American Idiot
Chapter One: American Idiot
Jimmy walked down the beaten streets of Jingletown, pausing briefly to stare in an electronic store window. His haunted blue eyes stared back, then flicked up, glancing at the row of TVs, each one baring George Bush's face. He was giving a speech about Iraq, making Jimmy scowl in disgust. He hated Bush. The speech ended a few minutes later, cutting to an army recruitment commercial. Jimmy's scowl deepened, making him look even scarier than his black eyeliner- which was in dark circles around his eyes, similar to a raccoon- and liberty-spiked black hair ever could.
Jimmy looked around. Two teenage boys not much older than he were having a shootout a few streets over, a woman was being brutally attacked in an alley, and window shattering screams echoed from a house three blocks away. Another day in Suburbia, he thought with a touch of bitterness. His thoughts were interrupted by the store's owner.
"Hey!" the store owner shouted, brandishing a shotgun. "Get outta here!" Jimmy gave him the bird, then darted away as a gunshot rang out. He ran down a back alley, passing a group of brawling men, then jumped a short chain link fence that led into the dying backyard of his trashy house. He crawled through the window of the basement, entering his room.
The weathered brick walls were covered with a mix of graffiti and band posters. A ratty cot lay in the corner, concealing Jimmy's drug stash. A black Fender Stratocaster hung from a peg on the wall, the amp beside it on the floor. Jimmy snatched the guitar and collapsed on his cot. He produced a pick from the front pocket of his plaid skinny jeans and stummed a few chords, then grabbed what appeared to be a day planner from under the cot.
The inside cover said DAY SCHEDULE in big block writing, with a chart below it for organizing dates and times. Jimmy scrawled in a number one next to Sunday and wrote AMERICAN IDIOT. On the next page, which was lined, he began to write.
1. AMERICAN IDIOT
Don't want to be an American Idiot
Don't want a nation under the new media
CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUND OF HYSTERIA?
The subliminal mind, fuck America
Welcome to a new kind of tension
All across the alienation
Where everything isn't meant to be ok
Television dreams of tomorrow
We're not the ones meant to follow
For that's enough to argue
Maybe I am the faggot America
I'm not a part of a redneck agenda
Now everybody, DO THE PROPAGANDA!
And sing along to the age of paranoia
Don't want to be an American Idiot
One nation controlled by the media
Information age of hysteria
Calling out to IDIOT AMERICA
Shortly after he finished writing, Jimmy heard footsteps on the stairs that led to the basement. He threw the day planner across the room, where it landed in a mixture of filthy clothes and rotting food. His mother appeared, barely dressed, with her new boyfriend, Brad.
"Oh, you're down here," she said, with a touch of disappointment. Jimmy glared up at her with his deepest scowl yet. "Let's go somewhere else, Brad," and with that, she scurried back up the stairs. Brad remained.
"Listen, you little fucker, and listen good," Brad began nastily. "There's gonna be some changes around here, and if you wanna keep living under this roof," he paused and pointed up for effect,"then you gotta follow them." Jimmy glared at him.
"Go fuck yourself, asshole," he said, flipping Brad off. He replied by punching Jimmy in the jaw. As Brad turned to leave, Jimmy, whose mouth was now trailing a thin line of blood, took a nearby empty beer bottle and hurled it at Brad, hitting him squarely in the shoulders. Brad whipped around, green eyes blazing, and he probably would've killed Jimmy if his mother hadn't come back down.
"Brad, what's taking so long?" she whined. Horny much? thought Jimmy.
"Coming now, Ginger," Brad replied, irritated. "You," he pointed at Jimmy,"are one lucky bastard." He walked back up the stairs.