FicWad

"Are you Mazy Bacard", I ask the young girl. She's clad in a pair of denim bell bottoms and a green, low cut halter top with small white dots. Her pixie cut is curly and dark, but her baby blonde roots are coming in and mix well with the brown and blonde highlights. This is called character description.

"Uh huh. You Gerard Way?" She doesn't even break eye contact to answer me, just keeps staring at this middle aged woman and her baby.

"If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing?"

"You see that lady? I'm using the force to make her look at me." Coincidentally, this is one of The Ellie's favorite things to do. These little details are piling up by the minute- I might as well start counting all the hidden facts about the author... "You know how you can tell when people look at you? Well, the same principle applies here, only I've made it more of a game to gauge their reactions as they realize they're being watched. Pistachio?"

Fact meter: 13

I look at her like she's bat shit crazy before remembering that I write about an undead violinist whose father is an alien, and how her sister and oldest bother are in love with each other. Really, I have no room to talk. I pick up a small nut and shell it as she continues to stare at the woman, who's taking her time flipping through magazines. Finally, the lady glances over at Mazy and catches her gaze before picking up her toddler and abruptly leaving the store. Mazy giggles at this, her tone high-pitched and akin to a serial killer.
“Try it, man. Just pick anyone, and let your spirit gates bore into their soul!” She looks up at me with big, bluish green, almond shaped eyes. In all honestly, they are pretty, but I understand how they can be creepy. They’re like the eyes on Overly Attached Girlfriend.

"I’m good. Do you have all your bags? If you need anything, now's the time to grab it", I point out. She shakes her head, tossing her tight curls everywhere, and then picks up her khaki messenger bag and a pink and green suitcase with an ugly, black oil stain on the front.

Fact meter: 17

I end up grabbing the suitcase from her on the long walk to the car because hey, she is my guest, after all. It’s also because my car is parked in lower level D, out in a different terminal; this is my bad, but I had already paid ten dollars for parking and dammit, times are hard for everyone! The ink on the schedule smudged where the terminal was listed, and that’s because my printer is so ghetto. It's one of those shitty, overpriced, perpetually jammed machines that never want to recognize that the ink cartridges are full; getting it to do something just this once, was a miracle.

If you're wondering why this teenage girl is staying in my house for two weeks, there was this contest for four free tickets to a St. Louis area concert. As it turns out, the venue forgot to save the tickets and since we sold out, there was no way to just give Mazy and her friends seats. Now the obvious question, why didn't we just get them backstage? The venue was in charge of the transaction, and we only found out about it after the show. Eventually, word spread while we were packing up, so my band's manager got the kid's contact information and asked her what we could do to make it up.

Since it was actually the last show on our tour, we had to resort to more gimmick-y measures. This, it would seem, is how I got stuck with this weird sixteen-year-old girl with the pistachios, for two weeks.

We're in D garage now, at the trunk my pearl white Cadillac DTS. What happened to the Trans Am? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED MY TRANS AM- it was conspicuous as fuck! I traded it in for this gorgeous, secondhand V8 due to fangirls that would spend days driving a round, finding my car and getting pictures with it. Best deal ever, man. Once the little pink and green suitcase is in the undeniably spacious trunk of this wonderful car, we set off to get stuck in Los Angles traffic for like, two hours. Not even ten minutes into the trip, Mazy pulls out a black iPod- one of those old ones that work forever and don't shatter into a million pieces, and a pink audio cable.

Fact meter: 34

"I figured we could rock out together", a big, lipglossed grin hints, right before their owner turns on some anarchist blues-rock song. These guys are actually pretty good- I wonder why I haven’t heard of them. The guitar is nice and heavy, and lyrics are quite fabulous…"TWENTY-ONE GUNS, A BOX MADE OF PINE! LETTER FROM THE GOVERNMENT SEALED AND SIGNED", comes bellowing from her mouth. So, she’s an alto? I wouldn’t have guessed that one, but she sounds okay. In fact, she’s good. Very good. The song switches to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, and she is spot on. Since traffic isn’t moving, I just watch her. The way her bottom lip quivers when she holds a note, how her head tilts up as she pushes herself forward. It’s all very beautiful to me, natural. Suddenly our eyes me and she goes silent.

“... I didn’t know you were paying attention”. Blush finds its way onto Mazy’s cheeks as Freddie Mercury’s voice changes to Ellie Goulding’s. I feel really bad now…

Oh, no. No, no, no. I'M NOT FALLING FOR THIS TRAP. THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE ME SING WITHOUT A CONTRACT. NO- YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!

~Too late, bitch.~

Just like the author of this half-assed story planned, my voice comes trumpeting out of my mouth in a cluster of sounds, radiating the airwaves around us both in a new, calm way.

So it begins...

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I'm a big fan of Does It Offend You, Yeah?, which admittedly, is where this story gets its name. Just to be completely appropriate, everything in this fic will be named after one of their songs/albums. If you don't already listen to them, I urge you to! They rock.
I would also like to credit the incredible song, Clutch's The Mob Goes Wild, along with Queen and Ellie Goulding's Lights.