So, uh, hi. This is my first fanfiction. For this whole fandom, that is, I'm otherwise no stranger to fiction-writing. I'm in denial regarding DTMG fandom stuff but I still did it. And I didn't take it as seriously as I probably should've. So uh. Please rate optimistically!

Warning: there's emetophobia and teenage drinking and probably vague gore? Not anything too graphic regarding the gore, really just creative but brief hyperbole, but the rest is probably disgusting. So don't read if that stuff triggers you.

Enjoy!

Brommanuel Kant, if I say this, you won't believe me. Okay, maybe you'd believe me, but you wouldn't exactly be chill about this whole ordeal.

Who'd think that Billy Joe Cobra, the world's greatest and most famous pop star, with billions of adoring fans and hundreds of hair styling product endorsements, was the sad sack who almost literally puked his guts out at the biggest Beverly Heights party of the year?

I mean, come on, major mood killer. You walk out on the lawn all, oh, hey, you're Billy Joe Cobra, I'm a huge fan, how's it going? Could I get an autograph? Haha, wait a minute, you're asleep aren't you. Duh, classic BJC. Heh. So, hey now. This is so weird, I might as well be talking to myself. Billy, wake up, you sleep like the dead. Jeez. I got some 'za, y'know, I saved you a slice 'cuz you're my bro. 'Cuz we're bros. Even if we don't know each other. It's 'za, man, I got the 'za. Piz-za. The good kind. Dude, Billy, are you unconscious? Billy. Wake up and smell the mozzarella, man, this isn't cool. Billy. Seriously, you're supposed to perk right up at the mention of pizza. Billy. Billy. What are you doing, Billy? Billy. Billy, man, Billy. Oh. Oh god, Billy. Billy! I'm going to get help, you just stay put, uh, right, I'm going, don't die on me, Billy, I swear to god I do not want to have to be the guy who finds you dead!

(If I hadn't been kinda not-alive from the very beginning of that conversation, I'd have totally given that guy an autograph. Only a true bro goes and offers a fellow bro some prime 'za while they're K.O.'d!)

Not to mention, the timing was way bad. I was in the prime of my life. Spence was still thirteen, and that's just a sad time to live in, so I can't say the same about him. But as for me, well. I'm Billy Joe Cobra. Half my underwear's lying around at a bunch of hot girls' houses even now. I can't even remember how many pairs that was. I lost count at eighty-seven because I'd forgotten what number comes after that.

And because of stuff like that, nobody expected me to leave my body behind as a worldly memento so young. I lived enough to make up for everyone out there who wasn't living life. I was the most beloved pop star in the world. And to a select few at Beverly Heights, I was the jerkwad who spoiled the best party of the year by going and puking my guts out on Sonoma Gonzales' front lawn.

But that's enough of that. Let me tell you a little story, bromine. And keep this quiet. The press still thinks I was poisoned and eventually my spirit moved on in the most heartfelt, inspiring way, and I'd like to keep it that way. Gives the Cobra a lil' something to be remembered by, even if that didn't happen at all.

So, get some BJC-brand blankets, warm up some Cobrahead cookies, and we'll get this show rockin'.

It hadn't been very long since the Jakarta incident. I'd finally returned home after my fourth worldwide tour and third worldwide arrest, ready to party all the stress away.

It just so happened that the night I was coming in, I got a chance to do just that. There was a party, the celebs were in, and the police had been sufficiently bribed. That meant one of my favorite past-times when I got to Beverly Heights.

That meant hard liquor.

I've been drinking since I was fourteen, so I knew how to handle this sort of thing. A shot of bourbon and I felt my troubles melt down my throat, into my stomach. And when I puked up the contents of my stomach another two shots later, the troubles went with it. So when I decided to wash away the aftertaste with yet another three shots, I'd never felt so free in my entire life.

And even if I could take my liquor better than anyone else, I thought yet another shot would just be showing off. So, had I survived, I'd have went for a whole fifth. And I'd have been fine if my internal organs were fine with staying internal. Most of the time, I have a liver of Cobra-grade steel.

Thanks to my steel liver, I was just taking shot after shot after shot. The girls loved me. I loved me. I loved how I was a shot machine. But as much as love cures all, this brodiculous shot machine had too many shots and got really, really drunk.

I don't think I'd ever been as drunk as I was that night. My arms were jelly. My legs were jelly. My brain was pudding. I remember lots of girls, lots of money, and my gut wrestling with itself not to puke up its contents. Everything was so blurry. I loved Beverly Heights. The girls were so blurry. The money was so blurry. My gut didn't seem to exist. I'm pretty sure my eyes were spinning three-hundred-sixty degrees, over and over again in their sockets.

In fact, I'm also pretty sure that there was a camel on the thirty dollar bill. A bromedary boonie. Let me tell you, man, I was just cracking up, staring at that money like it was the funniest thing on Earth while everything went twisty and weird on me. Everyone else was laughing, too, laughing with me, and man, let me tell you how good that felt. It felt real good. I loved drinking almost as much as I loved myself.

Now, the rest is hazy. Hours after my first drink, I felt the contents of my stomach knocking at the Cobra's door, so I had to excuse myself, still laughing at that stupid dollar bill. I wanted to go outside to retch. Someone had to steer me away from going out the window. When they turned me away, I felt bile in the back of my throat. After that, I was sprinting. And before anyone knew, I was outside, barfing on the Gonzales' front lawn like nobody's business. At least, that's what I got from everyone who spoke up about it after the party. For all I know, I might have actually went out that window and nearly cracked my head open right there and then.

But the part after that, I remember very clearly. Post-puke, I sorta just…got real ill right there. Dry heaved a little bit. I also think I felt my awareness stop for a second or two. I was crazy dizzy after that, even more so than I was earlier. I remember I was breathing like once every twenty seconds, which freaked me out because that's not normal for a teenage partygoer, so I made it a point to breathe a little faster to try and make up for it. And after people found me just lying there, the bro with the knockout 'za said I looked kinda bluish and pale, he could tell even in the dark of the night.

(Funny he should say that.)

So. That's about it. After about an hour of that ordeal, with the dry heaves and the weird breathing and the blueness, I went really blank - which I'm pretty sure was my brain finally giving up - and then I saw my body sitting there and I freaked out and realized that I was staring at my own body and I was dead. I kept trying to get back inside my body but it was like a sealed brick wall, keeping me out and not letting me in.

I got really scared then. It took about eight minutes of me panicking and starting to wonder when I'd be taken to heaven for the guy to find me and inadvertently snap me out of it.

What happened there? You already know the drill. I told you this in the beginning. A bunch of blah blah blah and some screaming later, he ran away.

Though, I admit I forgot to mention that I'd been trying to get the rump broast's attention the entire time. And when he left, I finally figured out that he couldn't tell I was there.

I also figured out that he dropped the pizza. I picked it up and ate it, grass and probable puke traces and all, because, hey, why would you ever waste some quality 'za? Except that's when I noticed I was blue and semitransparent and I freaked again and forgot to eat my pizza for a second there.

After that, a bunch of drunk celeb buddies went to stand around and stare at my body and cry a little bit, then they called 9-1-1 and bailed. I remember that my body just lay there for another good hour, nobody daring to handle it. Then I was found, for the second time, by a gigantic officer (investigating noise complaints) with a thick, greasy brown 'stache and a uniform three sizes too small for him. He called 9-1-1 yet again and bailed, and left my body on the puke-covered grass, and after that I stopped paying attention to the losers jerking my body around like a bad omen. Couldn't handle the Cobra, I guess.

'Cuz of that, I don't know where I'm buried or where my funeral was held. I don't know who came to my funeral or if any of my so-called friends mourned me. And I think I'm better off not knowing. I'd rather focus on other things, like being totally rad, getting girls to dig Spencer's chili, or getting my reflection to show up in a mirror.

Oh, what, you want the full story? The dirty details of my death weren't enough for you, broteus maximus? You want to know how I met Spencer?

That's another story, you know. I'm just not sure you're rad enough for it yet.