guitar playing douchebags :: conrad

Jackson was in Cuir today. He'd come today to meet up with a musician that was selling handmade woodwinds. He was one of the best in the business, and Jack was looking for something new.

As he wheeled along the path in the shopping district of Cuir he stopped to admire something in the window of a different shop. It looked like an old, dusty bookstore. It was exactly the type of place he would have stopped at had he not had an appointment in a half hour. One of the books in the window looked so old it could have been written back when his grandparents were children.

He made a mental note to come back to the shop after he had (hopefully) secured a new flute, and turned to wheel away. As he did, he caught the reflection of a man in the glass window.

Was that? It couldn't be... He spun around and saw that yes, it was indeed Conrad Michaels. One fourth of his band. His former best friend. His heart sunk as they awkwardly made eye contact. Fucking great.

Conrad was on his way home from a practice session with the guys. They had written some new songs that would hopefully boost the band's popularity, which had fallen since...well, that didn't matter, the point was they needed to get out of this slump they were in.

As he was walking down the road he happened to catch the eye of a familiar face, one that just happened to be about two feet lower from what he was used to. It was Jackson Levis, their old bandmate. Shiiiiiit. It was too late to pretend he hadn't seen him, so he felt awkwardly compelled to say, "Uh, hey Jack."

Now, don't get him wrong, Jackson had been a cool guy and a great artist. But ever since, er, the thing happened, it was just really awkward to be around him. Conrad just didn't know what to say to him anymore. That was understandable, wasn't it?

"Uh, hey Conrad," Jack said, returning the greeting with a much cooler tone. "Long time no see," he added. He noticed that Conrad had a guitar case slung over his shoulder and felt a pang of jealousy. "Just come from practice?" His voice had taken on a biting edge as his bitterness made its way into the air.

"Um, yeah, actually," Conrad replied a little defensively, feeling like the air around them had suddenly gotten five degrees cooler. He could hear the bitterness in Jackson's voice, but what was he supposed to do about it? It wasn't his fault Jack couldn't be in the band anymore. "We're trying out some new material. What are you doing in Cuir, anyways?" He knew that Jack had moved back to Earalas with his parents.

"Think the new material will save the band?" Jackson asked casually. "I saw the reviews of your last few shows. What a bummer." He ignored the Cuir comment. The asshole didn't own the eilemaiden.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Conrad asked, offended. If there was one surefire way to get under his skin, it was by insulting the band. That band was his pride and joy, and the fact that it was struggling was a major sore spot for him. "Just because you can't be in it anymore, you want the band to fail?"

"I said it was a bummer," Jackson repeated. The smirk on his face said otherwise. "It really is a shame, though," he said. He was being truthful, despite himself. The band was his pride and joy too, or had been, and it killed him to see it crash and burn. The only reprieve he had from the pain at watching it fizzle out was the fact that it had happened right after he'd been kicked out.

"I guess the worst part is knowing it's my fault. For leaving and all, you know." He frowned though he was smiling on the inside. "If I had just stayed, you guys would probably be rolling in girls and cash. I truly feel guilty."

Conrad glared at him. If Jack wasn't in a wheelchair he'd want to wipe that smirk off his face. "Look, it's not like we don't want you in the band," he snapped irritably. It really pissed him off to think that maybe the band really only had been popular because of Jack. The rest of them were good musicians, too. It was just cuz he'd been the lead vocalist, that was all. Audiences always paid more attention to the lead vocalist. They just had to get used to a new voice. "It isn't our fault that you're...you know."

"Pssh, buddy, I know that," he said, smacking Conrad on the arm (probably with a little more force than was necessary). "I'm a cripple. Your hands were tied." He smiled at him pleasantly.

Conrad knew that Jack was being facetious, but honestly, it was the truth. "Yeah, they were," he agreed firmly. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened to you. But you can't perform on stage anymore. It's just a fact." There was more to performing than just playing the music. There was a certain energy involved, certain movement involved.

"No, you're right. I mean, it's completely impossible for me to get around. I know that. You made the right call, honestly." The worst part about this conversation wasn't that Jack was talking to the asshole, it was knowing that the asshole didn't even think anything was wrong. Jack was embarrassed he had ever been friends with someone who was so ignorant.

"And, I mean, it's not like I could sing anymore. Cripples can't sing, let's be real. Or the guitar?" He laughed. "What a joke that would be!"

"You know there's more to a performance than just the music," Conrad argued, using the exact same words he had just been thinking about. He shook his head. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"You fuck, I just said I understand where you're coming from." Jackson had lost his patience. He could only laugh at stupid for so long. He waited to see Conrad's response.

Conrad blinked in surprise, taken aback. "Well sorry, you sounded pretty fucking sarcastic to me," he shot right back.

"You should be sorry," Jackson said. "You're running my fucking band into the ground."

"Your band?" Conrad asked in disbelief. "You're not even in it anymore! You're the one who was fucking smirking at the thought of us failing."

"You're nothing without me, Conrad. That's why you're failing. You, Logan, and Gerry? You're all jokes. Every single fucking one of you." Jackson didn't care that he wasn't hiding behind his sarcasm any more. "I may have lost the ability to walk, but you gave up your entire careers to keep me off the stage. Hope it was worth it."

"Fuck you, Jackson," Conrad said in a low, angry voice. He'd never thought the day would come in his life when he wanted to punch a guy in a wheelchair. "If you think it's us keeping you off the stage, why don't you just go solo? Oh, that's right. Because no one wants to watch a guy in a wheelchair perform music." He didn't care how much of a dick he was being.

Jackson probably would have punched the douche had he been just two feet taller. Then again, if he had been two feet taller he wouldn't have needed to punch him.

"I could sell more tickets than you without even trying. Wheelchair or not. In fact, I probably still get more looks from girls than you do." Jack's personable nature and boyish good looks had always attracted the ladies, though he didn't swing that way.

"Sure. Whatever you tell yourself to feel better, pal," Conrad replied condescendingly, patting Jackson on the shoulder. Any feelings of pity he'd had for Jackson at the beginning of this conversation had been replaced with disdain at this point. "I'm sure girls are falling all over themselves to get to you."

“If you fucking touch me again I will punch you so hard your mother will feel it.” If he wasn’t so angry he might feel bad at that. Johanna was a lovely woman. It wasn’t her fault her son was an asshole.

“No one even knows your face, Conrad. You know, there was always a good reason you weren’t the one on the advertisements; a mug like that couldn’t bring in an audience. Maybe the issue is that they took you out of the shadows in the back of the stage. You’re scaring clio away.”

"You're gonna hit me?" Conrad asked with an incredulous chuckle, although he did still take a couple steps back. Jackson was right at dick-punching level after all. He shook his head. "You know what, say what you want about me and the band. Whatever happens, at least I still have a future ahead of me."

He hitched up his guitar case. "Have fun living with your parents," he said, turning to walk off. Fucking Jackson. They'd prove that they didn't need him in the band to be successful.

When Conrad turned around to walk away Jackson rose out of his chair using his eilemaiden. “Hey, asshole,” he said. When Conrad presumably turned towards his voice, Jackson wound back his fist and punched him right in the face (presumably so hard his mother could feel it).

“Maybe the fucking ladies will want you now that you have a black eye from a cripple.”

Conrad turned around when he heard Jackson's voice, expecting some kind of lame insult or something, only to be completely blindsided by a punch to the face. He fell backwards, clutching his rapidly swelling eye. "Fuck!" he yelled, both out of surprise and fury. He hadn't even thought about the fact that Jackson could fucking fly.

He scrambled back to his feet and started advancing, only to stop when he noticed some clio off in the distance looking over to see what was going on. Fuck. He could only imagine what they'd think if they walked over and saw him beating up a cripple.

"You're lucky I feel so sorry for you, or I'd be beating the shit out of you right now," he spat at Jackson, even though he didn't feel sorry for him one bit. He spun around and stomped off, holding his eye and cursing under his breath.

"You're lucky I can't stand or you'd still be on the ground while I kicked your face in," Jack growled. His fist hurt, but it was a satisfying pain. He'd been waiting to do that for months. "Now maybe you should run back to your friends and tell them you got a black eye from someone a little more someone than the wheelchair-bound guy you used to hang out with."