OBVIOUSLY 5 BELIEVERS. [john]

[jade]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color:white, border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] There was only so much he could do about it, it seemed. Something along the lines of ambiguity. Or something. He didn’t have a clue, really. London was a mess, just like the inner working of his mind – something he would never be able to fully understand. The pairings and fittings and tight little gaps that threatened to close in on him at any given moment. A constant state of perpetual fear. Or something. Either way, he knew the set he just played was downright horseshit. Not that he was ever proud of the work he produced – holding himself at such a high standard was beginning to take more than its toll. It was growing painfully apparent by the number of cigarettes he continuously puffed away at from day to day and the slow thinning of his figure (not that he had much body fat to lose to begin with – however, his pants were steadily growing gappy in the rear). His first time in the UK, as it were. It was essentially just what he expected – he couldn’t escape the barrage of British accents that practically assaulted his ear drums. Not that he had much room to talk, as his own voice was not very soothing on the soul. In fact, as Zippy put it ever so kindly, it was reminiscent of pouring salt on a open wound. Such a delightful comparison, really. He couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. ”Good set, man, ya did good.” ”Thanks…man…” At least someone appreciated his efforts. As he began to pack up his guitar, he silently hoped to himself that he could just slip out unannounced. He dreaded the small talk and the niceties that went along with ‘meet and greets’, or however they were referred. Look, if people liked his music that was superb. But it didn’t mean he had any obligation to stay any longer than the allotted time limit. And he swore on his life that if he was forced to explain what it meant to be the ‘spokesman of a generation’ to a group of slobbering, overgrown children once more…well, let’s just say that the ship would be coming in much sooner than expected. ”Fucking idiots…” Muttering under his breath, the mere thoughts that passed through his mind conjured up feelings of resentment and irritation. He knew that the point of this was not to become jaded – at least that’s not how it started. And for that he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. He played right into the game of which he swore on his life to avoid. But really, what else could be done? It was their fault, not his; and if they wanted to blame him, well, that was their problem and they would have to take it up with whatever god they so believed in – if they chose that sort of life. Picking up the case after safely tucking his harmonica into his back pocket, Dylan quickly made a b-line for the door and for once, was unexpected successful. He assumed it was due to the large number of drunken folk that occupied the club. In fact, they probably had no idea who he was. Splendid. Bursting through the door into the street, it was almost as if he were coming up for air. Inhaling deeply, he paused for a moment on the sidewalk to collect himself. Everything was spinning much too quickly, and he didn’t appreciate it. Nor was he even sure if it was spinning at all. It was probably just a sensation brought upon the high levels of stress he insisted on living in every day of his life. A perfectionist? Perhaps. Neurotic? Only slightly. The bad habits he recently began investing in were no sure aid, either. One step after the other, he was soon quite a distance from the entrance to the club. At least, a safe distance by his regards. There was something unappealing about returning to the hotel room. As much as he enjoyed small, stuffy areas, he was growing fond of the bustle of the London streets; somewhat similar to his New York City home. Heart sinking just a bit, he felt a jerk of homesickness; but only for a moment. Greenwich wasn’t going any place. It would still be there the moment he returned. It was, however, the thought of his own bed that made the fleeting thought nearly unbearable. Shaking off the notion with a quick flick of his head, Bob reached the end of the block and stopped. Glancing off to the side, he couldn’t help but notice a small alley way, and he couldn’t help but recall the small amount of bud nestled in his pocket amongst the lint. Chuckling at the fact that the only thing that proved to lift his spirits was a recreational drug, he ducked into the alley quickly, set his guitar down and set about fishing out the small amount of weed. Expertly, he quickly rolled up a joint, placed it between his lips and lit the end. There would be no spliffs today. And certainly no regrets.

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TAG: john/nobie NOTES: lolwut OUTFIT: click WORDS: dude

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[nobie]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] THEY'RE TRYING HARD TO PUT ME IN MY PLACE The Words: 901 The Outfit: HERE CLICK The Notes: Sorry. its 1:00AM ;-; ”You play? Oh, do tell us!” Paul shot John a mild look of warning when the young woman lit up with each word. They had been at the Tin Pan Alley Club since around ten, and from a quick glance at his wrist watch, it was nearing twelve- thirty, midnight. They’d both had a good share of liquor, and been around with a few birds for a dance or two, simply living out the night with a well needed laugh and the company of one another when they were able to slip away from the girl who held their attention at that time and meet up again. Even though they’d gone to talk up birds and drank like fish, it became a fixed custom to check in with one another. It was natural, though, and neither thought twice about it. Even leaving once in awhile to sit together for a laugh was well away from being out of the norm. <i>It was nice to be away from the studio just to have some fun. For once. </i> Things rolled by smoothly. John had begun on a few gin induced jokes that had quickly gathered a small group of girls who began giggling and flirting around them. Paul leaned back in his seat, grinning at the played humor (but John was sure, even if the jokes had been complete shit, that he would still have been laughing, having been on the verge of being smashed) “Yeah- y’know, popular band. ye’ may know em’…”

[/b] John leaned in close to the group of girls, wearing a perfectly sly little grin and wiggling his brows playfully, “we call em’ the Bugs. Ya ‘aven’t heard of th’m, ‘ave ya?” [/b] Suddenly, a surge of excitement seemed to pass between them as each turned to look at the other. More giggling started up around them, then slowly small shrills of excitement rang out quietly at first; until they reached pitched heights that made John cringe in his seat.

“You’ve fucked us now, Lennon! Bes’ be on our way, girls!” sensing the approaching attack from each fan’s recognition, Paul hopped almost clumsily from his seat with wide eyes and snatched John up by his collar. A smug looking Lennon was pulled from his seat and dragged away towards the door at a faster pace than he had been ready for. He began in a laughing frenzy only that resembling a mad scientist.

Their Steps echoed like hollow laughter off each wall as the two boys ran. There was a symphony of shrieking not far in their trail only sending shivers of adrenaline through them and speeding up their paces. John laughed almost hysterically beside Paul, running as fast as he could get his slightly unsteady legs to move. They’d drank far too much for this shit, but all the same, they both couldn’t help but snicker and shriek mockingly back at the girls who gave chase.

“YE’ RUN LIKE'A LI’LE GIRL, PAULIE!”[/b] John shrieked, shoving his hands mockingly in Paul’s direction. The younger boy rolled his eyes with a sharp “tch” noise, and so John continued. “SIX ‘ER SEVEN. MAYBE.”

Paul rolled his eyes and huffed out hot breath, “Shove it, John! Yer blitzed as all fuck and they’re catchin’ up to-“ suddenly, Paul seemed to dive to the left. And John, not having caght the memo to move in that direction, kept going straight. Thos girls hot on his heels.

Oh Christ almighty… Ye’ve gotta be joking.
Adrenaline was coursing through him, giving the Beatle just enough of a boost in energy to speed up, flying around and into the mouth of another alley, nearly toppling over a man who appeared there. People spilled out of the entrance to one of the pubs, crowing around and talking in slurred sentences and stumbling steps. Just enough distraction for Lennon’s taste. With breath coming in pants, he stopped just short of the wild-haired bloke, swinging in on the other side of him, pressing his back against the wall and peeking over the man back at where he was certain his pursuers would be sure to come out of. From the corner of his eye, he watched Bob… then… a sharp hand shot out at his sunglasses. Swiftly taking them from his face and wrestling them onto his own face as quickly as he could.

He could hear their steps echoing… and almost feel them nearing. His chest heaving heavily, and slowly, a grin came to his lips. Yeah, he had almost been torn to bits, but that was all just part of the game!

When they did finally appear, John’s change and hiding spot nearly behind Bob seemed to do the trick. Leading them into that busy crowd and Lennon free.

”Cor- them Londies er thick as bricks.”[/b] he looked after them in amusement, then, suddenly, his attention snapped back to the other man. ”Right. Thanks, mate.”[/b] he said after some time, but not making any move to return his Sunglasses- they were pretty suiting… Instead, his attention was set back on the stupid smile on his lips, as though all this were just as normal as walking out of the pub and having had simply come to make small talk. But… wait… he hated small talk…

Yeah, this was definitely more his speed of meeting people.
Now... all he wanted was a smoke, and the power to keep all his liquor down after that run. Lordy, if ever there was a harder task...

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created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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[jade]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color:white, border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] For such the small man as he were, it did not take much to cast him to the opposite end of sobriety. In fact, it was more akin to a hefty throw coupled with a bad landing and all. Brush burns. Broken teeth. Alliterations and comparisons. All those words that seemed to swirl around in the back of his mind; the words he could never shake. He took another drag, drawing in the smoke slowly and coolly, savoring the tinge of a burn in the back of his throat. It was the slight discomfort that comforted him, to put it simply. It was all just about familiarity, or maybe it was just the weed. As he allowed his back to slouch against the wall in what seemed to be customary Bob Dylan fashion, he was unfazed by the sound of shrieks and mixed with some bits of laughter and what he heard to be squeals of delight. Seemingly as if the source of the noise was only just around the bend, the fleeting thought to see for himself did not last very long. He remained stationary. Perhaps this was a poor decision on his part – for as he was attempting to discern to pick about the slew of sounds that were echoing around him (Dylan was extremely detail oriented, and prided himself on the fact that he was supposedly much more aware of his environment than most) the sudden appearance of the blur of a man rounding the corner much too quickly took him aback, causing him to throw himself back against the wall and smack the back of his head rather loudly against the brick. His expression collapsed into what could only be described as a grimace as he reached his hand behind his head and probed his fingers over the place of injury. He swore to god he felt blood. Of course, this was only in Dylan’s ever so recognized dramatic style. Over exaggeration had become engrained in his very being – perhaps something else that he prided himself on. Disoriented and remarkably confused, Bob momentarily put his physical handicaps aside and glanced around, blinking furiously in an attempt to regain his composure. Keep calm and carry on. The words flicked into his mind. Flash. The British were indeed very interesting folk. He might as well be blind. It wasn’t until he felt a hand reach up and what felt like the tips of fingers brush against his cheeks and nose that he had any such idea of what was taking place. And then without warning his eyes were exposed to the crisp night air, and additionally his vision improved at least seventy-five percent. The frustration seemed to flare up in an instant pushing all other concerns from his head. What the hell was going on? He needed an explanation. He demanded an explanation. The internal warning that sent shivers up and down his spine was telling him that he was being robbed. First assaulted, and then robbed. This was absolutely brilliant, being mugged in a foreign country. For all he knew, the guy had snatched up his wallet already – including his book of matches and his passport. And god be damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life crawling around the scummy London streets. Suicide would even be a better option. (Not that he hated London altogether; it was dandy enough. But at this particular moment in time his bed was sounding far too favorable.) ”What the fuck do you…” he trailed off as he swung his head to his left, gaze resting upon a man taller than himself; currently adorned in his sunglasses. And the rage soon transformed into bitter irritation. Pursing his lips together tightly he felt his eyes narrow slightly at the sight of this fool pressed against the wall looking quite silly in the frames. ”You might wanna take those off, man,” Dylan began, almost feeling as if he were chewing on each word. His mouth almost felt like putty. ”They’re customized. You wear them at your own risk of looking silly.” Blinking a few times he let his words trail off as he looked down at the roach clamped between his index finger and thumb. Burnt out. Dead. Lifeless, much like the poor souls that he grappled with day in and day out. The music industry sucks you dry. Giving his head a shake, he pitched the last remains and set to rolling up another, almost forgetting that the man beside him was indeed still there.

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TAG: john/nobie NOTES: lolwut OUTFIT: click WORDS: dude

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[nobie]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;] THEY'RE TRYING HARD TO PUT ME IN MY PLACE The Words: 824 The Outfit: HERE CLICK The Notes: woop! DISCOVERIES IN THE LIFE OF WINSTON O BOOGIE! John, it seemed, had never been a “small” boy, so to say. But on the contrary, he was most certainly not ’fat’ either. But instead, stuck right smack in the middle of being tall and lanky, yet filled in just enough that his trousers stayed right where they should. (Not like their kid Beatle who they were constantly getting things custom fit for, the poor sod) and though taller than the man he darted suddenly behind, it was not a terrible feat to overcome- hiding beside him. John bent his knees to match the man’s height and tried his luck at calming his heaving lungs. He might have blamed the cigarettes if he weren’t so fond of the darned things… but then again, he didn’t know anyone who wasn’t these days. And there was a simple truth behind it for John. It wasn’t that he thought smoking was “cool”, anymore- that had been the fad as a teen. Now, it was an addiction to the ability to let things go while one was burning. Every drag just a step closer to not caring. Which, in John’s case, was just the kind of thing he needed. Too forget. It was not that he was so fed up with his life that he needed to drown himself in those little things, but the stress levels could be rather high in this business. He might have sounded like a broken record by now, but between the recording sessions and the interviews, things could get to a person. It was only natural he should seek some kind of a release. Anything by now. Oh but if Brian knew just what his second oldest of four was getting himself into, John’d be black and blue before he knew what was coming. (If Bob didn’t get to him first) But being that rebellious risk taker he was, John Winston Lennon didn’t give anything a second though. He dove right off the edge and into life. Out of the shock, more than anything, the skinny bloke snapped into attentiveness right as the glasses were pulled from his face. But John didn’t have time to calm his probable fears. Simply, John bent back over Bob to peer over at the bend, making a loud “Shhhhhhhhh!” noise as he did so. “Belt up ‘er they’ll find us… me.”

[/b] he didn’t take the time to pay attention to what he was saying, and by the way he spoke, it was already clear that the alcohol was doing its job.

When at length, that Winston O Boogie was sure the raving girls had gone for good, he let his back slouch against the cold brick. Letting out a lungful of air he had apparently been holding. His companion was speaking again, and John nearly brushed him off with the wave of a hand… till he realized what he was saying.

“Silly? I look silly?”[/b] John’s head darted around daftly, as though he expected the convenience of a mirror to appear at any moment. When it did not, he turned back to Bob, face completely deadpan. “I think yer the one who’s lookin’ silly, mate.”[/b] and speaking of silly people… John was pretty certain he was going to Kill that Paul McCartney when he got back to the Flat. Or if. Being as blitzed as he was… it was a possibility he’d pass out somewhere before he even made it back.

That blank faced Lennon stared at Bob stiffly. Perhaps… waiting? But for what, it was hard to say. His pitiless hazel eyes followed the man’s hands as he fumbled with the dead roll, fixing the roach with another. He could feel his mouth go dry watching… and when the fag was finally lit, it had John almost leaning into him. Like a dog begging for food at the dinner table… but even more pathetic…

It didn’t smell like a ciggy. Certainly rolled different than one… and that alone, had John’s interest. He had heard about some pretty crazy shit, but it had all just been words considering Brian would have had all of their heads if he knew. Ughh… this was beginning to become a “mother does not approve” thing. What a drag. Clearing his throat, John forced himself to lean away from Bob, looking straight ahead at the adjacent alley wall. His hands blindly dug through his pockets for the pack he’d nicked from Paul, plucking one into his mouth while he continued to pat himself for his lighter….

Of course, as all things seemed to go, he must have dropped it somewhere running. With a growl, John let his head fall back on the brick surface, twirling the cig between his lips. Without a second thought of shame, John turned his face back to Bob, removing the cig to speak. “Don’t know what yer ‘avin’, mate… but mind tradin’ a pair of shades fer’a light?”[/b] he smirked at that, holding his fag out between two fingers and wagging it in front of himself.

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created by ADE! Pb-ified by WILL

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