Punk | Joey Ritchie (oioioi) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-06-04 08:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | punk |
Who: Punk [Narrative]
What: Just checking in on the bastard.
Where: Punk's apartment outside SoHo.
When: Early Thursday morning.
Warnings: Mild cursing, bit of depresso-Punk.
The past few months had been irritating, to say the least. Irritating but bearable, and that was something Punk could live with sans any serious complaint. He could deal with reminders of why living out in the open amidst other gods was a piss-poor idea, could swagger on and continue to get shit done. The past few weeks, though, were another matter entirely.
His break with Goth was a bigger deal than the New God let on to. The anniversary of Joey's death had passed but left Punk in a mournful funk. The mortal frontman whose name he'd taken on, his fast and crooning American high priest, gone forever and with him yet another tie to what Punk had once been. Just as bad, tomorrow was Dee Dee's anniversary. On top of all that had been the new Green Day album's release, a huge event which in the right circumstances could had left Punk flying high.
Except he was a resentful old man, a dying thing, and Punk wanted nothing to do with them. He lived with the silent but very real fear that groups like them would change him to his very core, turn him into a man he wouldn't be able to recognize. Something soft and comfortable, maybe. Someone who didn't care about the fundamentals. So he'd used what power he had to put on a presentable face at work, giving up the ghost the moment he was outside of Masque's boundaries. The precious few days off he was given were spent in his rat-trap apartment.
Punk holed up there like an agoraphobic. He shook and rattled around the place, a lanky mess, a shade of his normal self. The occasional comment made online held some of his fire, but it was all a show. Since first finding Heroin online and then discovering that yet another New God had been suckered into a relationship with a dust-for-bones ancient -- and damn College for that one, damn him for being what he was, self-obsessed and not considering those of them who fed off of his children for power -- Punk had been a wreck.
The Ramones depression was slow and creeping, all-encompassing. The Green Day album had been a migraine of untold pressure, violent auras haloing everything he was stupid enough to look at. College's betrayal ate at his gut, making it impossible to eat. And Heroin? Ah, Heroin. That, at least, had given him some of his anger back. A single mantra rolled through him whenever Punk dwelled on the drug god.
Dee Dee Sid Dee Dee Sid Dee Dee Sid
Over and over, constant and burning. It made him want to meet with the fucker. It made him want to cozy up close until he could wrap his weak hands around that skinny throat and squeeze the life out of him. It made Punk want the needle so bad that the fight to not go to Heroin and beg for it brought him to his knees.
Instead he lay sprawled out on the shabby floor of his crash-pad, staring at the dingy ceiling above him. It'd been a mistake to ever drop his mortal persona for godly good times again. Sure, they weren't all bad, but given the choice between them and mortals?
Dee Dee Sid Dee Dee Sid Dee Dee Sid
He'd choose the mortals any day.