Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > What Captain Somersault - ... What Pete's trunk... -

Part One

by FrostedGlass 9 reviews

Cora, Jackie's older sister, accompanies her sibling to an FOB concert. Drastic measures are required to regain the essence of her childhood.

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Humor, Parody - Published: 2007-04-23 - Updated: 2007-04-23 - 1465 words

A/N: Comments with suggestions concerning further plot development would be appreciated and could possibly lead to part number two, or if my calculator fails me, part number three. Thanks! :)

P a r t O n e o f . . . p r e s u m a b l y m o r e t h a n o n e

"Peter! Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeter!"

Pete flicked some hair out of his eye and checked his face in the mirror of the vanity.

And his butt. And his face again.

"Butt - face - butt - face - butt - face..." he chanted in time as he moved to admire the respective ends of his body.

"I'm seriously impressed you don't get them mixed up."

The bassist turned to the right side where he saw his bandmate Joe standing in the open doorway. Too engrossed in his little mirror game he hadn't noticed him enter the modest (a.k.a. "just containing one lousy mirror, DUDE!") dressing room.

"Yeah, well... You gotta stay focused, man," Pete pointed at his eyes with his index and middle fingers and then slapped his butt with the other hand.

Joe's fro shuddered slightly at this sight, "Whatever. Didn't you hear me? I've been calling you for the last two minutes!"

"Hm," Pete, who had taken to alternatively catch the reflection of the back of his head - with the help of a little pocket mirror (yes, it was true: He was THE Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third but even his powers were limited; mainly to tricking females into thinking his moronic chuckle was, in fact, to-die-for and to being capable of going from Sexy Flirty Pete to Sad Thoughtful Pete at photo shoots in 2.47 seconds flat) - and his crotch in the mirror in the meantime, shrugged, "I thought that were the fans yelling for an encore of The Pete."

Joe rolled his eyes and turned around on his heels, "Get your stuff and let's get outta here. We're already late..."

Pete grabbed the small colorful bag off his vanity and followed Joe. He spied two buff guys standing at the corner of the aisle and in passing them he said, "Yo, you guys. The big red trunk in there," he pointed in the direction of the room he had just left, "needs to go into the black van outside."

The two members of the local crew nodded at the bassist's orders and headed for the dressing room. As soon as Pete and Joe were around the corner Sam (35, at the gym 5-6 days a week, with a hermophrodite anime figure tattoo covering his chest and stomach) grunted, "Spoilt sissy babies in bands."

Bud (29, working out with Cindy Crawford & Carmen Electra on the TV screen in the comfort of his own four - pastel green colored - walls, proud owner of various Dr. Seuss anthologies) placed a reassuring hand on his mate's shoulder, "You're twice the man he his, bro. Let's just get the job done."

"And grab some of the lilac-scented mini-soaps?"

Bud, yet again surprised everytime their great minds thought alike, winked at Sam, "As always, Sammy. As always."

Each of them lifted the enormous trunk at one handle and huffed a little.

"Geez, this is heavy," Bud breathed through his gritted teeth.

"Yeah," Sam nodded slightly and sucked in air as the men raised the bulky piece of luggage higher. "It wasn't this heavy when we carried it in here at noon."

"Dude's probably smuggling some groupies with him in there," Bud banged against the trunk, cackling.

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Earlier that evening...

"Patrick, Patrick!" 15-year-old Jackie was screaming her lungs out.

She was squeezed between various other females around her age. There were girls with smudged eye-liner and long bangs of different colors in their faces, girls jumping up and down as if mesmerized by the loud music thumping through the huge venue hall. A sea of hair being shaken all over the place, an earthquake caused by hundreds of artifically torn and beat-up Converse shoes, bought the day before and scribbled on with fat text markers, reflecting the wisdom of the teenage generation: "too drunk to f*" (alternatively: "too sober/ straight to f*"), "skool sux, moosic rox" and "cookies = cool!".

The art of expressing one's unique individuality by wearing the same clothes, copying each other's hair and make-up styles and believing in the same fundamental teenage bullshit was beautifully displayed in a textbook-like manner at the concert of Jackie's favorite band of all times - this week it was Fall Out Boy since the four guys were playing a show in her city and had, upon closer examination of a photo in the recent issue of her trustworthy RockChick Mag, all proved to be "super dateable".

"It's bad enough having this trio of guitar-playing hyperactive spinning tops and their drummer head-banging the interior of his skull into brain-pulp nirvana plus their crowd of teenybopper zombies destroying my Saturday evening and eardrums. You don't have to turn into a banshee, too, Jackie!" Cora, aged 26 but with the insight into today's popular music scene of America and the understanding for the need to yell obscene suggestions and love vows at a bunch of noisy boys in clothing that was two sizes too small, two shades too bright and most likely two digits too expensive (and, in the case of the lead singer, too hatty considering that the roof of the concert hall did a pretty swell job of keeping out the evening sun and possible downpour) of a 62-year-old deaf nun living in a cave on a ridiculously small and secret island (without an internet coffeehouse or Alternative Press magazine!) in the undiscovered DoJian Ocean exclusively brought into existance to serve in a questionable comparison and prolong an already improcessably long sentence, nagged at her younger sister's side.

"PaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaatriiiiiii---EEEHHHHHHHHH-ck!" Jackie squealed again, waving her hands in the direction of the stage and jumping up and down.

There was no way she could have heard Cora. Despite the fact that the band had just finished a song and Joe was exchanging his current guitar for another one brought to the side of the stage by a roadie, it was too loud. It was only natural that the kids around them used this break to proclaim their honest and true love for Pete, Patrick and Joe. (One girl had dared to yell, "I love you, Andy!" but had corrected herself the second it had earned her suspicious stares from the females around her: "I meant - I love you, Petey!")

Frustrated, Cora shook her head and pressed the yellow plugs deeper into her ears. Why she had ever agreed to accompany Jackie to some boyband-disguised-as-... On second thoughts, Cora corrected herself, they weren't even disguised. Well, safe for the dragqueen bassist and the guitarist who seemed to be wearing a wildly furry small mammal on his head.

The next thing she saw was Jackie pulling out Captain Somersault, the stuffed kangaroo. Cora's stuffed kangaroo.

"Nooooooooooo!" she screamed as she watched her little sister stricking out her right hand, clutching the captain tightly.

It was as if the world around her had slowed down: The kanagroo flew above the heads of the dozens of hysterical females in front of them in slow-motion, turning one somersault after the other in the air.

"C...a...p...t...a...i...n...S...o...m...e...r...s...a...u...l...t....!" Cora's words were dragged out in time with the dramatically - yes, almost (?) annoyingly -
slooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow moving stuffed animal.

In a matter of seconds all the happy memories of her childhood with the captain flashed in front of her mental eye: How the two of them sold home-made limonade in summer in front of their house. How the two of them drew stickfigures onto the ground with colored chalk in front of their house. How the two of them ate worms after the rain in front of their house. How the two of them threw up afterwards. In front of their house... It was then that it hit Cora that she hadn't really gotten around a lot as a kid. If the worm-incident had anything to do with the fact that the other kids never invited her?

The woman had no time to ponder upon this subject as the kangaroo just reached the stage and hit the dark-haired frog-mouthed man who was spinning his bass around his torso in the Wentzitals.

Jackie first threw her hands in her face to cover her O-shaped lips and then giggled hysterically. Kinda like a hysterical fan girl, to give a meaningful and fitting comparison without imaginary places.

From her position in the tenth row from the stage Cora watched the dumbly laughing stuffed animal-target pick up her captain and she had one thought and one thought only:

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