B1D

B1D: Issue 1

11/15/14

The underground scene. I admire it, much like I admire a fine album, or a nice story. This could be a nice story too, but it's about me, so I doubt that'll be the case. With all the lack of events in my life, it might as well be some second rate novel written by an "aspiring author" on an app designed for the purpose of letting literally everyone share their shit. So, yeah, it's not gonna be all that beautiful. But, it will be abundant in consistent disappointments, and with all the ones I've had, it should be up to par. Anyways, narrating in first person is one of the least exciting things for myself, so I'm going third person. If you've got a problem with that, then fuck off. This story's not for you.

In his bedroom, the amplified vibrations of his bass almost seemed to wrap the walls. The confines of his domain were much like the confines of his self, in a sense. An album nestled atop a shelf filled with CDs, but no turntable to enjoy it on. Books left unopened piling his desk, but no interest to guide hands to their covers. Amidst all this disinterest lied a solitary object in use: a lounge chair. It was there that young Anthony sat, his Ibanez bass in his arms. His playing could use improvement, but he had the skill for his desires. All he really needed was really nothing much at all. Just a guitarist, drummer, and possibly a vocalist, depending on his skill (or lack thereof) to sing and pluck at the same time. His only other option would be learning to play the other instruments involved, or put forth the time and effort to change the game. But he'd never go for that.
So, here he lied, his bass being plucked as any bassists would, and his mind focused on finding "the right sound". His session of sorts was unexpectedly interrupted by a shrill voice.
"Will you knock that noise the fuck off!"
Timothy hurriedly muted the strings and shouted a response.
"Only if you can stop being such a bitch" he muttered.
Footsteps that could have been heard only seconds earlier were now silenced by the slam of Timothy's bedroom door. His mother stood looming over him, a furious fire in her eyes. "Say that again you little shit, to my face!"
Timothy sighed. His eyes rolled in their sockets. He brought a hand up to scratch at the side of his head, messing the disorderly burgundy hair on his head in the process.
"Christ, will you shut up. I say shit I don't mean, stop taking it so harshly. You aren't nearly as much of a bitch as my tone made it sound."
The force of the breath his mother took made it seem as though smoke should've been venting from her nostrils. Just as she appeared to be ready to implode, she stopped. Her eyes closed, and she took a deep breath. Then, without any warning, she casually strolled over to Timothy's bass amp and dropped it out his bedroom window. This wouldn't be such an issue if they didn't live on the fifth floor of an apartment in New Jersey. It wasn't long before a loud crash was heard, followed by the inevitable "Ay, watch it". To word it as Timothy would, shit was not working for him. He rushed over to the window to view the aftermath of the disaster.
"Mom, what the fuck?! How am I supposed to work on my bass lines without that?!"
She turned to face the bickering adolescent, crows feet glued beneath her eyes. "Learn to play acoustic, fucknuts!" she barked at the minor. On that note, she left the room, gently closing Timothy's door this time.
Timothy was distraught. He had to find a new bass, but didn't know how. So, he shrugged it off for the time being and went to bed.

The next morning, Timothy sprung into focus. He rushed out the door and hopped into his van, a rustic white machine of unmistakable appearance. Timothy shared the appearance on this particular Saturday, as he'd been in too much of a hurry to even change out of his pajamas. So, the quest for a bass amp begins, the young protagonist venturing in his llama dotted pajama top and his matching pants.

11/16/14

As was tradition, Timothy began his journey with a tune. Feeling particularly optimistic, he chose to let the radio decide on this occasion. To his luck, Pink Floyd was playing; to his disappointment, it was a track from The Wall. The album he dubbed as being one of the most overrated albums of the classic rock era. With that, he shut the radio off and retrieved a homemade cassette tape compilation from the passenger seat beside him. Flowing with Black Flag, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, and more, he called his compilation 'The Rebellious Revolutionary Requiem Of Punk Rock'. A bit lengthy, but rolling off the tongue hadn't been a concern of his. The opening track was Think Again, his favorite Minor Threat song. He buckled and set off for his amp.
As always, his first stop would be the local guitar store. He never found himself unsatisfied there. The half hour journey was worth the wait, time after time. The blur of streets and traffic lights was lost to him. He found himself in the parking lot in no time. In a hurry, Timothy swiftly sprung from his seat and out of the van. He didn't even bother with shutting the door; he had a feeling he'd be out soon enough.
"Mike, you here?" he questioned.
Michael, the clerk of preference, was a schoolmate of Timothy's. If not for that relation, he'd likely never be able to afford any of his musical equipment. From underneath the front desk, a voice called. "Yeah, I'm down here. Give me a minute."
The young guitarist giving a used Gibson a trial was struggling to play anything recognizable, and the noise that did play made Mike's answer hard to hear. Timothy sighed at the response. He rolled his fingers on the desk, impatiently awaiting assistance.
"Hey, will you fuckin' hurry?"
From behind him, he noticed that the noise being made had stopped. The young boy stared at Timothy. "Oh," he began "ignore that. I can say things like fuck, because I don't say fuck badly."
Right around this time, the young boy's mother came from behind a stack of guitar amps. "Will, are you ready to leave?"
Gleefully, the young boy looked to his mother and said "Fuck yes!"
Timothy turned to face the window behind the desk, as to avoid blame. The mother looked to Will, then to Timothy. She asked him where he'd heard that word, to which he pointed at Timothy, and said "Him. He said that it's okay to say fuck if you don't use it bad."
The glare that Timothy was all too familiar with singed the hairs covering the back of his head. Just then, Michael emerged from beneath the desk, an Ibanez guitar in hand. "Here you go Will, strings fixed and all." He looked around and took note of the tension in the air. "Um...Ma'am, would you like your son's guitar in a carrying bag? It'd only cost an additional $15."
She shook her head in shame. "I want nothing to do with an establishment that tolerates profanity!" She stormed out, young Will's hand clenched in hers.
Michael looked to Timothy. "What'd you do, shit-for-brains?"
Timothy shrugged. "It's not my fault the kid took my words to heart. I can't keep him from saying what he pleases." Michael set the guitar aside and grabbed a clipboard from atop the desk. "You can't keep costing me business every other time you show up here. What is it that brings you here today anyways?"
Timothy snatched a seat for himself, then spun the whole tale for Michael. Afterwards, Mike went over to the amps and returned with one for bass.
"Here you go. Normally, I'd give you 15% off! but since you've been costing a lot of business, I'm adding 10%. That'll be $480." Timothy fell back at the sound of the price. He whacked his head on the edge of the bass, leaving a sore bruise.
Before responding, he bolted back up. "Whaddya mean $480?! I only got $200 on me!"
Michael shrugged. "Well, tough shit. Best $200'll get you is an acoustic bass."
Timothy was too furious to argue. He stormed out of the shop and went to his van...which was missing. He's van-less, amp-less, and still in his llama pajamas.

Check back throughout the week to see what happens next!