A/N: I'm just really fucking depressed right now. I needed to write this. I'm sorry. I know it's not a very depressing story right now, but it'll get there. I'm only posting chapter one for now, just to see how you all like it.

"'Git outta my seat." The much older man stood in the aisle of the bus, trying to keep his balance as he took a sip from his bottle of beer. "I always sit 'dere, kid." The young redhead sighed as he looked up at the ugly, drunken man.

"Dood, I'm goin' t'rough a 'laht right now, can't I jus' sit here wit'out bein' hassled by some old man?"The man gained an angry expression, nothing the young man wasn't famliar with.

"I ain't gonna let some... some kidtell me what 'ta do! Now 'git outta my seat!" He looked like he was on the verge of freaking out. The teen didn't mind. Not one bit.

"Look, dood. I jus' got kicked outta my house. Not that it matters anyways, but I don't got no where to go. Let me 'feckin sit here, an' we won't have any problems. Got it?" The redhead tried to act tough, but it only made the drunk even madder than before.

"What 'da feck is some faggot kid gonna do to me? Fondle me 'ta death?" The older man laughed, losing his balance and staggering a bit in the process. The younger man's face was turning red in anger. He stood up, being much shorter than the other man, and growled at the drunk.

"I ain't no faggot. I'm gonna be a rock star. I'll be more famous 'dan you'll ever be." Just like that, he pushed him out of the way and walked down to the front of the bus, his small suitcase in hand.

"I dunno where I messed up," Pickles took a sip from his beer. He'd been nursing the same bottle all night, which wasn't like him. By now, he should of been chugging his twelfth round. Not tonight. He'd been thinking about his life tonight, which also wasn't like him. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, besides himself, and maybe the bartender, if he was even listening. "Dood, I..." He took off one of his wrist bands, exposing his crimson scars. He stared at them, smirking. It wasn't a happy smirk, it was a smirk of disappointment. Pickles had a certain way of displaying his emotions... They was easy to decipher, but they were so much different than anyone else's. He sniffled a bit, taking a small sip from his beverage. "I 'jest don't know what I did wrong."

He did it. He finally reached his destination- Hollywood, California. It'd been a long ride, taking buses and hitch-hiking all the way from Wisconsin, and all, but he was finally here, and that's all he cared about. The first step to becoming a rock star, he decided, was buying and learning an instument. He only had 40 bucks on him, so he decided to check out this little pawn shop that wasn't too far from the bus stop he'd been dropped off at.

"Hey, fella. Can I help you?" He was greeted by the large man sitting behind the counter when he walked in.

"Uh, 'yeuh." He kind of looked down, not knowing how to explain himself. "I... I 'wanna guitar." The man laughed, pointing to the large array of guitars hanging on the wall behind him. He looked at them all- there must've been at least 50 guitars to choose from. Then, he seen it. The one. A Gibson Les Paul. "I want that one."

"Nice choice. 'Whadaya plan to do with it?" The man asked as he payed the bill.

"I'm gonna be a rock star! I'll be 'da best 'dere ever was!" He told the man enthusiastically, who just laughed.

"Good luck with that! You know how many kids wanna be musicians 'nowadays? But I still wish you luck." The man handed him the Les Paul with a smile on his face. He pulled the strap over his shoulder and walked out of the shop, but the man stopped him. "Hey, kid, I didn't catch your name." He looked at the man and smirked.

"Pickles."