Curses!
I just missed the deadline for Wentzday on bandslashmania, *is sad in the face* and I haven't even finished the bloody thing. Fuck it, I am posting it anyway because I haven't posted anything in ever, and I want to look productive, dammit. (Pssst, wenchpixie, I has not forgotten, and I promise there will be evil Chad when I update your prompt fic.) This, like so much of my fic, *looks at WIP folder and weeps* is unbetaed, unfinished, and emphatically not real. Also it is based on this. Ahahahahahaha! Oh, Pete. My love for you is equal parts glee, despair, and resignation.
"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III?" says the guy at the tour bus door
Pete blinks. "Dude, don't take this the wrong way, but you're not the kind of guy who normally hangs around to get my autograph."
"Yeah, usually they're a lot more pouty," says Joe and tries to push past Pete who has stalled. "And usually they don't wear suits. Or, y'know, much. Pete, you're in my fucking way, dude."
Pete braces himself against the doorframe, and kicks backwards viciously. "Patience, grasshopper."
"But you are Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III?" the guy persists.
"Okay, I didn't think there was anyone left who didn't know who we were. What are we even paying our PR people for? But, yes-" Pete throws his chest out and proclaims, "Thou speak'st aright, I am Pete Wentz, that merry wanderer of the night. I am that shrewd and - damn, um - knavish sprite? That-"
"Pain in the motherfucking ass?" suggests Joe, who is frankly tired and pissed off and desperately in need of coffee and snackfoods, and gives him a violent shove.
Pete yelps and flails forward off the step even as the guy steps forward himself and slaps an envelope smartly onto his chest.
"Then, Mr Wentz, you're served. I'll skip the autograph, thanks," says the guy, and picks his way across the muddied lot fastidiously.
**************************************
"He's suing me?" Pete shrieks, as he tears round the tiny lounge area of the tour bus. Andy and Joe exchange long-suffering glances, and Joe thinks longingly of his bong which is tucked snugly into his bunk. But Pete and Pete's ever-present drama are currently raging between him and the bunk area. Joe sighs. People think he's got it made, but his life is fucking hard, yo. He tries to focus on Pete's ongoing rant, which seems to consist mainly of -
"He's suing me? That little fucker! I barely touched him!"
"Well, that's true," says Andy, and for a pacifist vegan, Joe reflects, Andy's always first in there gleefully lighting the blue touch paper. "What's he actually suing for? Breaking his knuckles on your pretty, pretty face?"
"Fuck off, Hurley," Pete snarls. "I came out of that fight the motherfucking victor! I held the moral high ground!"
"Oh, hey," says Joe, and dammit, he is owed something for not being allowed to get caffeinated or high, "Was that the moral high ground you were curled up and whimpering on when he was done? Because I always think the best way to hold the moral high ground is to bleed all over it. Yeah, you totally showed him."
"And you," Pete continues vengefully, stabbing an accusatory finger in Joe's direction. "I didn't exactly see you leaping to my aid. What do I even keep you around for?"
"My super-awesome guitar hero-ing and the magnetic effect I have on the ladies," Joe says modestly. "And dude, I would totally have had your back in the defence of your girlfriend's honour, but I was, um, distracted. By something. I forget. Damn this weed-induced amnesia."
"I was washing my hair," Andy says. "Also we have these people to take care of shit like this. Big people. As opposed to us, Pete, because we are tiny people. Statistically, tiny people are fucked when it comes to getting stuff out of high cupboards, or, oh, I don't know, impromptu barfights?" He scowls at Pete. "It's why you never see midgets winning the Ultimate Fighting Championship."
"But they are very good at fighting each other," Joe points out. "They have their own Mexican wrestling league."
""True," says Andy. "But I sometimes suspect that they stage the fights."
"You lie!" Joe says, outraged. "That's it; we're calling Mexico right fucking now, and sorting this shit out."
"No, we're fucking not," Pete says, grimly, and waves the subpoena at them threateningly. "We're calling Bob, and sorting this out." He picks up his Sidekick, and hesitates before saying, "And then we'll call Mexico about the midget-wrestling thing."
*************************************
(A/N: I have not abducted Patrick Stump for ravishment in this ficlet (even though I want to). If it ever gets finished, he will have a reason for being absent so long. And also a wide selection of hats. ILU, P.Stump.)
"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III?" says the guy at the tour bus door
Pete blinks. "Dude, don't take this the wrong way, but you're not the kind of guy who normally hangs around to get my autograph."
"Yeah, usually they're a lot more pouty," says Joe and tries to push past Pete who has stalled. "And usually they don't wear suits. Or, y'know, much. Pete, you're in my fucking way, dude."
Pete braces himself against the doorframe, and kicks backwards viciously. "Patience, grasshopper."
"But you are Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III?" the guy persists.
"Okay, I didn't think there was anyone left who didn't know who we were. What are we even paying our PR people for? But, yes-" Pete throws his chest out and proclaims, "Thou speak'st aright, I am Pete Wentz, that merry wanderer of the night. I am that shrewd and - damn, um - knavish sprite? That-"
"Pain in the motherfucking ass?" suggests Joe, who is frankly tired and pissed off and desperately in need of coffee and snackfoods, and gives him a violent shove.
Pete yelps and flails forward off the step even as the guy steps forward himself and slaps an envelope smartly onto his chest.
"Then, Mr Wentz, you're served. I'll skip the autograph, thanks," says the guy, and picks his way across the muddied lot fastidiously.
**************************************
"He's suing me?" Pete shrieks, as he tears round the tiny lounge area of the tour bus. Andy and Joe exchange long-suffering glances, and Joe thinks longingly of his bong which is tucked snugly into his bunk. But Pete and Pete's ever-present drama are currently raging between him and the bunk area. Joe sighs. People think he's got it made, but his life is fucking hard, yo. He tries to focus on Pete's ongoing rant, which seems to consist mainly of -
"He's suing me? That little fucker! I barely touched him!"
"Well, that's true," says Andy, and for a pacifist vegan, Joe reflects, Andy's always first in there gleefully lighting the blue touch paper. "What's he actually suing for? Breaking his knuckles on your pretty, pretty face?"
"Fuck off, Hurley," Pete snarls. "I came out of that fight the motherfucking victor! I held the moral high ground!"
"Oh, hey," says Joe, and dammit, he is owed something for not being allowed to get caffeinated or high, "Was that the moral high ground you were curled up and whimpering on when he was done? Because I always think the best way to hold the moral high ground is to bleed all over it. Yeah, you totally showed him."
"And you," Pete continues vengefully, stabbing an accusatory finger in Joe's direction. "I didn't exactly see you leaping to my aid. What do I even keep you around for?"
"My super-awesome guitar hero-ing and the magnetic effect I have on the ladies," Joe says modestly. "And dude, I would totally have had your back in the defence of your girlfriend's honour, but I was, um, distracted. By something. I forget. Damn this weed-induced amnesia."
"I was washing my hair," Andy says. "Also we have these people to take care of shit like this. Big people. As opposed to us, Pete, because we are tiny people. Statistically, tiny people are fucked when it comes to getting stuff out of high cupboards, or, oh, I don't know, impromptu barfights?" He scowls at Pete. "It's why you never see midgets winning the Ultimate Fighting Championship."
"But they are very good at fighting each other," Joe points out. "They have their own Mexican wrestling league."
""True," says Andy. "But I sometimes suspect that they stage the fights."
"You lie!" Joe says, outraged. "That's it; we're calling Mexico right fucking now, and sorting this shit out."
"No, we're fucking not," Pete says, grimly, and waves the subpoena at them threateningly. "We're calling Bob, and sorting this out." He picks up his Sidekick, and hesitates before saying, "And then we'll call Mexico about the midget-wrestling thing."
*************************************
(A/N: I have not abducted Patrick Stump for ravishment in this ficlet (even though I want to). If it ever gets finished, he will have a reason for being absent so long. And also a wide selection of hats. ILU, P.Stump.)