(no subject)
i don't know if anyone has caught onto this yet but it appears that gabe wrote a fanfic. this article is old (2009) but this is the first i've heard of it and from the way it's formatted and written, it seems like gabe wrote the "fiction" in it. the article is about fanfiction and says, "Finally, one emo rocker - Gabe Saporta of Cobra Starship - is taking back the night. Quite literally, he's turning himself into a piece of band fiction, much better than any imaginative girl with a keyboard could do it for him." i copied it here in case you don't want to go to the site because weaved between the story is the article but if you want to read that as well, here it is! oh and of course gabe ships gabilliam.of course.
Gabe Saporta lifted the severed head of his one-time idol and mentor into the air and let forth a triumphant, guttural cry.
"Behold! The beast, Pete Wentz!" Saporta roared, eliciting awestruck cheers from the mob of admirers spread below him on the White House's south lawn. Eyes twinkling with cold amusement, the emo heartthrob savored their terrified glee as drops of blood pooled on the balcony tiles near his feet.
"Let this be a warning to ALL who would stand in the way of cool tunes and awesome good times," he declared. "They built this city on rock 'n' roll, but we built this city on disco beats, too!"*
The crowed thundered. Fusion-powered airships screamed overhead. Laser cannons crackled in the distance. And Saporta smiled. Oh, it was so very good to be president.
Surveying the bedlam, he recognized a familiar face in the crowd: Access Hollywood host Billy Bush. Hand cupped over mouth, Saporta leaned toward a Secret Service bodyguard.
"That one," he hissed. "In the Lincoln bedroom. Now."
Later, in the presidential chambers, Saporta found his Secretary of the Interior and life partner, former The Academy Is . . . frontman William Beckett, lying on their goose-feather bed, gently dabbing tears from his large doe eyes.
"Jesus, you'll get mascara all over the Natori comforter," the president sneered, unzipping his hoodie and unholstering his trusty Desert Eagle .50 handgun, the one he used to execute Good Charlotte singer Joel Madden in a truck stop outside Des Moines. The weapon clattered loudly on the room's fine mahogany dresser.
"Did you do it?" William demanded, with more guts than usual. "Did you kill him?"
"Duhhh," the president spat dismissively. "It was like my whole campaign platform."
William buried his head in a pillow and began sobbing anew. Saporta ignored him. It was always best to ignore him when he got like this. Finally, William lifted his head and squared his chin, trying to make a show of strength.
"Fine, all of our friends are dead," he said, with quivering lip. "At least now we can do some positive things, like fix the environment."
"Yeah, right," Saporta said absently, knotting his favorite skinny black tie. "I hate environmentalism. It's so self-righteous. We're not going to kill the Earth. We're just a little speck of dust in the history of a planet that will live for five billion years. We're just a flash in the pan."*
"You're scaring me," William cooed uncomprehendingly, sinking back into sheets.
"I know," Saporta said, with a charitable smile. "C'mon. We have one last thing to do."
The president stalked out of the room. After a short interval, William followed.
"Leave us!" the president commanded, sending his Secret Service detail scurrying out of the White House dungeon. William shivered. This was where Saporta kept all his ex-pop-punk allies: Grohl and DeLonge and the rest.
"Come, my sweet. The Day of Darkness is at hand!" Saporta beckoned as he swept toward the dungeon's massive pentagram-shaped altar. "The final reckoning must be put in motion. Virgin feminine blood must be spilled!"
The president ripped a black tarp off the altar, revealing the pink, writhing body underneath. William gasped in shock and horror
"No, Gabe, no!" William pleaded.
"Quiet, pansy! Don't you see that the world must pay?" the president seethed. "My career was founded on the crassest sort of opportunism! And no one called me on it, even when I started playing around with Miami Sound Machine beats. Even when I started matching my iPod to my purple hoodie. I was 30 years old!"
He drew the dagger high in the air. The virgin's muffled pleas filled the dungeon.
"And then they elected me president," Saporta sneered. "Just think about it: What kind of self-serving ambition would lead one into politics? The cynicism has to end here."
"Yes, it does," William gasped, firing three rounds from the Desert Eagle into the president's chest. Both men collapsed.
Just as he got up William was again felled, this time by bullets from Secret Service handguns. He wheezed as the dungeon filled with agents. Turning his head, he locked eyes with the president's would-be victim, still tied and bound.
"You must redeem us," he sputtered, surrendering his last breath. "It's up to you . . . Nick Jonas."
Gabe Saporta lifted the severed head of his one-time idol and mentor into the air and let forth a triumphant, guttural cry.
"Behold! The beast, Pete Wentz!" Saporta roared, eliciting awestruck cheers from the mob of admirers spread below him on the White House's south lawn. Eyes twinkling with cold amusement, the emo heartthrob savored their terrified glee as drops of blood pooled on the balcony tiles near his feet.
"Let this be a warning to ALL who would stand in the way of cool tunes and awesome good times," he declared. "They built this city on rock 'n' roll, but we built this city on disco beats, too!"*
The crowed thundered. Fusion-powered airships screamed overhead. Laser cannons crackled in the distance. And Saporta smiled. Oh, it was so very good to be president.
Surveying the bedlam, he recognized a familiar face in the crowd: Access Hollywood host Billy Bush. Hand cupped over mouth, Saporta leaned toward a Secret Service bodyguard.
"That one," he hissed. "In the Lincoln bedroom. Now."
Later, in the presidential chambers, Saporta found his Secretary of the Interior and life partner, former The Academy Is . . . frontman William Beckett, lying on their goose-feather bed, gently dabbing tears from his large doe eyes.
"Jesus, you'll get mascara all over the Natori comforter," the president sneered, unzipping his hoodie and unholstering his trusty Desert Eagle .50 handgun, the one he used to execute Good Charlotte singer Joel Madden in a truck stop outside Des Moines. The weapon clattered loudly on the room's fine mahogany dresser.
"Did you do it?" William demanded, with more guts than usual. "Did you kill him?"
"Duhhh," the president spat dismissively. "It was like my whole campaign platform."
William buried his head in a pillow and began sobbing anew. Saporta ignored him. It was always best to ignore him when he got like this. Finally, William lifted his head and squared his chin, trying to make a show of strength.
"Fine, all of our friends are dead," he said, with quivering lip. "At least now we can do some positive things, like fix the environment."
"Yeah, right," Saporta said absently, knotting his favorite skinny black tie. "I hate environmentalism. It's so self-righteous. We're not going to kill the Earth. We're just a little speck of dust in the history of a planet that will live for five billion years. We're just a flash in the pan."*
"You're scaring me," William cooed uncomprehendingly, sinking back into sheets.
"I know," Saporta said, with a charitable smile. "C'mon. We have one last thing to do."
The president stalked out of the room. After a short interval, William followed.
"Leave us!" the president commanded, sending his Secret Service detail scurrying out of the White House dungeon. William shivered. This was where Saporta kept all his ex-pop-punk allies: Grohl and DeLonge and the rest.
"Come, my sweet. The Day of Darkness is at hand!" Saporta beckoned as he swept toward the dungeon's massive pentagram-shaped altar. "The final reckoning must be put in motion. Virgin feminine blood must be spilled!"
The president ripped a black tarp off the altar, revealing the pink, writhing body underneath. William gasped in shock and horror
"No, Gabe, no!" William pleaded.
"Quiet, pansy! Don't you see that the world must pay?" the president seethed. "My career was founded on the crassest sort of opportunism! And no one called me on it, even when I started playing around with Miami Sound Machine beats. Even when I started matching my iPod to my purple hoodie. I was 30 years old!"
He drew the dagger high in the air. The virgin's muffled pleas filled the dungeon.
"And then they elected me president," Saporta sneered. "Just think about it: What kind of self-serving ambition would lead one into politics? The cynicism has to end here."
"Yes, it does," William gasped, firing three rounds from the Desert Eagle into the president's chest. Both men collapsed.
Just as he got up William was again felled, this time by bullets from Secret Service handguns. He wheezed as the dungeon filled with agents. Turning his head, he locked eyes with the president's would-be victim, still tied and bound.
"You must redeem us," he sputtered, surrendering his last breath. "It's up to you . . . Nick Jonas."