DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Nothing from "I'm in the Band" belongs to me. It's merely inspired.
NOTE: This is all from Bleed's POV. I thought I'd do a background story for him. I was inpired after watching "Bleed Guitarist", "Magic Tripp", and the "Phone Sex" skit from MADTV, starring Bryan Callen (plays Bleed in "I'm in the Band")
My life has been less than perfect. As a matter of fact, it was probably the worst that anyone could really go through.
To start, my name is Bleed. I used to be the guitarist of rock band Iron Weasel. Some kid beat me in a rigged duel banning me from the band forever. Now that I've recapped that for you, let me go back to the beginning of my life to let you know why I'm so screwed up.
I was actually born and raised in Dizney, Kentucky. Not the happiest place on earth and can't even be compared to the sugar-coated joy of Disneyland. It was alright, but there was nothing there to do. My options were to cause trouble or start a band. I tried to start my own band, but it didn't really go so well. See, I was only five when I tried and all I could do was play the C and A chord on my grandpa's old guitar. So, whenever I wasn't sitting around teaching myself how to play guitar, I enjoyed causing trouble in my neighborhood.
I terrorized cats, I smashed mailboxes, but heck, I was just a bored kid with no friends around. My next door neighbors lived a full mile and a half down the road for Christ's sake.
It was when I was punished was when the trouble started. My father already hated my guts. He told me everytime I screwed up that he never wanted me. "You were an accident." he'd say. "Your mother and I didn't want you."
...I was seven when my dad first told me he hated me. The first time he said that to me I locked myself in my room and cried my big dark brown eyes out. After awhile though, I'd grown accustomed to it. The first time I lashed back, I called him a "stupid face". Again, I was just a kid. He didn't seem to care for the insult. It was the first time he had hit me and it wouldn't be the last.
See, dad was a drunk, and mommy didn't do anything about it. He never hit her though. He just liked to hit his stupid mistake around.
It always threw me off at school, too. I'd try to get on the bus with a forced smile and face the day with a good attitude. It was when the teacher pulled me aside during snack time that she asked why I had a black eye. "I fell down the stairs." I told the lie that dad told me to use.
Bitch bought it and never asked again. She didn't even ask about bruises that showed up on my arms later. I don't think she really even cared.
Then we moved to east, dirt hole nowhere known as Mesa, AZ. It was dirty and the people were as untrustworthy as all get out. I hated starting middle school in a new place clear across the country. All the kids already knew each other and had already formed their cliques. I was alone, again. I didn't mind. I was used to it by now. All of that alone time gave me time to perfect my guitar playing.
One day as I was walking through the hallway, there was a paper that said something about a school talent show. Why not? I headed for the auditorium that same afternoon for auditions. Was the last one to audition. The judges looked me over and frowned. My shaggy blonde hair was a mess, my jeans were torn, and I was wearing my lucky Pink Floyd t-shirt and grey snakskin boots. I smirked at them and walked onto the stage with my guitar. I pulled up a chair and to their surprise I did my own redition of "My Love" originally by Sonny James. They loved it and I got a spot in the show.
The Show: It was my turn. Earlier that week I successfully shoplifted my very first electric guitar. It was a red Gibson Les Paul. When they called my name I ran out with my guitar and wheeled out an amp that I *ahem* "borrowed" from the school. Did I play that lame, mushy love song? Heck no! I rocked the talent show with "Back in Black" by AC/DC. The kids went crazy. The teachers...eh...not so crazy about my performance. "An utter riot!" They called it. I was suspended for a week, opening the flood gates for more cruel abuse from my dad. BUT it was that night that I took on the nickname, Bleed. See, on one of the last chords, I struck it so hard, that I lost the grip of my pick and I sliced one of my fingers, sending blood down the strings of my guitar. People cheered louder. "You want me to bleed?" I encouraged. "Bleed!Bleed!Bleed!Bleed!Bleed!" What a dream come true.
The week was up and I was back in school with a broken arm. My guitar was almost destroyed that same morning going back to school, but I kicked my dad hard in a place you don't want to be kicked hard in and I stashed it in my locker. I knew what awaited me when I got home, but as long as my Les Paul was safe.
It was the last class of the day and I was shooting spit wads at the girl with pigtails two desks ahead. I had a crush on her. What can I say? I'm a romantic. Anyway, I was just about to shoot another spitty dart when the vice principal came in asking for me. "Oohs" filled the classroom. I groaned. I hadn't done anything wrong yet...unless they found out about the stolen guitar. No. He sat me down. "I don't know how to say this, Brian." (Brian is my real name, shut up!) "You're father...is in the hospital. He had a stroke. They say he doesn't have much time." he said. I stood up and opened the door.
"Tell me when he actually dies." I said irritated as I headed for my locker.
When I got home that night, mom was upset. I was happy. No beatings tonight, yay!
While dad was in the hospital, his condition was getting worse. They weren't sure what was wrong with him. I didn't care less. However, my voice was getting deeper and other "things" were happening to me and no one would explain to me the wonders of puberty.
Putting that out of my mind, one night at dinner, I cussed at my mom about dad. Not liking that, she took me upstairs, threw me over her knee and gave me a good hit. Same ol', same ol'. This time...was way bad. Something happened to me. My pants got tight and mom stopped. I had no clue what was going on. I was so confused. Then she continued and made weird moaning sounds. Soon, it was less spanking and more caressing.
...I was 12 when my mom molested me. I can't remember if I cried.
It was a good incentive to stay out of trouble with mom. I did good for about a month. Then, a few days after my birthday, my dad died. Mom didn't seem to like that I played my own song called, "Pretty Bitter" at his funeral. The lyrics go something like this,
Goodbye, good riddance
I'm through with all your lyin'
So here me now
And spare me all your cryin
Pretty bitter
Want to leave you everyday
Pretty bitter
Want to beat you everyway
Pretty Bitter
Yeah, you might know that song. Iron Weasel tweaked it a bit when I was with them. Now it's great to know that the song I wrote to tell my dad, "Screw you!" has now been changed completely into a song about where a cat poops...thanks guys. Really, thanks. I love how it's called, "Kitty Litter", now...piss off.
Anyway, after my quite shocking performance, mom goes nuts and spanks me again once we're at home. Again, that ache in my pants came back. Mom refused to explain what that ache was when I asked. Once I had recieved my punishment, she gave me my "usual" glass of water. Knocked me out cold. About four hours later, I woke with a start. My pants and underwear were on the floor and I had different sheets covering me. Confused, I turned on my bedside lamp and sat up in bed and I saw that I was covered in a weird, white, sticky mess.
...I was 13 when my mom raped me. I didn't cry, but I was scarred. Guess she missed dad more than I thought. I didn't like that she called me "Naughty Ned" either. (Ned = my dad).
Throughout the rest of my middle school days, I tried staying away from home as long as I could. Some nights, I even slept at the park or sometimes, I stayed at this kid, Jeremy's house. We weren't really friends, but we made a deal that if I taught him how to play guitar and score some girls, he'd let me stay at his place Tuesday through Thursday. Better than nothin.
I barely passed middle school and next was high school. I had just finished my freshman year, when mom decides it's time to move again. We moved to Los Angeles, California and I started my sophmore year at East Valley High School.
That was the year everything changed. In one of my first classes, algebra, I think, I had heard these three weird guys talking about a band. "They need to have style." said the fat one.
"They need cool rocker hair." said the spikey haired one.
"He should be...like me." said the british one. Now, the british one, whom we know as Derek Jupiter of course seemed interesting. They were talking about needing a guitarist and I was all for it, but I needed leverage. Some way to guarantee a permanent spot in the band no matter what the circumstance. Later that week they held auditions. I played hard and used a fake british accent. I was in the band easy. Next was capturing Derek's heart for good.
Easy. Screwed him, told him some mushy love words and it was locked. The best time was when we made out and did "it" later on his beloved motorcycle our senior year in his mum's garage. "You're the only person other than me who can touch this motorcycle." he said. "It'll be our's forever." I smirked and kissed him. Later, after the fun times we had in the late 80's and the early 90's, we started to spiral down after blowing our money on a solid gold jacket, a falcon, a man servant, a yacht, and countless number of other stupid things.
That's when I started taking their money. Didn't think they'd notice until they saw that I hadn't sold my yacht and I had recently purchased my own helicopter. Much to my surprise, they got rid of me.
Then I came back and convinced Ash and Burger that I was a changed man with a rain of candy. Derek seemed like he was fine until he threw down the umbrella and realized candy wasn't enough after breaking his heart. I smirked and pulled him into his bedroom, where I made good use of my mouth...if you know what I mean.
Anyway, fast fowarding...I lost the duel and now I'm on my own, again. I just have to ask...
where's the love for Bleed?