Sid Vicious, This Is Not An Episode of Scooby Doo [bandom, FOB]
Title: Sid Vicious, This Is Not An Episode of Scooby Doo
Fandom: Bandom (FOB, gen & crack) [2100 words]
Author: zeplum
A/N: This started in September during a AIM chat with my friend Karl, about hoodies and eyeliner and how maybe Sid Vicious is rolling over a little in his grave. And, bingo. Not written purely to make me laugh, but possibly nearly. Notes with links are at the bottom, and a few are in the story itself. Themeatic inspiration also came heavily from the Venture Bros. episode "I Know Why the Caged Bird Kills". Title is bastardized Eddie Izzard.
Also, have I mentioned? Crack.
If there had been bumper stickers, they might've read: Strange Shit Happens On Tour -- Keep Back 500ft, or perhaps something slightly more Wentzian and clever (the two actually are occasionally on speaking terms, despite common appearances).
Like, say, What Happens On Tour, Stays On Tour, except that would be false advertising and Pete, no matter what his other faults might be, loathed false advertising. (He had been known to pass the whole International Web Wang incident off as part of his crusade against false advertising, but only a select few were buying that particular bridge.) And it would be false advertising to say that the strange shit that happened on their tours didn't follow them home.
Okay, the Summer of Like stayed put (mostly), but the rest was kinda variable? The turning into cats and switching bodies, and the zombie attack? The rash of gender-switchery? (They had barely lived through Spencer as a girl, wielding deadly and hot stilettos. Okay, Pete and Brendon had barely lived through it; everyone else had either run away or locked himself off. He and Brendon had been brave, okay?) And dude, what about the time travel?
Shit like that happened on tour all the time, but sometimes it happened off the road too. Like when facial hair tried to eat all of Panic!
Oh, wait.
Or that time that Tyson Ritter's leg got haunted, and Nick kept calling to complain and/or whine because apparently some of the tantric shit they did wasn't kosher with a haunted human body part involved.
So a few very long stories short, Pete Wentz was used to craziness. Fuck, he usually helped to facilitate the crazy in some shape or form, but this? This was not on.
Especially when it took all day for Patrick to notice something was off.
"Hey, what happened to your," Patrick asked, hand fluttering in front of his own face to mimic something apparently egregiously wrong about Pete's.
Pete kept fiddling with his guitar strap, idly listening to the crowd from backstage. Sounded like it might be a good show -- kids were appropriately hyped. It would be a good show, even if --
"-- stole my eyeliner," Pete mumbled. He had this all planned out. Patrick was supposed to notice earlier, or at least late enough that Pete could have this conversation back on the bus. Not right in front of 25,000 adoring eyes. Pairs of eyes? Whatever.
"Wait, who stole your eyeliner?"
Pete, who'd had entirely too many years practicing the fine art of misdirection and distraction and pulling bunnies out of hats, Pete knew that he'd never truly be able to do that with Patrick. Not for very long anyway, and nothing with something as crazy sounding as this. Patrick's bullshit meter was pretty sensitive -- the part where it was attuned to or by Pete was pretty academic.
As was the part where they spoke in italics. A lot.
"A ghost, okay? A ghost stole my eyeliner!"
There was only enough time for Patrick to make a award winning What the Fuckity Fuck? face, and for Joe, finally taking an interest in possibly one of their more bizarre conversations ever to raise his eyebrows before the call to go on stage.
::
Later, back on the bus...
"A ghost stole your eyeliner." Andy was starting to get into Columbo mode. Andy was a good man to have around in a crisis, even a ghostly one.
"This is what I've been trying to tell you."
"So it's not just a sudden lifestyle choice, you giving up the guyliner to go into the emo nunnery or something?"
Pete tried to glare, but apparently the effect wasn't up to its usual snuff.
Joe just laughed at him. "Not so scary without the liner, dude. Sorry."
"Not helping, Joe." Ah, Patrick, always the voice of reason. "Some pretty fucked up things happen on tour, Pete --"
He didn't get to finish his comment before they all started jumping in with examples:
"People turning into girls overnight, Beckett declaring all out war -"
"Greta going evil --"
"Not limited to tour, Joe. "
"True, but somehow it's always better on tour."
"Point."
"Woo!"
"Hell, Ryan Ross is dating a girl."
They all sat in silence for a moment, contemplating that one.
"Shocking, I know," Pete blurt out, anxious again. Because no matter how wacky Ross' dating habits, the ghost was not stealing Ryan's make up, he was stealing Pete's. "But remember? Ghost. Eyeliner!"
"So, assuming there really is a ghost --"
"There is," Pete cut Patrick off.
"Why would he want to steal all your stuff? Is he a klepto ghost or is there something special about your eyeliner?"
From the look on Patrick's face, Pete knew that he was seriously trying not to laugh. Andy and Joe had failed at that a while back and were now openly giggling on the sofa. But Patrick was still trying to reason with him. Pete grinned.
"No, I don't think he's kelpto. I don't remember hearing that about him or reading it on Wikipedia this morning, but it's definitely a mission. The eyeliner is just the first step."
"Wait, Pete, are you saying that you know who the ghost is?"
"Uh, yeah. Didn't I mention that?"
"NO!"
Running a weary hand over his face, Patrick asked the question, "So who is he?"
"Sid Vicious."
Joe let out a roar of laughter so loud Pete flinched. "Sid Vicious is haunting you? Oh, dude, this totally trumps the time that Tyson's leg was haunted!"
"Why is Sid Vicious haunting you?"
"He said that I wasn't living up to punk standards. At least, that's what I think he said. It's kind of hard to understand him."
"You're talking to Sid Vicious from beyond the grave?" Now Patrick sounded excitable, which could be good or could be bad. Pete decided to go with good.
"Not talking, so much. Like I said. He opens his mouth and mumbles something and I know he's insulting me with foul language I've never even heard of before. He's not pulling some Jacob Marley routine, standing there rattling chains. Hey, I wonder if the bus is like one giant ouija board!"
"Does he float? Is he transparent?"
"Nope, he pretty much sits on the edge of Patrick's bunk and insults me. If he weren’t stealing my shit, it would be almost cool. Y'know, last night he was yelling at me because my bass has glitter on it? He's pretty mad, and kind of random, but considering his brain may be fried --"
And that's when Pete remembered to look at his best friend. Patrick's eyebrows had disappeared under the hat and the bangs and the general flush of Patrick's face, and his eyes were a little wide with manic glee behind the glasses. Pete, honestly, was a little scared of that look -- manic glee on a musical genius could lead to great things. It could also lead to breakdowns. Pete never wanted to be the cause of a Patrick breakdown. Ever.
"Sid Vicious," he said, a little in awe. "Sitting on my bunk. While I sleep."
"Yeah dude, while you sleep. And then annoying the fuck out of me and bogarting my stuff!!"
"Maybe he's been appeased, y'know, with the eyeliner and all."
"Yeah, thanks Andy."
"Hey, you never know. The spirit world is a mysterious place. You don't know what his motivations are."
"I've seen "Sid & Nancy", thanks. I can pretty much guess."
"Harsh, man. Harsh."
"Well, whatever. I'm sleeping with my bass tonight."
::
Turned out that a Fender bass wasn't exactly the best body pillow, so when Pete woke up, tired and cranky from the previous night's round with Sid, his bass was still there, but he was sore like a mofo.
And now he was chilly. Cold even. At first, he thought maybe someone had come through the bus during the night and played Laundry Fairy.
Except this Laundry Fairy had only taken the bus' supply of hoodies.
Patrick glared at him. So did Joe. Andy just gave him some look that Pete decided to interpret as "fucking karmic retribution, man" and left it at that.
And then Pete left the bus.
Something wasn't right. It was like being in one of those weird horror movies, where only one tiny thing is off -- like say, clones from pods are replacing everyone -- but life goes on normally. Almost.
The tour was hardly in shambles. People were up, moving around. Smoking, drinking their body weight in coffee, and kids were already lining up get in. And that's when he noticed it.
The kids had hoodies. Even in the summer heat, they had hoodies. That was normal. What was not normal was that the entire tour was sans-hoodies. And they looked cold, lost even.
Damned ghost had gone too far. Nobody messed with their hoodies.
*
It could've been a coup for Clan gear, but instead it turned into a near riot. Okay, maybe riot was exaggerating a little bit, but these kids without flimsy outerwear to defend them against the ravages of bus ACs and squealing fangirls alike? Not a pretty picture. And then someone leaked the rumor that Pete was being haunted and it was the oni that was responsible for the hoodie theft, and Operation: Hoodie Snatch was born.
Pete was proud of the baby Decaydance band that thought it up -- it referenced crime capers and was dirty all at the same time. He made a mental note to see if he could have Bill and the Academy boys mentor the band a subsequent tour.
If there they could finish this tour, because the way everyone was trying to overturn his bus? It was a tad questionable.
Andy was the only one with a halfway-viable suggestion. "Maybe we should consider a cleansing ritual?"
"With what, heroin and beer?"
"I was thinking burning some sage, but if that works --"
"Hey! Sid!" Pete yelled. And sure enough, a vague human form started to become clear, hovering, mid-air, in the aisle between the bunks.
"Dude, you didn't tell us he could float!"
"At least he's not sitting in your bunk now, Patrick."
"Guys?"
"Sorry, Pete. Exercise away."
And then Pete does what he does best. Bullshits, pontificates, charms. "Listen dude, I can understand that you're angry, confused, but things are different now -- or maybe kinda the same. We still spread the word; we just make shit work for us. More time for the Playstation that way. And so what if we don't destroy our shit all the time?"
"Yeah," Joe piped up, nodding to the rocker boot. "Pete just destroys himself."
Pete rolled his eyes, "Thanks, Joe."
"Glad to help."
"Sid, there are plenty of other people you could be haunting. We've got it, we're good. We just want our clothes back because we're cold."
There was an incoherent splutter from the Sid Form, something between a metaphysical raspberry and a shrug, and then the form started to disappear.
They all called goodbye, good luck and "Down with the Queen! and all that," hoping that it had really worked. And then Pete decided that if he had to deal with this bullshit, then at least he could pass it on to some other worthy assholes.
"Oh, and hey, go see Frank and Gerard! They make out on stage to subvert heteronormative values! Can you get any more punk than that?"
That earned him a metaphysical squawk, and then Sid was gone.
"Bon Voy-ageeeee!" Joe waved.
"Okay, NOW can we get our shit back?"
::
The tours' hoodie collection was found in a large pile outside the Orange Julius at the local mall. Thankfully, Doug was there at the time, found out what had happened, and made the appropriate calls.
"You think Sid Vicious had a yen for Orange Julius?" Patrick asked.
"Is that a question the we really need answered?" Pete told him, plucking the yellow and blue stripped hoodie he’d stolen from Siska from the FOB pile. "Score."
::
And everyone lived happily ever after, especially Frank and Gerard, who thought it was rather wicked fucking cool when Sid decided to drop by for a visit. Even if they did traumatize him a little -- and then traumatize him a little more when they had to discuss whether non-corporeal forms could really be traumatized by acts of a purely consensual and hotass nature.
Whatever. They'd send Wentz and company a really nice holiday card.
-the end-
For other strange shit that happens in bandom on a regular basis:
For some of the genderswitching thing; or Misplaced by coffeewordangel where Mikey turns into a cat; or when it's Frank Iero: The Tiniest Fanboy by the lovely lovelypoet written for the equally as lovely schuyler. And as for the haunted leg, I got that from my friend Lulu, but have yet to be able to find the original quote source, so update on that one too.
Fandom: Bandom (FOB, gen & crack) [2100 words]
Author: zeplum
A/N: This started in September during a AIM chat with my friend Karl, about hoodies and eyeliner and how maybe Sid Vicious is rolling over a little in his grave. And, bingo. Not written purely to make me laugh, but possibly nearly. Notes with links are at the bottom, and a few are in the story itself. Themeatic inspiration also came heavily from the Venture Bros. episode "I Know Why the Caged Bird Kills". Title is bastardized Eddie Izzard.
Also, have I mentioned? Crack.
If there had been bumper stickers, they might've read: Strange Shit Happens On Tour -- Keep Back 500ft, or perhaps something slightly more Wentzian and clever (the two actually are occasionally on speaking terms, despite common appearances).
Like, say, What Happens On Tour, Stays On Tour, except that would be false advertising and Pete, no matter what his other faults might be, loathed false advertising. (He had been known to pass the whole International Web Wang incident off as part of his crusade against false advertising, but only a select few were buying that particular bridge.) And it would be false advertising to say that the strange shit that happened on their tours didn't follow them home.
Okay, the Summer of Like stayed put (mostly), but the rest was kinda variable? The turning into cats and switching bodies, and the zombie attack? The rash of gender-switchery? (They had barely lived through Spencer as a girl, wielding deadly and hot stilettos. Okay, Pete and Brendon had barely lived through it; everyone else had either run away or locked himself off. He and Brendon had been brave, okay?) And dude, what about the time travel?
Shit like that happened on tour all the time, but sometimes it happened off the road too. Like when facial hair tried to eat all of Panic!
Oh, wait.
Or that time that Tyson Ritter's leg got haunted, and Nick kept calling to complain and/or whine because apparently some of the tantric shit they did wasn't kosher with a haunted human body part involved.
So a few very long stories short, Pete Wentz was used to craziness. Fuck, he usually helped to facilitate the crazy in some shape or form, but this? This was not on.
Especially when it took all day for Patrick to notice something was off.
"Hey, what happened to your," Patrick asked, hand fluttering in front of his own face to mimic something apparently egregiously wrong about Pete's.
Pete kept fiddling with his guitar strap, idly listening to the crowd from backstage. Sounded like it might be a good show -- kids were appropriately hyped. It would be a good show, even if --
"-- stole my eyeliner," Pete mumbled. He had this all planned out. Patrick was supposed to notice earlier, or at least late enough that Pete could have this conversation back on the bus. Not right in front of 25,000 adoring eyes. Pairs of eyes? Whatever.
"Wait, who stole your eyeliner?"
Pete, who'd had entirely too many years practicing the fine art of misdirection and distraction and pulling bunnies out of hats, Pete knew that he'd never truly be able to do that with Patrick. Not for very long anyway, and nothing with something as crazy sounding as this. Patrick's bullshit meter was pretty sensitive -- the part where it was attuned to or by Pete was pretty academic.
As was the part where they spoke in italics. A lot.
"A ghost, okay? A ghost stole my eyeliner!"
There was only enough time for Patrick to make a award winning What the Fuckity Fuck? face, and for Joe, finally taking an interest in possibly one of their more bizarre conversations ever to raise his eyebrows before the call to go on stage.
::
Later, back on the bus...
"A ghost stole your eyeliner." Andy was starting to get into Columbo mode. Andy was a good man to have around in a crisis, even a ghostly one.
"This is what I've been trying to tell you."
"So it's not just a sudden lifestyle choice, you giving up the guyliner to go into the emo nunnery or something?"
Pete tried to glare, but apparently the effect wasn't up to its usual snuff.
Joe just laughed at him. "Not so scary without the liner, dude. Sorry."
"Not helping, Joe." Ah, Patrick, always the voice of reason. "Some pretty fucked up things happen on tour, Pete --"
He didn't get to finish his comment before they all started jumping in with examples:
"People turning into girls overnight, Beckett declaring all out war -"
"Greta going evil --"
"Not limited to tour, Joe. "
"True, but somehow it's always better on tour."
"Point."
"Woo!"
"Hell, Ryan Ross is dating a girl."
They all sat in silence for a moment, contemplating that one.
"Shocking, I know," Pete blurt out, anxious again. Because no matter how wacky Ross' dating habits, the ghost was not stealing Ryan's make up, he was stealing Pete's. "But remember? Ghost. Eyeliner!"
"So, assuming there really is a ghost --"
"There is," Pete cut Patrick off.
"Why would he want to steal all your stuff? Is he a klepto ghost or is there something special about your eyeliner?"
From the look on Patrick's face, Pete knew that he was seriously trying not to laugh. Andy and Joe had failed at that a while back and were now openly giggling on the sofa. But Patrick was still trying to reason with him. Pete grinned.
"No, I don't think he's kelpto. I don't remember hearing that about him or reading it on Wikipedia this morning, but it's definitely a mission. The eyeliner is just the first step."
"Wait, Pete, are you saying that you know who the ghost is?"
"Uh, yeah. Didn't I mention that?"
"NO!"
Running a weary hand over his face, Patrick asked the question, "So who is he?"
"Sid Vicious."
Joe let out a roar of laughter so loud Pete flinched. "Sid Vicious is haunting you? Oh, dude, this totally trumps the time that Tyson's leg was haunted!"
"Why is Sid Vicious haunting you?"
"He said that I wasn't living up to punk standards. At least, that's what I think he said. It's kind of hard to understand him."
"You're talking to Sid Vicious from beyond the grave?" Now Patrick sounded excitable, which could be good or could be bad. Pete decided to go with good.
"Not talking, so much. Like I said. He opens his mouth and mumbles something and I know he's insulting me with foul language I've never even heard of before. He's not pulling some Jacob Marley routine, standing there rattling chains. Hey, I wonder if the bus is like one giant ouija board!"
"Does he float? Is he transparent?"
"Nope, he pretty much sits on the edge of Patrick's bunk and insults me. If he weren’t stealing my shit, it would be almost cool. Y'know, last night he was yelling at me because my bass has glitter on it? He's pretty mad, and kind of random, but considering his brain may be fried --"
And that's when Pete remembered to look at his best friend. Patrick's eyebrows had disappeared under the hat and the bangs and the general flush of Patrick's face, and his eyes were a little wide with manic glee behind the glasses. Pete, honestly, was a little scared of that look -- manic glee on a musical genius could lead to great things. It could also lead to breakdowns. Pete never wanted to be the cause of a Patrick breakdown. Ever.
"Sid Vicious," he said, a little in awe. "Sitting on my bunk. While I sleep."
"Yeah dude, while you sleep. And then annoying the fuck out of me and bogarting my stuff!!"
"Maybe he's been appeased, y'know, with the eyeliner and all."
"Yeah, thanks Andy."
"Hey, you never know. The spirit world is a mysterious place. You don't know what his motivations are."
"I've seen "Sid & Nancy", thanks. I can pretty much guess."
"Harsh, man. Harsh."
"Well, whatever. I'm sleeping with my bass tonight."
::
Turned out that a Fender bass wasn't exactly the best body pillow, so when Pete woke up, tired and cranky from the previous night's round with Sid, his bass was still there, but he was sore like a mofo.
And now he was chilly. Cold even. At first, he thought maybe someone had come through the bus during the night and played Laundry Fairy.
Except this Laundry Fairy had only taken the bus' supply of hoodies.
Patrick glared at him. So did Joe. Andy just gave him some look that Pete decided to interpret as "fucking karmic retribution, man" and left it at that.
And then Pete left the bus.
Something wasn't right. It was like being in one of those weird horror movies, where only one tiny thing is off -- like say, clones from pods are replacing everyone -- but life goes on normally. Almost.
The tour was hardly in shambles. People were up, moving around. Smoking, drinking their body weight in coffee, and kids were already lining up get in. And that's when he noticed it.
The kids had hoodies. Even in the summer heat, they had hoodies. That was normal. What was not normal was that the entire tour was sans-hoodies. And they looked cold, lost even.
Damned ghost had gone too far. Nobody messed with their hoodies.
*
It could've been a coup for Clan gear, but instead it turned into a near riot. Okay, maybe riot was exaggerating a little bit, but these kids without flimsy outerwear to defend them against the ravages of bus ACs and squealing fangirls alike? Not a pretty picture. And then someone leaked the rumor that Pete was being haunted and it was the oni that was responsible for the hoodie theft, and Operation: Hoodie Snatch was born.
Pete was proud of the baby Decaydance band that thought it up -- it referenced crime capers and was dirty all at the same time. He made a mental note to see if he could have Bill and the Academy boys mentor the band a subsequent tour.
If there they could finish this tour, because the way everyone was trying to overturn his bus? It was a tad questionable.
Andy was the only one with a halfway-viable suggestion. "Maybe we should consider a cleansing ritual?"
"With what, heroin and beer?"
"I was thinking burning some sage, but if that works --"
"Hey! Sid!" Pete yelled. And sure enough, a vague human form started to become clear, hovering, mid-air, in the aisle between the bunks.
"Dude, you didn't tell us he could float!"
"At least he's not sitting in your bunk now, Patrick."
"Guys?"
"Sorry, Pete. Exercise away."
And then Pete does what he does best. Bullshits, pontificates, charms. "Listen dude, I can understand that you're angry, confused, but things are different now -- or maybe kinda the same. We still spread the word; we just make shit work for us. More time for the Playstation that way. And so what if we don't destroy our shit all the time?"
"Yeah," Joe piped up, nodding to the rocker boot. "Pete just destroys himself."
Pete rolled his eyes, "Thanks, Joe."
"Glad to help."
"Sid, there are plenty of other people you could be haunting. We've got it, we're good. We just want our clothes back because we're cold."
There was an incoherent splutter from the Sid Form, something between a metaphysical raspberry and a shrug, and then the form started to disappear.
They all called goodbye, good luck and "Down with the Queen! and all that," hoping that it had really worked. And then Pete decided that if he had to deal with this bullshit, then at least he could pass it on to some other worthy assholes.
"Oh, and hey, go see Frank and Gerard! They make out on stage to subvert heteronormative values! Can you get any more punk than that?"
That earned him a metaphysical squawk, and then Sid was gone.
"Bon Voy-ageeeee!" Joe waved.
"Okay, NOW can we get our shit back?"
::
The tours' hoodie collection was found in a large pile outside the Orange Julius at the local mall. Thankfully, Doug was there at the time, found out what had happened, and made the appropriate calls.
"You think Sid Vicious had a yen for Orange Julius?" Patrick asked.
"Is that a question the we really need answered?" Pete told him, plucking the yellow and blue stripped hoodie he’d stolen from Siska from the FOB pile. "Score."
::
And everyone lived happily ever after, especially Frank and Gerard, who thought it was rather wicked fucking cool when Sid decided to drop by for a visit. Even if they did traumatize him a little -- and then traumatize him a little more when they had to discuss whether non-corporeal forms could really be traumatized by acts of a purely consensual and hotass nature.
Whatever. They'd send Wentz and company a really nice holiday card.
-the end-
For other strange shit that happens in bandom on a regular basis:
For some of the genderswitching thing; or Misplaced by coffeewordangel where Mikey turns into a cat; or when it's Frank Iero: The Tiniest Fanboy by the lovely lovelypoet written for the equally as lovely schuyler. And as for the haunted leg, I got that from my friend Lulu, but have yet to be able to find the original quote source, so update on that one too.