The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys by Dylan Roseburrough “You’ll never destroy punk! It’s too fabulous!” screamed Victor Fuentes, whom we shall call Vic just because of sheer laziness on the part of our illustrious writer. “Silly boy,” purred Dr. Death (ultimate evil and stupid genius), “I shall do whatever I want to with my precious time, no matter how you interject. Project S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W will succeed and there’s nothing you can do about it.” * * * Now that we’re past our most intriguing introduction to our characters, I, Gerard Way, shall begin at the beginning of the fascinating tale describing how the Fabulous Killjoys and I saved our colleague and reached salvation in joining The Black Parade. First, I should probably tell you who the Killjoys are. They are the legendary punk icons Pete Wentz, Alan Ashby, Andy Biersack, Vic Fuentes, (who we met earlier and upon this meeting were graced with hearing his beautiful, heartfelt screaming, with which none to date have been able to compare), and I, the Fabulous Gerard Way! Anyways, now we shall begin with this tale. * * * “This place sucks,” Pete complained as he walked out of the shack that served as their lavatory. “We could at least have real plumbing! Just think, we could be living in Battery City, living it up in a condo, but nooooo! It’s part of our rebellion!” “We need to get Vic back. Pete’s going cray-cray,” Alan whispered to Andy as he fed his extremely fat and extremely orange cat. “He’ll be fine in a couple minutes after he realizes that there’s nothing he could’ve done and that it wasn’t his fault that Vic got captured,” Andy said hopefully in an attempt to defend his friend. Pete stormed off to complain about something else. “He just misses him. I mean, they were best friends.” Andy turned around to look around at the hole they called home. “Say, have you seen Party Poison anywhere?” “Who?” Alan inquired. “Gerard, you dummy!” Andy retorted as he smacked the back of Alan’s head. “You know you’re the only one who calls him that, right?” Alan asked with a sense of bewilderment. “So!?” Andy angrily yelled at his friend’s offensive comment. “Whatever,” Andy sighed, then sulked off. * * * “Why can’t everything go back to the way it used to be?” Pete thought to himself as he sat on their makeshift couch and depleted their Red Bull stash. He looked over as I walked into the room. “How’s it goin’?” Pete asked. “Not bad, you?” I casually responded. “Sucky,” Pete numbly replied. “Drinking that Red Bull crap won’t fix anything, you know,” Gerard said after a couple minutes of silence. “You think I don’t know that?” Pete angrily replied. “You know, it should’ve been you that was captured! This is your fault! You sent Vic to get those files because you were too lazy to do it yourself. You knew he wasn’t ready for that, but you did it anyway!” Pete started weeping. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I shouldn’t be mad at you. I just miss him and I feel like I need to blame someone.” “And you should blame someone,” Gerard spoke softly as he attempted to comfort his friend. “Blame Dr. Death. He’s the reason we live like this.” Pete stared off into nothingness. “I’ve been working on a plan to get Vic back.” I added. Pete looked over with a doubtful look on his face. “Have you now?” “Yes,” I replied with an air of confidence. “Let’s hear it then,” challenged Pete. “Give me a better plan than one of the thousands I’ve already thought of.” “OK,” the man with the fabulous red hair (moi) answered. * * * So I told him my ultra-fantabulous plan. It wasn’t anything elaborate, though. The plan consisted of breaking in, snatching the prize and running away as fast as you can, and if you expire in the process, then oh well. At least you’ll have made it to The Black Parade, which as I mentioned earlier is a heaven of sorts for us punksters. To join the T.B.P., you must devote yourself to punk music and then somehow change someone’s life in the process. In our case, it would be saving Vic’s life. I’m rambling again aren’t I? Alright, back to the story. * * * “That has got to be the stupidest plan in the history of all stupid plans,” Alan murmured to himself. “Let’s do it!” he replied cheerfully. “Alan’s gone ape again,” Andy loudly whispered to Pete. “Yup,” Pete replied with his usual matter-of-fact tone. All of a sudden, they all heard a loud banging on the side of their commandeered warehouse, followed immediately by an eruption of high-pitched screaming. “What the toaster?” Pete wondered aloud as he cautiously walked to the door. “OH MY GOD!” he shrieked. “What is it?” I asked. “Pop music! Valley Girls! Booze! HEAVEN!” Pete yelled excitedly. “God help us,” Andy whispered to the heavens. “That, gentlemen, is our element of surprise,” I said, smiling proudly. “They’re traveling on a float so they can get us into Battery City unnoticed. They’ll also serve as our diversion.” “Well it definitely works as a distraction,” Alan said dreamily as he stared at the teeming mass of music, girls and alcohol. “I’m in love,” Pete whispered as one of the many teenage females sang to him. “Same here buddy,” Alan agreed. “Hop on boys!” I screamed as I pulled out a pop gun and started firing randomly into the air. * * * I don’t remember much of our trip into the city seeing as how I, much like my colleagues, just so happened to be heavily intoxicated for most of it. I’m not proud of it (in polite company), but I will say that it was a lot of fun. It took about four hours of angelic bliss to get to our final destination and when we arrived, it saddened us. The city was in a state of poor disrepair, most likely an effect of my absentee presence (not to sound pompous or anything). Anyhoo, there was garbage everywhere and the measure of destitution seen that day was a record breaker. It was heart wrenching to look at. I’m crying just thinking about it. You don’t want to hear about that, though. You want to hear the action story, and hear it you shall. * * * “This is awful,” Andy remarked as they made their way into the heart of the citadel. “I know, right? Dr. Death needs to accept that punk music will be here for forever and stop punishing people who listen to our music,” Pete defiantly declared. “Don’t fret, you’ll get your chance at him soon enough,” I said, patting my friend on the back. “Good,” Pete muttered under his breath as he fixed an abhorrent stare on the building where Dr. Death was holding his best buddy captive. When they got to the skyscraper, they noticed it was swarming with guards. There was also a sense of dread about the place. “We have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting through that,” Alan dismally noted. “May I point out that we have a large supply of everything a bored security guard could ever ask for,” I reminded them, and was acknowledged by a chorus of “TRUUUUUE!” “Party time has arrived, good sirs!” Pete brightly announced. With that, the Fabulous Killjoys swarmed the building while one hundred heavily equipped patrolmen were lost in the throng of the most epic rave to ever grace Battery City. * * * Getting to our not-so-dear-friend Dr. Death’s office was relatively simple since there were no obstacles aside from your’s truly being the only one who knew how to use the blasted elevator. The others acted not unlike barbarians as they frantically pushed random buttons. They went on like this for several minutes before I put an end to their predicament. The journey to the top floor was made worse by abominable elevator music and apprehensive fidgeting from my comrades. I, however, was perfectly composed and full of confidence. I was ever-so relieved when we made it to the top floor and hastily scrambled out of the metal box that positively reeked of thousands upon thousands of unsavory things. * * * “Move it along gents!” I ordered as we cautiously moved down the long corridor. “You are not the boss of me, and as I am slightly wasted I shall proceed at whatever speed I like!” Pete slurred. “If you don’t move faster and we live through this I will take away all your privileges after subjecting you to the worst country music imaginable!” I sharply warned. Pete glared at me and picked up the pace. “Good boy!” I thought to myself. “Here we are,” Andy whispered, and reached for the door handle. It opened without so much as a single squeak into a mostly vacant room. Pete barged in and yelled, “GIVE HIM BACK YOU … YOU … THIEF!” There was no answer. “Very nice,” Alan caustically remarked. “Shut up, you stupid ginger,” Pete countered as he stomped out and went to the back of the group. This time, I went inside. “Anyone home?” I asked politely. “I apologize for my friend’s rude behavior. He’s had a bit to drink tonight and he really wants his friend back.” Silence.