t Mr Sandman, Donnie said nothing. This was… a problem.
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