A/N: My love of crack pairings is starting to show, as well as my affection for one Anne Gwish. She's just so absolutely awful you can't help but love her total hypocracy. She really does make me feel better about myself, proving that looks mean squat. Anywho, for whatever reason my twisted mind fell in love with the idea of the pairing I am calling JoAnne (Johnny/Anne). *lightning flares in the background* He he, I really like Johnny, but he kills people, and not always bad people, so I am putting him through this torture for kicks and giggles. ALSO, there will be no real plot. Shoot me if a plot tries to develop. So enjoy, or if you don't enjoy, FLAME! I can roast marsh mallows.
Chapter One
Remember that game kids play elemetary school, the one one where someone whispers something in your ear and then tells it to the next person and so on? And at the end, the last person says what he heard it as, and the first person says what it was originally? Yeah, that game. The two phrases never match up, because as information is repeated, parts of it are often lost or altered, like when rumors are spread.
It wasn't actually a rumor though, not quite, more of a garbled statement taken out of context. No malice was meant by it, and it was nothing harmful, some would have even found it flattering, even if it was a mistake.
The young girl was simply minding her own buisess, like he was, both patrons at the local dance club almost blending into the crowd. Almost. He often stands out more than he would like. She stood at the bar innocently talking to a friend, not gossip, an actual conversation, when she barely noticed the man and muttered something to the tune of:
"Hey, doesn't that guy kind of look like the lead singer from that band?"
"Hey, he kinda does, if he wasn't so skinny and his nose wasn't crooked they could be twins!"
That was it, and niether would even remember it later.
He didn't really look like the singer, as it turned out, but under the club's lighting it was easy to say anyone looked almost like anyone else.
Being a dance club, there was music playing, loud music, and that's where a lot of the problem came in. The music garbled the spoken word, so for anyone who over heard, accidently or other-wise, it would be all too easy to think she said, "Hey, Isn't that guy the lead singer from that band?"
So this person who overheards turns to the person next to them and says, "Hey, I think that's that guy from that new band, he's the lead singer I think."
And they say, "Seriously! OMG cool!" So they tell the person next to them.
While this transpires, the man in question becomes irratated that people are staring at him. He's used to getting odd looks, but these people seem to be looking at him with...admiration?
Confused, and a little worried, the man simply does what he always does, and thinks about how he wishes they would all just die, preferably at his own hands.
Across the room from this man who contemplates murder, a lovely woman sits looking down her nose at the other patrons. Dressed to the nine's in the latest of Gothic fashions she gossips to her friend, who provides her own juicy knowledge, the conversation laced with the poison of their personalities, or lack therof.
It is not very long before they hear what everyone else has been spreading, that the man glaring at everyone from across the room is a soon-to-be-famous singer, though in reality the man has never sang anything - as far as he remembers anyway - in all his life. All of it an odd, but honest mistake.
The shallow girl with too much make-up and too little brains, automatically believes what she hears, because, ALL gossip is true or based on truth right? Not only that, but the woman decides that she HAS to go talk to him now, because in this sea of posers finding a TRUE non-conformist who UNDERSTANDS and whatever other crap runs through her brain somehow has made him worthy of her company. But really, it's just because she has a thing for band members.
It is this twist of fate that leads none other than Anne Gwish to over look what she would normally see as flaws as 'traits of originallity' in who is of course, Johnny C.
Skinny like a fag becomes 'Jack Skellington thin', and other such nonsense which everyone instantly agrees with because Anne Gwish said it was so. Besides, he's wearing all black, his boots are awesome, and he has such a 'dark aura of darkness' and really knows how to look like he doen't want to be here. How cool is that? Like seriously...
Suddenly, without knowing it, Nny is considered cool.
Meanwhile, Johnny senses what could only be described as a disturbance in the force. A bit freaked out by the feeling, he barely notices the tall, raven-haired woman wearing too much eyeshadow approaching him util she's right beside him.
When he does notice her, he ignores her. Sadly this does not go vise-versa.
"Hello there." Her seductive tone is lost on Johnny, who unlike most males, thinks using organs above his neckline.
Finnally decideing she wasn't going to go away, he responds. "...Yes?"
"I haven't seen you here before, what's your name?" She leans closer to him as she speaks, prompting him to move further away.
He tries to turn the other direction entirely until he realizes he's stuck in a corner. Just his friggin' luck. "Sigh, it's Johnny." He says, reluctantly turning back to her.
"Anne Gwish, a pleasure I'm sure."
That's what you think.
A/N: This is what I get for writing fanfiction at one in the morning. Feel free to reveiw, point out grammar and spelling mistakes, OOC-ness, or just plain flame me.