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Götterfunken	By : SolusNemo Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Good Charlotte Views: 844 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Good Charlotte. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 3
- 4
Chapter Four

Death. It’s a fact of life and if you believe some people, it follows behind you from the second you’re born until the moment you die. Your death in the form of a man, most likely a hobo, but it doesn’t really matter what your death looks like because you can’t see it. If you want to go down that road, when you talk to yourself you’re really talking to your death – it’s just impossible for you to hear its replies because you don’t want to listen to them.

Denial, that’s why you don’t want to know that your death is forever right beside you, whispering things into your ear and running its hand over your hair in a loving gesture.

Maybe somewhere deep down in the very pits of our souls we want to believe in the fact that denial could send our deaths on their merry way. It’s just not going to happen, we all know this quite well, but we still cling desperately to the thin strand of hope. Hope for the belief that if we just don’t face the notion that our deaths are right in front of our faces we won’t die. If your death isn’t sitting there like a bump on a log right there on one side of you, if it doesn’t exist – if it never has – you aren’t ever going to be pushing up the daisies. Live for all of eternity while the poor saps who open their eyes to their deaths croak.

Yes, that’s a very nice way of thinking. It’s never going to be, but it’s a nice thought. That horribly misguided belief is like that old saying, “if a tree falls in the forest and no one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Of course it makes a sound, but no one’s there to hear it – you just said it yourself.

If you close the door to the refrigerator does the light stay on? No, it doesn’t. We all find that out as little kids, standing by the refrigeration unit for hours, trying to close the door just so. Eventually our mother’s are yelling at us to stop refrigerating the entire house, but soon enough we learn that there’s a little switch by the door jamb and when the pressure from the door is removed from the switch the light goes off. Kind of like Indiana Jones when he has to match the weight of the sand sack with the gold head so the giant ball of doom doesn’t roll over him. Turns out he didn’t get the accurate amount of sand in that sack and the giant ball of doom does chase after him, but that’s a different story.

The point is, we all believe in the unknown, try to come up with some rational explanation to it all, but there’s such a thing as taking it to the next level.

The nut job in front of Joel was doing just that.

He was a middle-aged man, the kind of weirdo depicted in end of the world movies that preach about the fact that Armageddon is coming at any minute. No one listens to him and it turns out that he was right, but this bozo wasn’t. The whack job standing on the moving crate was anything but correct in his teachings about death, or as he liked to call it “that which isn’t”.

It made little to no sense, but for some reason the man still got up on his box and screamed that if we don’t believe in death we will not die. That the umbrella of truth will protect us from all that is evil and keep us alive. Rapture? Oh, no, that won’t stop us. We’ll be alive long past that, tooting our horns in God’s face as long as we don’t believe in that which isn’t.

As sick and wrong as the words flying out of this freak’s mouth were, he didn’t look like he was meant to be one of those street preachers better suited to hold their services in the loony bin than on the streets of New York City. He wore a clean gray pin-striped suit, carefully dry cleaned and ironed to make sure no ugly creases found their way onto the expensive fabric. His clean shaven jaw moved up and down to form the words he was so daringly yelling, the shiny silver glasses he wore perched on the bridge of his nose.

On all accounts this guy, this Marvin Lewellyn, was like a real-life Twilight Zone episode. If he wasn’t so clearly insane, Joel would have walked right up to him and shaken him, asked him what in the hell was going on.

The atrocities spewing out of Marvin Lewellyn’s mouth gave Joel a pounding headache, but he couldn’t move away. He was glued there on the sidewalk, his feet unwilling to move an inch in any direction. It was like he had stepped into a section of wet concrete and the mixture had dried around his ankles, trapping him in the spot to suffer the explanations of denying that which isn’t. His mouth was agape, no doubt a train of drool chugging down his chin.

Joel’s eyes just wouldn’t move away.

Frozen in time, he could only watch as most people on the street passed by the preacher, some even stopped to laugh at the man so painfully wrong in his views. Marvin Lewellyn paid no mind to these things, acted like they weren’t even there much like his death. It would have been tragically ironic if a masked man ran up to this fruit cake and put a few slugs in his head, any other manner of his offing would be equally as rewarding.

Marvin’s death wasn’t so, but maybe tomorrow or the next day. It was going to happen sometime.

How horribly ironic for Joel if Marvin Lewellyn was right, if this man and his followers really did live forever and sat sniggering at the other people around them meeting their fates only because they believed it would come.

What a depressing thought.

If the masked man didn’t come for Marvin, let him come for Joel. A nice bullet right in-between the eyes.

Why was Joel being this dark and brooding anyway? This wasn’t like him, at least he thought it wasn’t like him. He was a happy person, a nice person. He wasn’t the kind of guy to throw daggers at anyone, he was the kind of person to apologize for the person who threw the daggers.

He had gone through so much in his life and now, as if by magic, he was a disgusting person. Joel wanted to wash his entire body with lye.

There he went again, angry at something and being a filthy sack of blackness because of it. He felt like he needed to open a door, let every ounce of rage out of him, but he didn’t know where that door was.

“Fuck you,” he said to the preacher only because he was staring directly at the misguided advice giver. “I’m not like this. I’m a happy person, a good man!”

“Then why are you so angry, son?”

Oh, great. He had just started a conversation with Marvin Lewellyn. Everyone was going to stare at him, tell the rest of the world that Joel Madden was just as much as a bozo as the clown on the moving crate. He was going to get more attention than he ever wanted to begin with.

Joel shook his head. “Never mind.”

“No, son, what it is that you were saying?” Marvin pressed on, probably twisting this moment around to fit his needs. He probably didn’t even want to help Joel, he was only doing this for his own gain.

“Why should I tell you, huh?” Joel snapped. “You don’t care. No one cares! All they ever want is an autograph or a new song, more popularity or just to say they’ve been there when it happened, they don’t actually give a flying fuck about me! They couldn’t care less about how the rock star feels because he’s just that, a motherfucking rock star! They never really care about you until you’ve died, but even then everything’s all misconstrued and you could end up being like Marilyn Monroe: people popping up all over the place saying that they were married to you or not even taking the time to look at the real facts right in front of their noses, only choosing to believe what everyone else believes!

“Or, and here’s something to give you a good laugh, you could be like Marlon Brando and die a vaporous image of the man you used to be! There’s no winning, do you understand me? No winning! And don’t give me your ‘there’s no such thing as death’ shit because it’s all pulled out of your fucking ass!”

Marvin Lewellyn paused, both eyebrows raised and a smug smile spread across his rubbery face. “Do you feel better now, son?”

“Stop calling me son!”

Breathe.

“Actually, yeah. I do feel better.”

The preacher smiled and bent his head down a fraction of an inch. “All that anger held up inside you really isn’t good for you, it’ll kill ya.” He winked. Joel didn’t get the joke, if there even was one.

Joel blinked several times before noticing that he regained the ability to move. He headed away from Marvin Lewellyn and walked back into the Ed Sullivan Theater before the crowds started to arrive. Had he just been Punk’d again?

-

The sitting didn’t take as long as the women had expected. The meeting had gone as smooth as silk, going off without any type of hitch. Angelina couldn’t have been happier. Her day had taken such a swift turn for the better that she and the girls decided to set up a poker game for the following week.

She set the film rolls she had used in the dark room and went into her living room, switching on the television for some ambient noise as she straightened up the dining room. Angelina and the girls had moved all the furniture out of the room and used that as the studio space, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her new Poker buddies that they had placed a few things in the wrong place.

Angelina laughed at herself. “I’m not that anal about things, am I, Grace?” She held the camera back with her arm as she bent down to rearrange some books that had toppled over on a sideboard shelf.

Grace was the greatest friend anyone could ever wish to have. She never talked back, never teased. She was a superb listener.

“I mean, just because I like doing things a certain way doesn’t mean I’m a complete freak. I don’t care what Mikey says, I don’t need a man to shake my world up. After Drake, I don’t even want to try dating again.”

Angelina couldn’t see it, but she would have bet that Grace would have rolled her lens capped eye if she could do such a thing.

“Though he is really attractive,” Angelina said for the tenth time that day, just in a different way than all the other times. “Normally I don’t like ears like that, but they work for him.”

On Fuel, the television station that Angelina had last watched, Kenny Bartram was doing the opening of his Firsthand. She was still amazed by all of his broken bones and the one ruptured blood vessel in his brain even though she had seen this episode of the series one million times.

“I shouldn’t get too worked up about this, I know. He’s in a band, he tours all over the world and so do I. We’d never see each other. I should just drop this and wait for whoever else Mikey and Chops throw at me.”

Angelina stood up and moved her eyes to the large screen television across the loft, looking at her favorite hick from Oklahoma before turning back to the dining table runner.

“And I’d never be able to work if I got involved with a guy like him. I’d miss deadlines and I could say good-bye to ever having spots in really good art galleries again because I won’t have anything new to put in them,” she reasoned with herself.

Grace could have nodded in pathetic agreement.

“But I really need to get out more, don’t I, Grace? Hell, I need to get laid. If Joel likes me too and if he calls–”

Yes, that was the reason she had given him her business card.

“–I’ll try to sneak a date somewhere in the conversation if he doesn’t mention it first. It’s never going to happen, but it’s not entirely impossible either. If nothing pans out I’ll move on.”

Grace could have voiced a fact her owner overlooked.

“Yeah. I do loathe the band, so maybe it’s a good thing that he’ll never call. I ought to stop talking to you, Grace, as well before people really start to think I’m crazy.”

Though Kenny had yet to go over to England and play with those cars in the mud, Angelina started singing “Chicken Hi, Chicken Lo” anyway.

-

The card was getting worn already, Joel’s fingers didn’t want to stop tracing over the words and numbers printed on the paper. If he wasn’t careful he’d rub Angelina’s cell phone number right off and then where would he be?

He was in another greenroom, sitting in a chair and turning over the business card in his hands.

Unlike the TRL greenroom, this one was a lot more cozy and had an air about it that lulled the people in it – but not so much to make them fall into comas. It had plush couches and chairs circled around a television set, showing David Letterman in real-time, running over his monologue and other opening funnies. When Joel took the time to look up at the screen, he actually laughed at what he was suppose to laugh at.

“So are you just going to stare at that until it falls apart right in front of your eyes,” Benji asked his brother, “or are you going to call this girl?”

Joel shrugged. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

Benji was on the couch, still grinning from the last joke. “You figured out what to say to her the last two times you came across her. Start off with: ‘Hey, it’s Joel’ and see where that takes you.”

“It’s not as easy as that, Benj. Last time I was apologizing for how I acted the first time. What if I go asshole on her again?”

“She didn’t break your face the second time she saw you, did she?”

Joel cocked his head to the side, half-frowning. “No, she didn’t.”

“There you go,” Benji said.

“There I go what?”

Benji leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “If she hated you she’d do something about it. Like, leave the second you started talking to her or something.”

“I guess you’re right. She did say ‘bye to me when she was leaving,” Joel added happily.

“You’re such a dork, Joely,” Benji teased gently. “Call her. Now now, but tomorrow. If it crashes and burns, it crashes and burns, but you’re never going to know unless you do something. We’re only here for another week, then we leave and you can kiss any chance with her good-bye.”
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