Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Troubled Times and Doubled Rhymes
[I am terribly sorry about the uber-long wait. :/ This is it, the downfall of Brendon's sobriety. Now, the one, the only... SIN CITY!]
Darkness, thick and overbearing, cast the surrounding suburban homes in a sea of velveteen black. Determined where they stood, streetlamps glared down with what little light they provided. A single car, its navy blue surface flecked with the last hour’s raindrops, stood at the curb, its driver standing by its side.
“Thanks for everything,” Ren called, now at the door owned by one of the many houses in which seemed to come from one single mold.
“It’s nothing, Ren,” I replied, running a hand through my hair, “This is where you live, huh?”
“Yeah. Looks like every other, doesn’t it?”
“Pretty much. Anyway, I have a plane to catch, figuratively, so I’ll catch you later,” I ventured further into the street, a vague, red car blurring by, “maybe.”
She nodded doubtfully, placing one delicate hand on knob. With a single wave, she disappeared into the hazy interior of the neat, suburban home. Turning on my heel, I returned to the driver’s seat, the first rain drops flecking my arm as I reached its door. The tone of the splatterings succumbed to greed as they amassed upon the windshield, the tires turning up a wave of filth over the esplanade as it jutted out eagerly.
---
“How can you watch this crap?” I demanded, observing Spencer, his eyes glazed by the image of some low-budget Sci-Fi flick. A blonde appeared on the screen, her teeth elongated, dripping with contaminated saliva. Her form, scantily clad in leather clothing that deceived her as less of a beast and more of a local stripper, gripped her next victim with a certain vigor beheld only by a frenzied steroid monkey.
“It’s not crap, jackass,” he retorted, adjusting his position on the stiff mattress, “it’s about the only thing on right now.”
“Whether it’s crap or not, which it is—”
“Is not—”
“—hardly matters. We have to do something while we still have a single damn minute to ourselves.”
“Remember that club across from Luv-It Custard?” asked Ryan, an uncharacteristic grin appearing across his lips, “nice boner for someone eating ice cream, Bren—”
“Shut up, George,” I hissed bitterly, flipping him off, “it’s not like that shitty place had tinted windows and, besides, it’s not like I had ever seen that before, living in a Mormon household. Monday night’s pornography night, baby!”
“I think Chicago’s strippers have a bit more integrity than Las Vegas’. It’s sad, really, Brendon,” his gaze shifted to look at me queerly, his expression mock-mournful, “I would think that even the most Catholic of kids could get quite the eye-full just walking to Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“The long-time Las Vegas citizens have an uncanny ability to keep such sights under wraps, believe it or not, Jon,” Ryan responded, “which makes it all the more strange that Brendon caught a look at a lap dance from his position in a popular ice cream shop. The boy was nearly drooling.”
“Why don’t I remember this?” Spencer queried, “sounds like it was fucking funny as hell.”
“It was my brother’s twenty-first birthday a few months ago,” I paused thoughtfully, “quite frankly, I have no idea how the hell Ryan caught word of it.”
“Your brother clued me in on it.”
“Damn him!”
“Anyway, Ryan,” Jon smirked as if he were only relaying common knowledge, “it’s obvious the boy wants to get laid. I don’t blame him; he’s nearly twenty. We might as well just go to some club since that is where he wishes to go.”
“Hey, I never said—”
“You didn’t have to, Brendon,” his smug expression became one of deviance, “I wouldn’t mind one myself anyway.”
“Thought you had a girlfriend, Jon,” Spencer raised his eyebrows, muting the television’s sexual moans. Makes you wonder if werewolves can be such sex addicts.
“I do, and I just meant that I wanted to go to a club; no lap dances for me, thank you very much.”
“We’ll see if that state of mind lasts more than a beer, Jonnycakes,” I exclaimed, rounding toward the door, its lackluster dullness criticizing the room’s pride, if it had any at all to start with. Spencer leapt from the bed, Jon skipped gaily, Ryan the only one committed to an ounce of normalcy, but however we decided to leave the room, we left it, completely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of us had come equipped with the hotel room’s card key.
---
Lights, dipping in several different patterns and fluttering about the room, turned hypnotic. Women, likely to have no self-worth left in them, sat, their pants seeming to ready to split with exhaustion as they clung to their legs. Jon ignored the prostitutes whom sat in one corner, bringing us to a designated booth on the far side of the room.
“I hope you’re not expecting my virginity to be taken tonight by some random whore,” I managed over the blaring music.
“No, I don’t—”
“You’re still a virgin, baby?” One of the cornered women had followed us, now sitting dangerously close to my side, “you really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m only going to say this once,” I paused, my voice seemed sharper than I had first expected it to be, “yes, I am a virgin and whether I should or shouldn’t be is not for the likes of you to decide.”
“Ouch, Brendon,” Spencer beamed, watching her as she returned to her previous position on some random man’s lap, “she’s pissed.”
“Hey boys,” a waitress now stood at the table, a completely fake smile forced onto her lips, “what can I get you—”
“Ren?” I asked, hearing Ryan whisper “Shit, man, she’s a stalker; or are you?” in my ear.
“Crap, Brendon,” relief tainted with disappointment shone brilliantly over her complexion, “what are you doing here?”
“Well, Jon decided that this was the perfect place for us to go. I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Extra money,” she slid into the seat beside Spencer, across from me, “I’m surprised they allowed me in, or any of you in, for that matter.”
“Musicians seem to have pull these days,” Ryan offered, completely horrified by whomever had been onstage, “not nineteen-year old girls. How, may I ask, did you manage it?”
“Seems like you have to be eighteen to work here,” she grimaced, her eyes wandering to the stage, “yeah, Ryan, the music here is shitty.”
“I don’t mean to brag,” Spencer massaged his arm, oblivious to the fact that he had been doing it for the last ten minutes, “but we are so much better than these freaks.”
“Probably half the age too,” I interjected thoughtfully. Lack of wrinkles and graying hair (age) had always been one of our advantages over other highly famous musicians, for if time came where we couldn’t make a cent, we weren’t fifty with three kids and ten divorcees: we’d probably have the ability to make ends meet.
“Undoubtedly,” Ryan bleared, “I have to go to the bathroom,” he pushed past me and disappeared into the accumulating crowd.
“So, should I wait until he gets back or can I take your orders now?” Ren inquired, for she hadn’t known about the fate of Ryan’s father.
“He doesn’t drink!” I shouted as the guitarist onstage missed a note entirely, the amplifier screeching in what seemed to be impossible pain, “I’ll just have a beer.”
“Same,” Jon raised his hand, Spencer following suit.
“So, Brendon,” Jon grinned once Ren the Waitress was out of earshot, “she’s just a friend?”
“Yes, only a friend.”
“You sure about that?” he inquired, his eyebrow raised expectantly.
“Entirely. What are you getting at with this, anyway?” I demanded, his words ringing oddly in my ears.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that when people say ‘just friends,’ it is more than likely not to stay that way.”
“Leave the boy alone. If he wants to be in denial, let him stay that way; I highly doubt his stubbornness will change with the will of your words, Jon,” Spencer, however he meant it, looked just as Jonathan Jacob Walker had: simply jubilant.
“I suppose you’re right, there, Spence. He might just come to some sort of realization some time soon.”
Moments later, she returned, three beers in hand, a smirk on her face. As if her being there was a signal I hadn’t caught, Jon and Spencer left the booth, not forgetting the beers, and joined everyone on the dance floor. Sighing I rested my head in my hands, my mind clearing away the fact that Ren had resumed sitting across from me.
“You all right?” she seemed concerned, as if I had been bleeding profusely.
“Yeah, just a freaking head ache,” I paused sipping the beer, “so, does your mom know about this job?”
“Yes and no, she knows that I have a second job, just not where.”
“Ah crap, that tactic never worked for me,” I whined, the alcohol had already seemed to be taking unintentional effects over my thinking capacity. It would be one hell of a night.
Darkness, thick and overbearing, cast the surrounding suburban homes in a sea of velveteen black. Determined where they stood, streetlamps glared down with what little light they provided. A single car, its navy blue surface flecked with the last hour’s raindrops, stood at the curb, its driver standing by its side.
“Thanks for everything,” Ren called, now at the door owned by one of the many houses in which seemed to come from one single mold.
“It’s nothing, Ren,” I replied, running a hand through my hair, “This is where you live, huh?”
“Yeah. Looks like every other, doesn’t it?”
“Pretty much. Anyway, I have a plane to catch, figuratively, so I’ll catch you later,” I ventured further into the street, a vague, red car blurring by, “maybe.”
She nodded doubtfully, placing one delicate hand on knob. With a single wave, she disappeared into the hazy interior of the neat, suburban home. Turning on my heel, I returned to the driver’s seat, the first rain drops flecking my arm as I reached its door. The tone of the splatterings succumbed to greed as they amassed upon the windshield, the tires turning up a wave of filth over the esplanade as it jutted out eagerly.
---
“How can you watch this crap?” I demanded, observing Spencer, his eyes glazed by the image of some low-budget Sci-Fi flick. A blonde appeared on the screen, her teeth elongated, dripping with contaminated saliva. Her form, scantily clad in leather clothing that deceived her as less of a beast and more of a local stripper, gripped her next victim with a certain vigor beheld only by a frenzied steroid monkey.
“It’s not crap, jackass,” he retorted, adjusting his position on the stiff mattress, “it’s about the only thing on right now.”
“Whether it’s crap or not, which it is—”
“Is not—”
“—hardly matters. We have to do something while we still have a single damn minute to ourselves.”
“Remember that club across from Luv-It Custard?” asked Ryan, an uncharacteristic grin appearing across his lips, “nice boner for someone eating ice cream, Bren—”
“Shut up, George,” I hissed bitterly, flipping him off, “it’s not like that shitty place had tinted windows and, besides, it’s not like I had ever seen that before, living in a Mormon household. Monday night’s pornography night, baby!”
“I think Chicago’s strippers have a bit more integrity than Las Vegas’. It’s sad, really, Brendon,” his gaze shifted to look at me queerly, his expression mock-mournful, “I would think that even the most Catholic of kids could get quite the eye-full just walking to Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“The long-time Las Vegas citizens have an uncanny ability to keep such sights under wraps, believe it or not, Jon,” Ryan responded, “which makes it all the more strange that Brendon caught a look at a lap dance from his position in a popular ice cream shop. The boy was nearly drooling.”
“Why don’t I remember this?” Spencer queried, “sounds like it was fucking funny as hell.”
“It was my brother’s twenty-first birthday a few months ago,” I paused thoughtfully, “quite frankly, I have no idea how the hell Ryan caught word of it.”
“Your brother clued me in on it.”
“Damn him!”
“Anyway, Ryan,” Jon smirked as if he were only relaying common knowledge, “it’s obvious the boy wants to get laid. I don’t blame him; he’s nearly twenty. We might as well just go to some club since that is where he wishes to go.”
“Hey, I never said—”
“You didn’t have to, Brendon,” his smug expression became one of deviance, “I wouldn’t mind one myself anyway.”
“Thought you had a girlfriend, Jon,” Spencer raised his eyebrows, muting the television’s sexual moans. Makes you wonder if werewolves can be such sex addicts.
“I do, and I just meant that I wanted to go to a club; no lap dances for me, thank you very much.”
“We’ll see if that state of mind lasts more than a beer, Jonnycakes,” I exclaimed, rounding toward the door, its lackluster dullness criticizing the room’s pride, if it had any at all to start with. Spencer leapt from the bed, Jon skipped gaily, Ryan the only one committed to an ounce of normalcy, but however we decided to leave the room, we left it, completely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of us had come equipped with the hotel room’s card key.
---
Lights, dipping in several different patterns and fluttering about the room, turned hypnotic. Women, likely to have no self-worth left in them, sat, their pants seeming to ready to split with exhaustion as they clung to their legs. Jon ignored the prostitutes whom sat in one corner, bringing us to a designated booth on the far side of the room.
“I hope you’re not expecting my virginity to be taken tonight by some random whore,” I managed over the blaring music.
“No, I don’t—”
“You’re still a virgin, baby?” One of the cornered women had followed us, now sitting dangerously close to my side, “you really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m only going to say this once,” I paused, my voice seemed sharper than I had first expected it to be, “yes, I am a virgin and whether I should or shouldn’t be is not for the likes of you to decide.”
“Ouch, Brendon,” Spencer beamed, watching her as she returned to her previous position on some random man’s lap, “she’s pissed.”
“Hey boys,” a waitress now stood at the table, a completely fake smile forced onto her lips, “what can I get you—”
“Ren?” I asked, hearing Ryan whisper “Shit, man, she’s a stalker; or are you?” in my ear.
“Crap, Brendon,” relief tainted with disappointment shone brilliantly over her complexion, “what are you doing here?”
“Well, Jon decided that this was the perfect place for us to go. I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Extra money,” she slid into the seat beside Spencer, across from me, “I’m surprised they allowed me in, or any of you in, for that matter.”
“Musicians seem to have pull these days,” Ryan offered, completely horrified by whomever had been onstage, “not nineteen-year old girls. How, may I ask, did you manage it?”
“Seems like you have to be eighteen to work here,” she grimaced, her eyes wandering to the stage, “yeah, Ryan, the music here is shitty.”
“I don’t mean to brag,” Spencer massaged his arm, oblivious to the fact that he had been doing it for the last ten minutes, “but we are so much better than these freaks.”
“Probably half the age too,” I interjected thoughtfully. Lack of wrinkles and graying hair (age) had always been one of our advantages over other highly famous musicians, for if time came where we couldn’t make a cent, we weren’t fifty with three kids and ten divorcees: we’d probably have the ability to make ends meet.
“Undoubtedly,” Ryan bleared, “I have to go to the bathroom,” he pushed past me and disappeared into the accumulating crowd.
“So, should I wait until he gets back or can I take your orders now?” Ren inquired, for she hadn’t known about the fate of Ryan’s father.
“He doesn’t drink!” I shouted as the guitarist onstage missed a note entirely, the amplifier screeching in what seemed to be impossible pain, “I’ll just have a beer.”
“Same,” Jon raised his hand, Spencer following suit.
“So, Brendon,” Jon grinned once Ren the Waitress was out of earshot, “she’s just a friend?”
“Yes, only a friend.”
“You sure about that?” he inquired, his eyebrow raised expectantly.
“Entirely. What are you getting at with this, anyway?” I demanded, his words ringing oddly in my ears.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that when people say ‘just friends,’ it is more than likely not to stay that way.”
“Leave the boy alone. If he wants to be in denial, let him stay that way; I highly doubt his stubbornness will change with the will of your words, Jon,” Spencer, however he meant it, looked just as Jonathan Jacob Walker had: simply jubilant.
“I suppose you’re right, there, Spence. He might just come to some sort of realization some time soon.”
Moments later, she returned, three beers in hand, a smirk on her face. As if her being there was a signal I hadn’t caught, Jon and Spencer left the booth, not forgetting the beers, and joined everyone on the dance floor. Sighing I rested my head in my hands, my mind clearing away the fact that Ren had resumed sitting across from me.
“You all right?” she seemed concerned, as if I had been bleeding profusely.
“Yeah, just a freaking head ache,” I paused sipping the beer, “so, does your mom know about this job?”
“Yes and no, she knows that I have a second job, just not where.”
“Ah crap, that tactic never worked for me,” I whined, the alcohol had already seemed to be taking unintentional effects over my thinking capacity. It would be one hell of a night.
Sign up to rate and review this story