bandombigbang 09: Part 1 [Perhaps Vampire...]
Title: Perhaps Vampire is a Bit Strong But...
Bands: MCR, FOB (TC, CS)
Pairings: Bob/Frank, Patrick/Pete, Gerard/Ray/Brian
Word Count: ~44000
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, AU
Disclaimer: This isn’t real, and it never happened. All real life people are their own property, not mine. I just claim the words.
Summary: Wherein Bob does a good deed and is punished. Pete Wentz is now in his life, and with Pete come a myriad of things Bob had seen in that monster movie marathon last month (up to and sometimes including Patrick Stump, Joe Trohman, Andy Hurley, and Matt Cortez). And Brian still refuses to pay Bob what he’s worth. He wants top shelf, damn it, especially if he has to deal with Pete Wentz for the foreseeable future and deal with the pets of gods sprouting prophesies about something that should have been a myth.
Then, just to make matters worse, Bob meets Frank Iero and his Gang of Incompetent Misfits. Sometimes Bob thinks he would have preferred to have been eaten in that alley.
“Vampires exist. Werewolves, demons, shapeshifters, zombies, every terrifying monster you ever feared was hiding under your bed is real, and a lot of them want to eat you for dinner.”
“Some of them even live under your bed!” Joe adds helpfully. "Just for the added convenience."
Author’s Notes: Beta and title by the ever amazing roseclaw. If you don’t have a roseclaw in your life, I’d recommend finding one. Really, really! Any and all remaining mistakes, especially relating to commas, are my fault.
Also, this entire thing is her fault because she dragged me into her sandbox last December and is still holding me hostage. In fact, this story is just part of the backstory for her High School Musical/Bandom Slayer’verse (located here). You don’t have to have read that to understand this, but there are more Bob/Frank shenanigans located that way.
Title is from the Artic Monkeys.
"Fairy tales don't teach children that monsters exist. Children already know that monsters exist. Fairy tales teach children that monsters can be killed." -- G. K. Chesterton
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Perhaps Vampire is a Bit Strong But...
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This is a nightmare. He stares down at the bodies laying around him - Brian’s head and wrist are twisted at wrong angles, some short, punk-rock wannabe kid with dark hair and more tattoos than skin with a sword planted in his chest, the broken body of a slender black girl in a school girl skirt and tie, others too far away for Bob to distinguish - surrounded by the small blue feathers littering the ground. Bob knows that this can’t be real. Isn’t real.
Just a nightmare.
Bob surveys the scene again, then looks up at the sun, bright and clear in the sky. There’s no sound here, not even from the wind that is swirling some of the feathers around his feet. Bob knows that here everything good is dead.
He would have expected the sun to be anything but bright and clear. And hot. The fucking sun is still really, really fucking hot.
Bob looks at the sun for a long time, not that he has any way to really measure the passing of time; he just knows. Finally, he gets sick of just staring. He turns away from the sun and the bodies, and he walks back to the van with feathers twirling in his wake.
Bob doesn’t know the how or the why just yet, but those things can be figured out. He isn’t going to let the apocalypse happen on his watch.
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Bob is never letting Brian talk him into doing sound for free again. If Bob's ears have to endure this torture, Bob needs to be paid first. In cash. And supplied with alcohol after.
"Shut up, asshole," Brian mutters. He glares at Bob over the mouth of his long neck. "What the fuck do you think is in your hand right now?"
"Nothing strong enough to relieve the suffering you've inflicted on my tender ears," Bob replies. "I want the good shit."
Brian rolls his eyes. "Please, bitch, you aren't worth the good shit." He swallows the last of his beer before he gestures to the bartender for another round.
"Our relationship has changed so much since you took that new position, baby," Bob says mournfully. He pouts around his bottle as he finishes his own beer off.
Brian glares at him some more. Honestly, Bob thinks Brian could be on the Olympic team for glaring. Brian’s just that good. "I will kick your ass, Bryar. Don't think I won't."
Bob sighs. He’s fucking exhausted, and the cheap alcohol isn’t helping matters. "The romance has gone from our relationship," he tells the bartender when he drops off two more bottles. "He used to bring me such lovely things."
The bartender snorts. "Quit your bellyaching, kid. The band was actually halfway decent tonight; better than the last time they came through here, at least." He takes their empties and leaves with one last glare. Bob decides to take that comment as a compliment toward his skills as an engineer.
"He could totally take you in the glare Olympics, man. Hate to break it to you," Bob tells Brian. "What?"
Brian shakes his head. "Okay, no more for you." He pushes the second bottle out of Bob's reach. Then he takes a pull from his own, eyebrow raised in a silent taunt at Bob.
"You are an asshole, Schechter," Bob pouts. For real this time. He tries for the bottle, but has to grab onto the bar when his lunge almost tips him off the stool. "I just want you to know that."
"And you're drunk, Bryar. You'll thank me tomorrow for cutting you off now." Brain passes the bottle off to the lead singer responsible for Bob's abused eardrums. The singer grimaces at the label, but shotguns the beer anyway before he stumbles off again.
"And you're worried about me being drunk?" Bob asks. He watches the singer run into his bassist, who pulls him into a headlock and gives him a half-assed noogie. Bob can’t believe he’s spent the last month in a van with those idiots. He’s not sure if the fact that Brian’s paying for the (cheap) alcohol in the wake of that experience is enough to tip the scales or not.
Brian snorts. "I don't have to deal with those assholes again. You, on the other hand, are driving back to Chicago with me. I know what kind of a bitch you are when you're hungover, Bryar, and I don't want to deal with it."
Bob blinks. "Wait. You're coming back to Chicago? What happened to spending 'a few days in town, Bryar. See my mom before she puts a hit out on me'?"
"My mother will understand," Brian says dryly. "Besides, the band keeps trying to talk me into sticking around and managing their next tour."
"Aw, you're scared of a bad emo-punk band!" Bob laughs. When all Brian does is glare at him, not bother with an attempt to bluff his way out of that one, Bob’s laugh turns into a giggle. Bob lets his head fall onto the arm he has on top of the bar, not even trying to hold his laughter in.
“Like you wanted to take the fucking bus back to Chicago anyway, Bryar.” Brian punches Bob’s other arm until he stops laughing. “All right, lightweight, if you’re done, I want to get some sleep before the next millennium.” He slings an arm over Bob’s shoulders to pull him to his feet.
Bob pushes Brian’s arm off of his shoulders. “I need to take a piss. I’ll meet you outside.”
“Are you sure you can handle that by yourself?” Brian laughs as Bob stumbles off in the direction of the bathrooms. Bob just flips him off. He finds his footing and balance after a few stumbling missteps.
It’s just Bob’s luck that he has to pull a couple of assholes off of the shit band’s bassist. He doesn’t even bother to find out why the scuffle started - he doesn’t care, he’s fucking tired, and he really has to fucking piss - but he can feel both assholes’ eyes on him when he walks away.
The feeling hasn’t left by the time he’s washing his hands. Only. He’s alone in the bathroom. Bob stares at himself in the mirror. There are dark, dark circles under his eyes and his skin would be a pale gray-green if it wasn’t so flush from the (cheap) alcohol. Bob’s exhausted, and he’s totally imagining things. Fucking Brian and his fucking superstitions. It’s starting to turn Bob into a paranoid fuck, which. Seriously, no.
Bob pushes his way out of the bathroom, almost stumbling over a couple short dudes who are just standing outside of the door. He scowls at them as he passes, but doesn’t bother to expend anymore energy. Especially because they look and smell like seven-day-binge hobos.
The feeling is still there when Bob finds Brian outside. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching the band scuffle by their van. He offers Bob his pack. “Idiots.”
“Yeah,” Bob agrees. He pulls one out of the pack and lights up. The first pull feels like something clearing the cobwebs out of his mind, and he knew he was more exhausted than he was drunk. “Not your idiots, though,” he points out. He rolls his shoulders, trying to displace the tightness between the blades.
“Thank fuck,” Brian sighs. They watch the drummer bounce the lead guitarist’s head off the van door, then fall over laughing. Brian jerks his head toward the alley, which is darker than the admittedly dim-lit parking lot. Meaning there’s one streetlight in the middle of the alley still working in comparison to the four in the parking lot. “Motel’s that way.”
Bob starts walking. It’s a little chilly outside - summer just starting to edge into fall - but Bob keeps his hands out of his pockets. That feeling of being watched is growing, as is the tightness between his shoulder blades. Bob doesn’t want to be caught off guard. Brian gives him a weird look, but doesn’t say thing.
He does keep his hands free though. Bob wonders idly what his face looks like right then.
They’re about halfway down the alley when every hair on the back of Bob’s neck stands on end. He glances around, but there isn’t anything to see. Just the vaguest shadows of trash bins and a dumpster lining the one of the walls. He’s about to tell Brian to hurry the fuck up when a figure fucking materializes from the alley wall.
The figure is followed by more until there are five blocking the alley in front of them. Bob can’t see the faces on four of them, but the leader - a taller, almost bulky dude in too much leather - looks like he’d been dropped face first in a vat of acid.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here, boys?” The guy asks, grinning at Bob and Brian. His teeth are disgusting - all yellow and jagged. Bob’s almost tempted to ask him if he’d tried chewing scrap metal for fun.
“Looks like a midnight snack, boss!” The smallest of the other four squeaks. He even bounces up and down a few times.
Bob and Brian exchange a confused look. “Are they for real?” Bob asks.
Brian shrugs. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve had enough to be hallucinating.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t think I was that tired,” Bob agrees.
“Aw, look, boss! They’re trying to be funny!” Squeaky giggles, still bouncing.
One of the other four hits Squeaky upside the back of head, growling, “Shut up. You’re putting me off my appetite.”
“Hey!”
“Enough!” Boss growls. It’s a nasty sound, all low with a gravelly undertone, and goosebumps spring up along Bob’s arms. The sound reminds Bob of Mr. Mitchell’s mutt when it cornered Ms. Levy’s poodle. Both dogs had to be put down after that fight.
“I think we should go,” Brian says quietly.
Bob nods, taking a step backwards.
“Hey, no. No running off. You’ve been invited to stay for dinner!” Boss says. He waves a hand, and the other four guys start toward Bob and Brian. They move into the street light, and they all look like their boss - bumpy foreheads, yellow eyes, and sharp, sharp teeth.
Brian lets out a shaky laugh. “No, actually, we’re not all that hungry, but thanks anyway.”
"Sorry, but dinner isn't for you," Boss smiles at Brian. "It is you."
“Better luck next time, meatheads,” other voices growls from behind Bob and Brian.
Bob twists sideways, trying to keep one eye on the five coming for them, who have pulled up short with the arrival of six more guys who look almost identically ugly as the first five. Bob sucks in a breath when he realizes he recognizes two of them as the assholes from the bar.
“Back off, plebian. We saw them first,” Boss snaps.
“Please, I tagged the big one in the bar,” other leader-guy scoffs. He even points helpfully at Bob.
Bob scowls at nothing in particular. It isn’t his fault that Brian is practically a fucking midget. Standing next to him makes anyone look big.
“Now look what you’ve done! That’s going to sour the blood,” Boss pouts. He points at other leader-guy. “If I end up with indigestion, I’m blaming you, Marco.”
Marco starts to answer, but as he’s opening his mouth, something pointy protrudes from his chest. Everyone gapes at it for a moment. Then he explodes into dust, followed quickly by the guy next to him.
“What the...” someone breaths. It might even be Bob, because that was more than a little shocking, and time seems to screech to a halt, and there’s a hobo standing right behind where Marco and the other guy had just been, and the new guy’s holding a pointy stick in each hand.
Stick-hobo-guy gives Bob a big grin. It’s full of bright, flat teeth. Bob has about one second to think, “Hey. He looks familiar.” before everything explodes into motion.
Someone slams into Bob’s side, knocking them both to the ground, right on top of a pile of ... something slimy, and Bob can not deal with that right now. He’s having trouble breathing, probably because of the smallish person on top of him, and Brian is shouting something vague, sounding a thousand miles away even though he can’t have gone more than six feet, and that’s all Bob needs to be shoving at whoever the asshole holding him down is. Judging from the growling noises - high pitched, gravely, and inherently terrifying - it’s Squeaky come to play.
Squeaky probably expects Bob to be too terrified and/or dazed to fight back, which is probably the only reason Bob’s able to shove Squeaky back enough to deck him. Because, seriously? Squeaky is ridiculously strong. But deck him Bob does, and Squeaky isn’t expecting that either.
Bob’s rolling to his feet even as Squeaky falls off of him, clutching his bloody nose and squealing in a pitch not meant for human ears. Bob doesn’t have the chance to find stable footing before a dirty hand grabs his arm and pulls him out of the way of another diving and freakishly ugly gang member.
Said dirty hand is attached to an extensively sleeved arm. Said tattooed arm is attached to a tiny, skinny dude with long hair and glasses. He’s also wielding a sharp pointy stick, which he drives straight into Fugly’s chest. Fugly explodes and Dirty-hobo is handing him an extra stick that he pulls from somewhere Bob didn’t notice because he was too busy trying not to choke on the ash of exploding Fugly.
Bob wants to know when his life turned into a B-fucking-horror movie. Seriously.
“Stake to the heart, just like in the movies,” Dirty-hobo explains before diving back into the fray.
Bob takes a second to reevaluate. And start breathing again. He remembers his mom mentioning that was an important life function. Yeah, only that’d been right about the time she’d fished him out of his grandfather’s lake because a ten-year-old Bob hadn’t been as awesome a swimmer as he’d thought. Bob still maintains that something had been trying to pull him under, but. Whatever. Ugly gang members set to attack mode to contend with: definitely not the time to be reminiscing.
Squeaky is nowhere to be seen, and no one is paying Bob any mind, for the moment at least. Bob has his back to the wall on one side of the alley, and he can see Brian about ten feet up the alley. He’s pressed against the bricks with two other hobo-sharp-stick-carrying guys standing between him and four extra-fugly gang members (vampires? What the fuck?), who descend on the three of them with their hands curled into claws and matching growls that are even more frightening than Squeaky’s. Probably because the sounds aren’t pitched into the dog-and-tiny-girl-children’s octaves.
Stick-hobo-guy and Dirty-hobo are each fighting two others further down the alley. Boss and Squeaky are long gone.
Hobos Number 3 and Number 4 each take out a fugly gang member slash vampire (Seriously, just. No) a piece before Number 3 is slammed into Number 4 by one of the remaining two. Number 3 is larger than Number 4, mostly because Number 4 is totally just a huge white man’s ‘fro with working limbs, and they both fall into a pile of garbage bags off to their side. Their pointy sticks (stakes? Seriously. What the fuck?) fly out of their hands on impact.
Both fuglies ignore the two on the ground, and start toward Brian, who doesn’t have a weapon and is caught between the dumpster and the discarded pile of refuse slash hobos Number 3 and Number 4. Bob knows Brian, has known Brian for years at this point, knows just how bad Brian is at being cornered, and Bob almost feels bad for the two descending on him. Almost. It’s like pitying the bad guy in the movie during the final showdown, when you know he’s about to have his ass torn off and handed to him all nice on a sparkly, silver platter.
That said, Bob is moving the second Number 3 and Number 4 hit the ground. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to be able to do against creatures that explode on impalement, but he’s hoping a lifetime of horror movies and several years as a band tech will come in handy.
Brian barrels his shoulder into the gut of one of the vampires just as Bob grabs the second and spins him around by the arm. Bob raises the pointy stick in the same motion and slams it home as soon as the thing’s chest is clear. Fugly number-who-gives-a-fuck explodes, and Bob inhales another lung full of what has to be unhealthy, undead ash.
“Nice, noob!” Stick-hobo-guy exclaims as he pops up at Bob’s shoulder. He deflects Bob’s arm when he spins around in surprise, forcing the stake to hit nothing but ashy air. “Careful there, big guy. Killing me would be murder.”
“Some would call it justifiable homicide,” Dirty-hobo corrects dryly. He drives his stake into Final Fugly’s chest, then brushes the resulting dust from Brian’s hair. “Not bad, man. I would suggest holy water to the face or a crucifix to the ‘nads next time. Really makes them squirm.”
“What the fuck?” Brian demands. He rolls his shoulders to dislodge Dirty-hobo’s hands. Brian is practically vibrating in place, and he has his hands raised away from his body and slightly curled. Bob is suddenly reminded that Brian used to be a big brawler before he sobered up, stopped drinking and popping all the fucking time, and started tour managing fulltime.
Brian faces off against an unimpressed Dirty-hobo as Stick-hobo-guy helps Number 3 and Number 4 to their feet. The two of them are covered in bits of trash, smelling vaguely of bad Chinese. Bob winces in sympathy when he shifts his shoulder and feels how his shirt is stuck to his back from his own tumble in filth. Number 3 swats Stick-hobo-guy away and pulls his baseball cap further down his forehead. “Fuck off, Pete. We’re fine. Filthy, but fine.”
“Aw, Pattycake!” Pete gasps. It’s a sound worthy of any virginal maiden caught swooning on a romance novel cover. He even clutches his hands to his chest, like he’s been mortally wounded.
“Fuck off, Pete,” Number 3 growls. He tugs on the bill of his cap. He's blushing and studiously not looking at Pete.
“Who the fuck are you people, and what the fuck just happened here?” Brian half-shouts. His hands have gone from slightly curled to full on fists, and he’s vibrating with suppressed - rage? adrenaline? annoyance? Bob isn’t sure; Brian can be hard to read at times. But he’s definitely vibrating with a suppressed emotion to the edge of making sound.
“Whoa! Chill, dude!” Number 4 placates. He looks completely demented with his hands raised palms up and open, and he’s smiling like he isn’t covered in rotting trash in a dark alley after fighting off what might possibly have been creatures of immense, immense evil.
And Bob really, really needs another drink if he’s thinking like this. The good shit, too, not that cheap piss water Brian was passing off earlier.
“You don’t want to wake the neighbors,” Number 4 continues. “We’ll explain everything once we’re, ya know, not walking bait anymore.”
“We’re not going anywhere until you start talking, asshole,” Brian growls. He’s narrowing his eyes like he’s picking out potential soft targets on their bodies, and Bob really hopes he isn’t going to have to explain a quadruple homicide tonight. His brain just can’t handle that right now.
Pete opens his mouth, but snaps it shut when Dirty-hobo glares at him. Dirty-hobo turns back to Brian. “We’re friends, promise. That’s Pete, I’m Andy, the dude with the hat is Patrick, and the ‘fro goes to Joe. As for what happened, you’ve seen horror movies before, right? Does Dracula ring any bells?”
“Vampires aren’t real,” Bob breaks in.
“And people don’t explode when you stake them,” Andy retorts. He even rolls his eyes for good measure. “Come on. We’ll explain in detail once we’re somewhere Johnny and Alfred can’t follow.”
“Who?” Brian asks. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose now, so at least Bob knows he’s thinking again. Thinking and not likely how everything is adding up, most likely.
“I think he means Boss and Squeaky,” Bob says. Brian gives him an exasperated look, and Bob shrugs. He can’t help it if he likes to differentiate shit so he doesn’t confuse himself. Brian's probably still pissed that Bob will occasionally call Brian “Cupcake”.
Joe tilts his head to the side. “You know, Johnny does sound awfully squeaky once you get him going.”
“And ‘Boss’ is an apt enough description for Alfred,” Patrick agrees. He claps Brian on the shoulder while Pete does the same for Bob, and they start leading them out of the alley.
“I’m pretty sure we’re staying at the same motel,” Pete tells them. “We’ll make sure you get home before curfew, darlings.”
Bob lets Brian do the attempted protesting. Brian is better at it, for one thing, and Bob isn’t all that bothered by the plan. He has no idea what is going on, he’s just been attacked by people who may or may not have actually been the vampires they so unfortunately resembled, and he is totally okay with being escorted to a set of rooms with locks - and a shower. Bob really, really wants his shower now - by the people who had just rescued him. Even if said people look and smell like the dirtiest hobos imaginable.
There is one moment where Bob thinks he may have to reconsider his position. A moment that comes when they stop at a battered van with an equally battered attached trailer right at the edge of the motel parking lot. Bob isn’t exactly sure if it really is the motel parking lot at all or if said amount of concrete space actually belongs to the rundown gas station next door.
If Bob was going to park his vehicle where people would be less likely to bitch about it, he would have parked here, too. Doing numerous van tours had taught him the best way to park without being charged slash arrested. This spot is prime retail for those specifications; they’re out of direct line of sight of the front desk of the motel and the cash registers at the gas station, and the street lamps are partially blocked by the branches of the huge ass fucking tree on the other side of the chain link fence. Bob seriously gives thought to the fear that he’s about to be cut up and eaten at any moment. For all of ten seconds. Then he remembers that he’s twice the size of any of them and could squish them all quite easily.
Of course, it turns out that when Pete said they were all staying at the same motel, he actually meant that, “Yeah. We’re actually living out of our van for the moment - evil slayage isn’t really the most profitable of careers - but we’re still all camped out at the same place!”
“Shut up, Pete.” Patrick climbs out of the back of the van. He’s carrying a duffel and has a backpack slung over his shoulder. “What Pete means to say is we’re commandeering your shower, because you owe us.” He tosses the duffle at Pete’s head.
“And you figure that just how?” Brian demands. He’s slowly inching away from them and their van. Bob isn’t sure if it’s because Brian thinks they’re about to be cut up and eaten, too, but Bob’d bet that Brian doesn’t even notice what he’s doing; Brian’s been inching away from Bob the entire walk back, too. Brian doesn’t do well with stink, especially it it’s a stink that could have been avoided.
“We just saved your asses from becoming tonight’s midnight snack, princess. Suck it up,” Patrick snaps back.
Brian rolls his eyes as he turns away. “Fine, but if you clog up the drains, I’ll kick all of your asses!” He warns, talking over his shoulder as he makes for the motel.
Bob shrugs when the four of them turn to look at him. “He will.”
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Between showers, arguments over what kind of takeout to order and ordering said takeout, it takes a couple of hours before they all sit down to talk about what happened. Bob and Brian have a double at the far end of the complex, well away from where the band is supposedly staying, and the fact that the door is doubly bolted down is the only thing that keeps Brian from demanding answers the moment they all piled inside.
That and the four of them and Bob really, really stank. Brian really doesn’t do well with stink.
Bob and Brian have settled on one bed, while Pete and Joe have taken the other, and Patrick and Andy sit at the small table in the corner. Bob’s currently ignoring both Pete and Joe, because the sight of anyone having a slurping contest with Thai noodles is the last thing he wants to see. Hearing it is bad enough, thank you.
Patrick pulls a book out of his backpack and tosses it onto the bed next to Brian. “Let’s get this over with.”
“‘A Historie of Supernaturale Creaturs and Dæmons,’” Brian reads from the cover. “Okay. What the fuck?”
“Exactly what it says, man,” Joe pipes up. He looks up from his takeout container for a moment, one long noodle hanging from the corner of his mouth. “It isn’t the most comprehensive work out there or the most factual, but it’s a pretty decent introduction.” He finishes with a slurp.
Brian hands Bob the book without opening it. It’s heavy, leather bound, smells like mildew, and, from the look of how the quality paper is starting to yellow along the edges, pretty old. The title was burned into the leather, and all the pictures Bob sees as he flips through the book are woodcut. There are a couple of marked spots - red and blue ink and pencil markings in a couple of different handwriting styles - and a page or four that have been torn out and repaired with clear packaging tape.
“Okay. You have a book that hasn’t been treated very well,” Bob says. He closes the book and puts it to the side. He leans back against the headboard and folds his hands over his stomach.
“How about you start with the facts, like who you are, who or what those...people were, and what the hell any of that has to do with us,” Brian demands. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed and leaning forward, one leg tucked under him and the other planted on the floor. His elbows are braced against his knees, and he’s flipping his lighter between his hands.
Pete pulls himself away from his takeout long enough to say, “We’re the assholes who just saved your lives, buddy. You could at least thank us.”
“We’ve fed and showered you, buddy,” Bob drawls. He adds his glare to Andy’s and Patrick’s, and Pete goes back to his food. Bob turns his glare on Andy and Patrick next. “Now would be the time to start answering Brian’s questions. He hates having to ask shit more than once.”
Andy rolls his eyes. “Right. Anyway. Like we’ve said, we’re hunters. Of a sort. More the kind that goes after the things that go bump in the night and less so Bambi or Thumper.” He shifts, mirroring Brian’s position, only his hands are still and clasped in front of him. His eyes don’t stray from their focus on Bob’s and Brian’s faces. “Vampires exist. Werewolves, demons, shapeshifters, zombies, every terrifying monster you ever feared was hiding under your bed is real, and a lot of them want to eat you for dinner.”
“Some of them even live under your bed!” Joe adds helpfully. "Just for the added convenience."
Brian sighs, a harsh sound that is halfway to a growl, and rubs the hand not currently toying with his lighter over his face. Bob recognizes the look as Brian’s manager face - the one where he can’t believe his asshole charges managed to set something slash someone slash themselves on fire slash broke another instrument slash left a band member behind at a truck stop, and he’s trying to figure out how to deal with it without defaulting to killing them and all witnesses and hiding the bodies in a mass grave slash the bottom of the closest body of water.
It is entirely possible that Bob’s known Brian for far too long.
“Great. Awesome. So those were vampires. Judging by the stakes, fangs, and ash explosions?” Brian asks. “And you still haven’t answered my first question.”
Andy nods. “Yeah, those were vampires. Two different factions, actually.” He motions at Patrick, who tugs on his hat - a different one than before - with a grumble.
“Usually in a town this size, you’ll only find one large faction of vamps, with a central figure head - either an older vamp or one with enough charisma to keep the others toeing his or her line. Occasionally, you’ll find a smaller group either looking to break into the large one’s holdings or one that had broken off from the main group,” Patrick explains. “That’s what’s odd about here. There are two large, mostly equal groups, both with older vamps in the lead.
“Alfred and Marco are, or in Marco’s case, were, the sub-leaders of both groups. Marco was about seventy-five years dead, and Alfred is about one hundred and fifteen. At least, that’s what we’ve managed to come up with in our research.” Patrick shrugs, like the information possibly being faulty doesn’t bother him that much.
“And that’s old?” Bob asks. “For a vampire, I mean.”
Andy nods. “Yeah, most vamps don’t survive past twenty-five or thirty. And that's only if they manage not to kill themselves again within the first year.”
“We can’t figure out why both groups are here,” Joe breaks in. “Considering Alfred’s Master is somewhere between two hundred and fifty and four hundred years dead, a second nest of vamps, especially of similar size, is really...”
“It’s fucking weird, is what it is,” Pete interrupts. He’s put his food aside and has started pacing the floor between the bed and the bathroom door. He reminds Bob of brawlers trying to contain their energy after a fight’s been broken up prematurely. “And it means the death counts in this rinky-dink town have skyrocketed.”
“And you lot are here to put a stop to it,” Bob deadpans. If he hadn’t seen what he’d seen in the alley, he’d be tossing the four of them out the door for being completely fucking mental. And he wonders where exactly they’re all from, if they’re calling Detroit a ‘rinky-dink town’. Granted, they are somewhat on the outskirts, but. Still.
Pete slides to a stop in order to glare at him. “No. We’re here for the fucking sideshow.”
“Pete.”
Pete whirls around to face Patrick. “Fuck you. We should be out there, finishing this shit!”
Patrick shakes his head. “You know that going out now would be complete fucking suicide.” Pete makes a strangled noise of protest and Patrick rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Pete, you are not that stupid. We killed Marco.”
Pete frowns, but obviously thinks about that for a minute. Then his face breaks out with a huge ass grin. Complete with a full visual of all his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, Jacob can’t be very happy about that.”
“Probably not,” Andy comments dryly. But he smiles when Pete bounces back to his spot on the bed.
“You’ve dealt with these people, sorry, vampires before?” Brian asks.
Andy nods. “I’ve run into Jacob a couple of times. This is the first time I’ve seen him this far north - dude isn’t exactly the biggest fan of snow.”
“We’re technically only here to do recon, but we saw you,” Patrick points at Bob, “pulling Marco’s boys off of that shit bassist and...” Patrick shrugs.
“And?” Bob prompts when it doesn’t look like Patrick is going to do more than just sit there, fingers tapping against the warped table top.
“We couldn’t let a good deed go unrewarded,” Pete pops in. Patrick rolls his eyes again but nods.
Brian sits up straight, his shoulders tensing. “You let us be the bait in the trap.”
Patrick and Joe have the grace to look a little apologetic, but Andy and Pete just grin at Bob and Brian. Their grins only widen when Bob glares at them.
“Aw, relax, princess! We weren’t going to let you die,” Joe says. “We had everything under control.”
“Right,” Bob says. He lets a little bit of a growl enter his voice. “Which is why Al and Squeaky managed to escape, and Brian was almost eaten.”
“Hey, for a bunch of guys who aren’t Slayers, nine out of eleven ain’t bad,” Joe protests.
“And you said it yourself - almost. Brian was almost eaten,” Pete finishes. “No one important died, therefore victory is ours.”
Brian snorts. “You let the two important ones escape with our descriptions to hand out to every vampire in town, and you think that’s a victory?”
Joe shrugs. “Any one you walk away from.”
“Okay, okay!” Patrick breaks in before Brian can leap over Bob for Joe’s - and/or Pete’s - throat. “Yes, it sucks that Alfred and Johnny got away, and we’d apologize for using the two of you as bait, except for how it worked. We’re all still alive, and that’s awesome, but we didn’t come here to talk about this.”
“No, you came to use our shower and eat our food as a thank you for setting us up to be almost killed," Brian snaps. "If you think either of us are walking away from this now, you really are as stupid as you all look.”
"You think we're going to let you fight?" Pete scoffs. "You don't know shit about shit."
"Well, scrawny, just how do you think you're going to stop us?" Bob demands.
Joe snaps his fingers, and there's a flash, an only mildly deafening boom, some sparks, and some smoke. All four of them are watching Bob and Brian, who both stare back, largely unaffected. There's a faint odor of sulfur in the air.
"Really? Really? Really now. I manage shit bands for a living," Brian sighs. "I've seen, heard, and smelt worse in a belching contest."
Bob points at Joe. "Also? Do that again? And you'll be smoking out of your ass for a year."
The four of them blink at Bob and Brian for a minute. Patrick even opens his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out.
Brian nods. "That's right, assholes. Now fill us in."
|-|
Two and a half days of arguing, phone calls, and extensive research later, they have a plan. Bob fully believes it is a stupid plan that is going to end with all of them dead, but he’s prepared to deal with those consequences. Just. Anything to get him out of the small, cramped quarters, largely alone, with Pete Wentz.
Patrick had declared Pete confined to the room after he’d snuck out with clear intentions to track Alfred and Squeaky down right around sunrise that first night. Bob remembers thinking after that fight in the alley that he could take any of these four, but watching Andy read Pete the Riot Act after Joe had dragged him back, with Patrick standing a silent, fuming sentinel against the wall behind them, makes Bob reconsider his assumptions.
“You are a stupid, stupid son of a fucking bitch, Pete Wentz,” Patrick growls once Andy is finished and even Joe has added his two cents via sad puppy eyes and drooping hair. “If you ever pull that shit again, I will kill you, find a vamp to bring you back, and then fucking stake you so I don’t have to deal with the fucking body, are we clear?” Patrick had backed Pete into the corner of the room, looming over the taller man just by the force of his fury, and Pete had nodded desperately in agreement.
Bob’s pretty fucking sure that Patrick could just run him over if he just set his mind to it. Not that Bob is all that raring to test his little theory. But spending the vast majority of the rest of those two days stuck in the motel room with Pete while the other four go off doing their research, because apparently Bob is the only one who is both large enough and collected enough to keep Pete in the room like Patrick ordered and to keep from killing Pete when all that collective time spent in a small room with nothing to do starts driving Pete - sometimes literally - up the walls, is just cruel and unusual punishment.
And Bob’s fairly sure he hasn’t done anything to warrant said cruelty. Even if he has been vocal about his disagreement with the plan.
“Christ, Bryar, you didn’t bitch this much about that Scepters tour,” Brian snaps. “What the fuck is the problem?”
Bob glares at him, doing his best to ignore the way Pete and Patrick are watching him. He just knows Pete is going to pout, an actually pout, the kind that turns Patrick into a fuming mass of overprotectiveness, and how the fuck is this his life again? “I don’t know, Schechter, maybe that whole part of the plan where I’m supposed to hole up in a fucking coffin with Pete fucking Wentz for company?”
Bob sees Pete flinch out of the corner of his eye as Joe exhales, “Harsh, man.” in a sharp rush of breath. Bob ignores them both.
“Not to mention that whole part where you four are supposed to deliver us to an entire nest of bloodsucking vampires?” Bob finishes.
“Not to mention,” Brian repeats dryly. He smirks at Bob.
Bob glares at him. He runs a hand over his head, idly thinking that he needs to buzz his hair again. “No, Schechter. You are a dirty, dirty little man, and I do not appreciate it.”
“Your type,” Brian says.
Bob snorts. “Short, tattooed, and spazzy does not add up to ‘my type.’ Asshole.” Brian just keeps watching him, and Bob finally throws his hands up in the air. He really, really needs to get away from these people, fucking shit, he’s starting to pick up they’re stupid fucking mannerisms. “Fine! But I maintain the right to say I told you so when this shit goes horribly, horribly fucking wrong.”
“Duly noted, Pinky,” Andy breaks in. “Can we get on with this now?”
Bob grumbles under his breathe, but he sits down - as far from Pete as he can - and listens to Andy and Brian go through the plan one last time.
|-|
Other than a few minor difficulties, the plan pretty much goes like, well. Planned.
This does not make Bob feel better.
“Christ, Bryar, you are such a fucking baby,” Brian mutters. He’s wrapping up half of Bob’s left arm - from his shoulder to his elbow - where one of the bloodsucker’s pet mutts had torn the skin wide open.
Bob glares. “No one said anything about having to fight off fucking dogs.”
“Expect the unexpected, dude!” Joe exclaims. “Dogs are totally like the Spanish Inquisition, seriously. No one ever expects either, and they always, always should.” He nods a couple of times, like each nod is needed to hammer his advice home. Joe, Bob suspects, is a tad-bit high. Bob figures being a little high is the reward for swallowing that awful smelling shit that Joe’s taken after Andy had finished wrapping up his own battle wounds.
Of course, Bob has noticed that Joe spends a good deal of his time high. So that is neither here nor there.
Brian steps back from Bob, glaring. “Well, sweetheart, if you’d bothered to fucking duck, you wouldn’t have had to worry about it, would you?” He turns away and puts the last of the bandages back into the first aid kit slash duffle bag.
Bob glares at Brian’s back. “Right. How the fuck was I supposed to duck a fucking dog?” He rotates his arm gingerly. It fucking hurts: sharp jolts of pain straight up through the shoulder that then cascade down his spine. Bob knows he’s damn lucky they aren’t still on tour, because there’s no way in hell he’d be able to do his job with one working arm and another that goes a tiny bit numb through the fingers whenever he moves it.
“I’m not sure, Bryar. Perhaps you could try ducking?” Brian suggests.
“Don’t look now, Patrick, but I think Dad and Daddy are having a fight,” Pete stage whispers. He isn’t at all repentant when both Brian and Bob turn their glares on him.
Patrick pulls his hat further down his forehead. “It was their first fight, Pete. Shut up.”
It had been their first fight if one looks at it a certain way. It is like every brawl or ragtag fisticuff they had ever ended up involved in had just been a taster course for this one. When Pete had said that they didn’t know shit from shit, he hadn’t been completely wrong.
Of course, not knowing his shit hadn’t stopped Bob from pulling Pete out of the paths of two very angry bloodsuckers.
The plan had been simple: deliver Bob and Pete right under the vampires’ radar, cause a diversion, and take out as many of the bloodsuckers as possible - aiming for the Masters and higher ranking peons - without dying themselves.
(Both Bob and Brian had been concerned about the connivance of having both nests together at once, and of their own volition to boot, but Andy had waved off their concerns with a simple, “This shit falls together every damn time. Vampires, like most evil bastards, are arrogant to the point of extreme stupidity. If you ever find yourselves nudging the fuckers into line, then you know you’re in some deep shit.”
“Meaning, even if we spent the next month picking them off, one by one, they’d still think they had the upper hand?” Brian had asked.
“Yep. And we’d still get the jump on them, too.” Andy had shrugged, spinning a drumstick-cum-stake around his fingers. “Only, we don’t have the month to waste, so we hit them now.”)
What the plan hadn’t called for was Joe being nabbed by some lone wolf looking to gain favor in the eyes of either or both Masters right after Bob and Pete’s coffin had been passed off and right before the other four could sneak their way inside the warehouse turned bloodsucker meeting ground. Patrick, Brian and Andy had had to go in through the front door, as it were, instead of sneaking all quiet like through the back. Meaning they all missed the damn dogs.
Well, missed them right up until one of the bastard curs latched itself onto Bob’s left arm.
“They didn’t do too badly,” Pete agrees. He’s draped himself over Patrick’s back, which should hinder Patrick in his packing, but Patrick just seems resigned to the fate. “We killed off the big bads, and no one died, so I call this one a win!”
“Any one you walk away from?” Brian asks drolly. Joe and Pete laugh, but Andy nods in all seriousness.
“What are your plans now?” He asks them. He has folded himself up on top of the dresser, his bags packed and lying on the floor under his feet.
“Head back to Chicago,” Bob shrugs. Then winces when his wound makes very clear that he is an idiot for both the movement and for forgetting that he had almost lost that arm earlier that night. “Find another tour or maybe a sound gig in a club. Whatever.”
“Tour?” Andy asks. Actually, he sounds less like he’s asking and more like he’s prodding them along. Bob narrows his eyes at him, but Andy just grins.
“Yeah, I tour manage, Bob does sound, and we both tech as needed,” Brian explains as he sets the first aid duffle next to the others by the door. He shoves his hands in his pockets for wont of something else to do. Bob’s pretty sure that they’ve talked professions before, but if everyone wants to rehash old conversations, he isn’t going to stop them.
“Well, how about you skip going back to Chicago and jump right into going with us?” Pete asks. “We start a tour in Philly in three days, and we could use the extra hands.”
“You can’t afford me,” Bob tells him. They really, really can’t. “Let alone both of us.”
Pete waves off his objection. “We can take it out in trade. You do your thing for our band, and we’ll train you up on everything that you’ll ever need to know about what goes bump in the night.”
Bob and Brian look at each other. Bob knows he can afford to go bumming around for a while before his savings account starts to squeal - that’s why Bob let Brian talk him into doing the Scepters tour for free - but he isn’t exactly privy to the state of Brian’s own finances.
“Also, we can pay you,” Patrick sighs. “Just not as much as you’re used too.”
“And that’ll only last as long as our relative obscurity,” Pete interjects. He’s grinning his big monkey grin, and Bob wants to slap him. Bob certainly shouldn’t be contemplating spending any more time in cramped spaces with Wentz. Obviously Bob had taken one too many blows to the head, because he is contemplating it.
“Fall Out Boy is going to be the next big thing, just you wait and see!” Pete continues.
Brian frowns. “Fall Out Boy? You mean that punk-pop-rock fusion thing out of Chicago?”
Pete nods rapidly. It doesn’t help the monkey image. “Totally all Joe’s idea. Awesomeness.”
Brian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Then he looks at Bob. “Can’t be any worse than Scepters.”
Bob snorts. “If it is, I expect cash and the good shit, Cupcake.”
“Whatever, Bryar.” Brian rolls his eyes. “You still aren’t worth the good shit.”
Pete lets out a loud whooping sound and launches himself from Patrick’s side onto Brian. They fall to the floor, Brian cursing Pete’s family back six generations. Pete just hollers, “Welcome to the insanity, motherfuckers! Where feedback and hangovers are the least of you problems.”
Bob shakes his head, not moving an inch toward helping Brian off of the floor, even though Brian is all but begging for his help. Bob has a bad feeling about this, the same feeling from the bar, only magnified about ten thousand. “I don’t care what wants to kill you, Wentz, feedback is always preventable.”
|-|
It’s just a nightmare. The same one with the bodies lying around him, the van running behind him, the sun hot above him, even the same feathers on the ground following him. Brian’s still broken and twisted, and Bob recognizes a few more of the bodies lying further out - Andy and Joe crumpled next to that tree, Pete and Patrick on top of each other by that boulder, Matt’s torso next to one tree while a few feet away is his head and limbs are by another.
Bob is holding a knife in one hand and a stake in the other. Both are clean, like he’d arrived too late to do anything. Bob glares up at the sun for a long moment before turning around and marching back to the van.
He still doesn’t know the how or the why, but that isn’t going to stop him. The apocalypse isn’t going to happen on his watch.
It’s just a nightmare.
|-|
Pete had said Fall Out Boy needed the extra hands, but apparently what he’d actually meant is Fall Out Boy is in serious need of support people with actual brains instead of the dumbasses currently following them around. Brian makes short work of releasing all three of the band’s techs after he’s introduced to them as the acting tour manager. Then he brings in a tech he and Bob have both worked with in the past to round out the crew.
Matt Cortez is everything Pete Wentz could be, if Pete would ever use an ounce of the self-control given to him, and if Pete wasn’t as much of an attention whore as he obviously is. Bob really couldn’t care less either way; he’s just glad to have someone mildly sane to work with again. And it helps that Cortez is totally chill.
“Vampires exist? No shit. I guess I should have listened more to mi bisabuela, huh?” Matt says after Andy gives him the ‘everything you ever feared was under your bed is’ speech. Then he shrugs and wanders off to tune guitars or whatever it is that he actually gets up to when he isn’t hanging out. Bob doesn’t have a clue, but he isn’t going to knock the guy for actually being able to find privacy in a lifestyle that doesn’t particularly allow for it.
The first week or so of the tour is hectic, but that in and of itself isn’t unusual. Tours are always hectic, from start to finish. In Bob’s experience that is a fundamental truth that doesn’t change no matter if it is the first week, third week or the last week of a tour. What changes is a person’s perspective; just about anything can become routine if a person sticks to it long enough.
Strangely enough - or not strange enough, depending on how Bob looks at it - adding Patrick’s and Andy’s ‘lessons’ to the mix of drive, set up, soundcheck, show, take down, party, drive, rinse and repeat, doesn’t really change much. Sure, Bob’s stuck listening to either Patrick or Andy droning on and on about this myth about werewolves or that curse for cheating significant others or that one time Pete talked Patrick into wearing a bearsuit for a week as part of some hoax protection spell instead of the radio on the long drives between shows. But nothing is trying to eat him or his (most of the time anyway, and Bob still isn’t sure that that little imp like thing that had latched onto Brian had actually planned on eating him - like digestion eating anyway), so Bob’s fairly content.
Thankfully, Fall Out Boy isn’t just a smokescreen excuse for the guys to travel around the country without too many awkward questions being asked. Unlike Scepters, this band manages to produce something that does more than just give off a passing resemblance to music. Bob finds himself tapping out a melody to the bassline during that first soundcheck, which makes him admit that the guys have a vague idea what they’re doing; even if it isn’t the type of music he’d pick up on his own.
Brian finds Bob smoking out by the trailer after soundcheck about two weeks in. He bums Bob’s lighter to light his own cigarette, before leaning back against the graffiti covered trailer next to Bob, their arms just brushing. “These guys could be the real thing,” Brian says on a smoky exhale.
Bob just nods. He’s seen the way heads have been turning after the sets start, once Patrick opens his mouth with Pete, Andy, and Joe all hypnotic blurry whirlwinds around him. Brian’s been fielding five or six more phone calls per day for interviews and radio spots. If the band doesn’t do something incredibly stupid, Fall Out Boy is going to explode on the main scene within a year, two tops, if not drastically sooner.
Brian watches his next exhale disappear into the cold night sky. “I’d say they’d have to be luckier than they are talented to break the way the scene is playing out now, but...”
Anyone who can attack a warehouse full of vampires (and their fucking mutts) with two untested fighters (who only brought the odds from about six-to-one to about four-to-one), and come out not only alive, but victorious? With everyone they went in there with?
“Yeah, they already have all the luck they need,” Bob agrees.
They watch in silence as the band falls out of the back door into the parking lot. Literally falls out. Joe has been experimenting with a couple of spells Andy had found in some old dead guy’s journal, but so far all he’s really managed to do is produce some truly spectacular bruises (on both himself and his bandmates; Bob, Brian and Matt have managed to keep their distances, mostly by hiding in the other van) and raise Brian’s blood pressure through the roof.
“Then again, I may just kill them myself first,” Brian mutters after he checks the rest of the lot to make sure no one else saw that. Other than Bob, Brian and the band, there’s only Matt leaning against the other van talking on his cell. Matt’s only reaction is to hold up a hastily made sign with the number eight point five scribbled on it.
Matt Cortez is one chill fucker.
“Just do it where we can blame the bloodsuckers,” Bob tells Brian.
Brian glares at Bob before he stomps over to the band. Bob is always a little surprised at how Brian’s voice goes somewhat breathlessly squeaky at the end of his words whenever he’s really mad. It’s sort of adorable, in a deadly, freakish leprechaun sort of way.
Bob stubs his cigarette out against the side of the trailer. Brian is yelling, Pete and Joe are laughing at him while Patrick and Andy at least have the good graces to try to look apologetic (though they are totally laughing, too), and Matt is heading over to Bob, his cell tucked away into a spare pocket.
Yep, anything can become routine if a person just waits long enough.
|-|
“So. What’s up with you and Brian?” Patrick asks a couple of weeks later. They are in the lull of time just after set up and right before soundcheck and Bob is wasting time fiddling with the soundboard. Something is wonky with the club’s setup, and nothing sounds like Bob wants it to. He can’t fix it without re-wiring the entire place, but that isn’t stopping him from trying to find a different setup that will, if not make the guys sound awesome, at least make them sound less like claws on a chalkboard.
Bob doesn’t bother looking up from his board. He’s been waiting for that question for almost two months, though he’d expected Andy or Pete to ask it. But both of them are off with Brian talking to a couple of local DJs, and Joe has Matt cornered in the dressing room. Something about a bong, duct tape, and Cookie Crisp; Bob really doesn’t want to know. Which left Patrick to finally pop the question.
“Nothing,” Bob tells him. It’s the truth, too. Maybe something could have happened back when they first met, but now they’re both too firmly set in their friendship. That, and Bob really isn’t all that interested in short, temperamental, highly tattooed men.
Patrick is silent for a couple of minutes. In that time he manages to fiddle with his hat, his guitar, Bob’s water bottle, his water bottle, a random scrap of paper he finds under the soundboard and his hat again. Then he sighs, shuffling back and forth on his feet. “Pete is taking bets on the two of you already being married.”
Bob snorts. Pete would. “Really.”
“Joe thinks you two are getting the papers ready to adopt adorable African orphans.”
Bob rubs a hand over his face. Gingerly because his jaw is still sore from where the water demon-thing had hit him with its tail a couple of days before. “You really don’t need two guitarists, do you?”
“You can’t kill Joe. Or Pete,” Patrick tells him. Patrick is scowling, and Bob sort of wishes he had the heart to tell him that scowling makes him look like a pouting puppy. Then Bob remembers that making Patrick look ridiculous is fucking funny and now one of the few joys of Bob’s life. And Bob is not a killjoy.
“And you’ll stop me how?” Bob asks. Because the only thing funnier than Patrick scowling is making Patrick grumble.
“So, anyway,” Patrick says after muttering to himself for a minute. “You and Brian.”
Bob sighs. “We’re friends. You four are like fucking gossipy little old ladies. Fuck off.” He looks up from the board just long enough to glare at Patrick. “Or you’ll sound like shit tonight.”
“Right,” Patrick snorts, but he moves away from the amp he was leaning against. “Because you’d actually fuck with your reputation like that,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks away.
Bob scowls at the board. He’s half tempted to do it anyway, but the little fucker is right. Asshole.
|-|
Patrick and Andy have been taking care of Brian and Bob’s ‘formal’ education on all things meant for bedtime stories and box office hits. No one, not even Pete, trusts Pete to have anything to do with imparting information that might one day save or end someone else’s life. Patrick still hasn’t forgiven Pete for the whole bearsuit stunt, and it had been two years since that little incident. Besides, in turns out that Pete’s more of a hands on type instructor.
And Joe. Well. Joe’s area of expertise didn’t really translate well to long stretches of boring highway. Especially when those long stretches of boring highway translate more to Joe smoking up and giggling by the amps in the back of the vans than anything else.
About two hours after they all left Detroit, Joe pretty much just hands over copies of his recipes and a handy-dandy notebook filled with notes and picture references (Seriously. Joe titled it, “My Handy-Dandy Notebook Filled with Notes and Picture References For Everything You Ever Needed, Might Need, Do Need to Not Die of Magical-ish Causes.”), and a first aid kit filled with everything they might need. The kit is a duplicate of the duffle that had bandaged them all up after the fight in Detroit, except for the masking tape and blue ink scrawl that labeled everything nicely, if not neatly.
Bob rolls his eyes when he sees the labels, but at least neither of them are going to accidentally kill themselves grabbing the wrong herb or whatever for a potion or a spell or whatever they might need the shit for.
Two months spent tangling with water demons, werewolves, vampires, one seriously pissed off ghost, and other supernatural odds and ends meant Bob and Brian spent a good deal of time pulling shit out of their duffel. Bob only fucks up once, pulling crushed topaz instead of ground beetle, but they are lucky enough to blame Brian’s blue hair on a successful Wentz-Trohman prank victory.
If Bob is starting to get the impression that Pete and Andy are training him and Brian up to work on their own or something, he’s willing to look the other way for now. When Brian starts to foist more and more of the tour manager’s responsibilities onto Matt, like he’s come to suspect something himself, Bob looks so far in the other direction the image is burned onto the back of his eyelids.
|-|
Master Post - Part 2