AFTERMATHS : THE SUBSEQUENT LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS

3.

3.
It seems to be a hard fall, but all pain seems to center only around Gerard's fragile and miniscule heart as he catches sight of the tee the well-built pedestrian is wearing, the etchings of which are deliberately raised in devil-may-care, capitalized letters: "THANK YOU FOR THE VENOM." Gerard recognized this tee the moment he laid eyes on it, for he and Frank specifically participated in the creation of it, in addition to the "HOMOPHOBIA IS GAY" tee. So many memories start to overwhelm him in such a short space of time, and the fan's excitement and surprise only added to the confusion, catching Gerard on the hop.

The fan finally breaks the pregnant pause with a gulp and a howl, an animalistic, sadistic and frankly murderous howl that leaves Gerard's heart pumping and beating like a bull in heat. "What have i gotten myself into this time?" - Gerard thought, almost with exasperation - "I just want to go home and fucking lie down for a while. Can't you just fucking grant me my one wish God?!" He wants to scream the thoughts out loud, verbalize the pent-up emotions, but he is left dumbstruck, with the overenthused fan still howling at the top of his voice. Gerard swears, he feels as if he were the subject of a sacrifice that is about to take place.

The fan finally seems to realize that he has knocked his idol over, redeems himself, inhaling and exhaling with difficulty, and outstretches his hand to Gerard, which he shyly accepts.
"I'm so so sorry, bro. Didn't see you er. Lemme help you up, c'mon." - He speaks between gulps of air and pulls Gerard up with no difficulty at all. Gerard feels as if the fan had just picked up a feather.
"Oh my fucking God, I can't believe it's you! We haven't heard from you, like, since the disbandment. Where have you been? We are worried sick! I thought, we thought, that you were dead or somethin! Holy fuck! I'm Tyler by the way. Love your music, fucking love it." - Tyler manages to pull Gerard up, but continues his fangirling rant as soon as Gerard finds his footing. Everyone that is passing by starts to look, their gazes cutting into Gerard like pins and needles that were soaked in poisonous acid, and Gerard can feel his body breaking out in cold sweat and his breathing rapid. He feels scrutinized. He feels judged.

"I'm sorry, man. I-I didn't see you there, yeah, so sorry, and t-thank you, but i must go now." - Gerard awkwardly replies, trying his best to suppress his anxiety, and proceeds to leave politically, but Tyler isn't that easy. He has other plans in mind.

"No, bro. I have been looking for you for a long, long time - WE have been looking for you. And now I've found you and I'm not leaving, until you get back with My Chemical Romance. And continue what you do best. What do you say? I'm asking nicely, and that's not rare." - Tyler has placed so much emphasis on the last sentence of his stern demand that Gerard, in the throes of a complete and utter meltdown, could even see the spit emitted from his dry, parched lips. Tyler is a high-pressure fan, an "elitist" of the emo subculture, the mosh initiator at concerts, the fan who always picks a fight with the guards, a headbanging, emocentric jerkwad that brutally shitstorms on anything that goes wrong with his bands. Gerard knows that stereotype of a person all too well. Those were the ones that always caused a riot at MCR's concerts, back in the days.

Gerard falls silent for what seems like nearly a minute straight, probably plotting escape hatches in his mind that he immediately crosses out after it has been conceived of, as there is no earthly way that he can punch Tyler out and give him the slip. He would have punched Tyler, by all accounts, if it had been 4 years ago. 4 years ago he would have done anything, and he would have feared nothing. But not now. Not in his panic-stricken and grief-stricken days of post-disbandment and post-manic depression. Nope nopedy no.

Tyler starts to get more and more impatient as Gerard seems to be unresponsive, and as he raises his voice to ask one more time, Gerard speaks, with utmost reservation:
"Um.. Tyler, is it? Listen, My Chemical Romance, we-we had a great ride, and you guys had been amazing fans. I truly mean that. But, we as a band just don't work out anymore. We have gone separate ways, and it's... impossible for us to ever reuni--"
"Wait, wait a fucking second." - Tyler raises his voice to interrupt, and Gerard's body is literally oozing sweat like a hard-flow waterfall. Please, don't let an elitist jump down my throat today, he prays, feeling all hope melting away in the most indiscreet of manners at the sight of Tyler's bulging biceps. "So you're telling me, that you emos ain't never getting back together? Is that what ya sayin? Answer me."
"Yes. That's what I'm saying, Tyler. We are incompatible and we---"
"NO I CAN'T ACCEPT THIS." - Tyler rose his voice, probably only to upstage Gerard's almost whispering tones, and Gerard swallow his spit all too obviously. He is showing his sensitivity to Tyler, and Tyler can sense that. - "This is bullshit! I have been listening to your music for a very long time, and you just gon leave? Can't you see you're killing us? We've been rooting for you!"
"Listen, Tyler, I suggest you lower your voice, everyone's looki--"
"NO FUCK YOU MAN." - Tyler whines in rage one last time before clenching his fist in a milisecond and without warning, he swiftly delivers a clean blow to Gerard's face. Blood started to ooze the second the fist hits the facial features, leaving Gerard's nose in tatters, and the man falls without grace onto the pavement. Every fragile, brittle bone the fist has hit seems to have all been broken, and for a few seconds silence fills the air, as Gerard is left in shock and bloodied on the pavement, with a broken nose and trails of hemmorhagic saliva eminent on the gravel.

Gerard is momentarily numb to the world, using his tongue to probe around his cavital regions, checking to see if everything's still intact, and finds a teetering tooth that stings at the touch. His nose was definitely broken, and he can taste warm, bitter blood dripping down his throat from the impact.

Gerard is in no mood for looking around and wailing for help, he is lost in a world of his own, a world that exists for only a span of ten seconds to Tyler, but an hour, possibly a few hours, for Gerard, as the sight of blood on his nose, the bitter taste in his mouth, cast his mind back to a dim and distant tour of The Black Parade, when a hypersensitive fan punched him out backstage of the show.
(((Your music sucks dicks)))
((You satanic, uncultured jerkwad))
(((Go to hell prick)))
The insults start to come back like an unpleasant barrage of venom as acidic as Tyler's own insults being thrown at him right now, but he zones them out, and all he could hear is the crowd cheers and boos being intercut into place, the insults, the aseptic, strangely addictive aftertaste of lukewarming, dense lifeblood. He feels a headache drilling through his brain and he wishes, almost earnestly, that he be dead right away.

Just as he has given up all hopes in a matter of seconds, a sucker punch comes from nowhere and seems to have knocked Tyler off his feet and leaves him sprawling onto the same height with Gerard, and Gerard opens his eyes to see blood seeping onto the floor and is obliterated almost simultaneously. His hero faces his back to him, and as he struggles to get up and behold the facial features of his savior, the unknown man grabs him by the hand and yanks him up, almost unceremoniously, and screams almost ear-rippingly at him:
"GERARD ARE YOU OKAY? I'M SO SO SORRY. LET'S MOVE BEFORE HE GETS UP."
The voice sounds so familiar, and Gerard doesn't have to come to his whole senses or to keep his eyes peeled to the full to comprehend, to identify whom the voice belongs to. It is the stage fellow that has followed him to every tour, accompany him everytime the band meets up at the recording studio, the best man at his wedding, the venerable godfather to Bandit. A talented, slightly sensitive, adorably handsome and boyish, a travesty of rock n' roll, and the body of whom a flesh-covered suitcase with stickers all over it.

Needless to say, Frank Iero saves the day. Once again.