FOREWORD

ONE BAND, ONE ALBUM, ONE JOURNEY

I would jump right into the story, but I thought I should say a few words to tell you, the reader, about where this is all coming from. In the month of November 2010, I set out on a mission to write a 50,000 word novel for Nanowrimo (check out for more information). Now, I don't care who you are, but 50,000 words is lot of words… and a lot of work. Being a newbie to the experience, I decided to go with something I would find relatively easier to write; a non-original fan fiction. Ah, the fan fiction- the easy way to appeal to the masses… right?

Maybe…

I chose to write one about My Chemical Romance, but not about My Chemical Romance at all. It has more to do with their music, and in particular, a little album called Danger Days: The True Lives of The Fabulous Killjoys. The main inspiration for this story has been the music video for the song Na na na, which will probably remain my favourite music video of all time for a very long while. I'd like you to note this as my main inspiration as you proceed through the pages of my hapless little fan fiction. I MUST WARN YOU NOW… There will be many factual issues, problems, discrepancies and such like… and yes, I took a lot of liberties when it came to names, characterization, mise en scene, and well… pretty much everything. A lot of the back story to do with the Killjoys universe was only "published" when I was already half-way though the story.

I tried to stay true to the music videos released… but I was already half way through the writing process when the video for Sing came out which of course showcased the kind of scene that would have any writer in my position running for the exits. But because I figured I must persevere for the sake of the 50,000 word goal. I continued writing and hoped for the best. So this is my best.

Writing wise, it is a very, very verbose piece fitted with as many words as a sentence will allow- and sometimes even more. I know this, and the aim of this exercise and this fan fiction was really just to get to 50,000 words without caring too much about the care and art involved in writing. Just tell a story… quickly… and in a lot of words. I hope you will forgive me the carelessness with which I used my words and constructed my sentences. I can only hope that you will read for the story, and enjoy it for what it is; one person's perspective on the Danger Days journey.

Read on and enjoy… oh, and Killjoys- make some noise!

Shoshana Sachi (The Dark Passenger)

CHAPTER ONE

WELCOME TO THE DANGEROUS DAYS: AN INTRODUCTION TO THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS

The road stretched out forever; a never ending ticker tape that spread across the barren land. A few shrubs and cacti resided curb side; their sun scorched brown foliage not so much a beacon of hope that something still survived here… but more a reminder of the ever present omniscient spectator and puppeteer: Death. Ksch… ksch… an unseen transistor radio filled up its speakers with static; the only sound for miles. A siren lit up, some tires screamed, and a squad car pulled out from the shadow of a billboard for Better Living brand "Premoistened Kibble"… Delicious puppy chow the whole family can enjoy. It tore up the sand underneath its wheels and raced out onto the road. Someplace, somewhere, someone was in a whole world of trouble.

Then again, who the hell wasn't, these days…

The horizon bled into a blur of heat waves rising off the asphalt. It was blistering hot outside; a true testament to the fact that global warming was now into a full and heavy swing- like the drive George Bush Jr delivered when he told his countrymen to do "Everything they can to stop these terrorist killings". Of course, it had been years since that ridiculous interview stained the airwaves and TV screens. Years since Michael Moore added a soundtrack to it and got a good 40% of the population believing that their leader and chief was a no good redneck, and that the war being fought was pointless. Years since people forgot the next day and went about their daily spiral into hell. So many, many, many years ago… and the Middle East was still a blood soaked mess. Now it was 2019, and in the careless outskirts of Nevada, the Middle East was just an unfortunate split-second thought… a bit like suddenly remembering the results from last night's football match… or realizing you forgot to call your mom a week ago. Truth was, there was far too much else to be worrying about anyway.

Of course, worry was meant to be a thing of the past; an idea that the great monopolisers of Better Living tried to sell everyone twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. They took over about ninety nine percent of the market back in 2012, and the world never looked back. Everyone had it figured that the world was going to end in 2012- as if a really bad movie starring John Cusack was equivalent to Moses walking down a mountain with two tablets. They took the prophecy of some ancient race and made it believable fiction- fuelled by computer graphics, animation and bright lights with not-so-bright ideas. Like Scientology… but less entertaining. However, the real truth about the apocalypse wasn't about a total annihilation of planet earth and all its insignificant living things. It was so much simpler… and so much more dangerous. There was no second coming of Christ, no rivers of lava and tsunamis to wipe out entire countries… and the world sure as hell didn't turn into a B grade zombie movie. The God-to-honest truth was that the apocalypse in 2012 had to do with the death of human dignity.

When 2012 came around, people had already been used to selling themselves out every way possible, probable and economical. Artists, musicians, actors and even everyday nobodies all lined up to be judged, be scorned, be loved and humiliated on TV and all over the internet. There was twitter, youtube, facebook and myspace; a method to every madness and every obsession with being seen and being mean. There were no boundaries, no limits, and no more walls… private information was public information. There was competition to be the best cow on the chopping block. People bought their way through brands and filled up like glutting parasites on personality labels they couldn't afford. Before the human race knew it, we had turned into our most primitive counterparts; a living mass of semi-permeable microscopic organisms, all just feeding off each other and spiralling into a vacuous, meaningless space of mass consumption.

Better Living saw the burgeoning market for the new individuality-stripped society and blew every other company out of the water. The people wanted to feel famous, to feel young, to feel like someone else (and like everyone else at the same time), so Better Living delivered. Anti-aging, anti-normalizing, anti-boredom, anti-sadness, anti-loneliness, anti-life… you name it; Better Living had an ad campaign for it. Those soulless madmen set about selling everything from fish-flavoured wafer biscuits to laser guns, televised everything from badly written sitcoms starring the re-generated corpse of Charlie Sheen, to the evening news, and even re-wrote every text book for every grade school, high school and college in the great lands of the United States of America. They taught the people of today how to walk, talk and think about absolutely nothing. Better Living's slogan might as well have been: "Lobotomy is fun"- by the way, they sold lobotomies too… and at two hundred dollars a section (of brain that is), every Hollywood brat was getting one. Ben Affleck was the first to go… surprisingly; he won three Oscars that year.

The thing that Better Living didn't count on, and the thing they hated the most was competition. Ninety nine percent of the country's market was a lot, but one hundred percent would've been much more preferable. Unfortunately for Better Living, there was pirate radio… and where there was pirate radio… there were pirates.

They delighted in the idea of tearing down the walls Better Living had worked so hard to build; reminding the world of its past and dark future. They acted like heart-stopping wakeup calls for a society that was growing stupider everyday… and Better Living had task forces in every state to exterminate these so-called bugs once and for all. Unfortunately though, their methods were just as bad as their fish-flavoured wafers.

They just weren't very good at all…

A stereo blasted in the desert, the voice inside it filled with the kind of passion you only hear on old 80's Rock and Roll records. He spoke purposefully, buzzing in and out through waves of static. "Look alive, sunshine! 109 in the sky but the pigs won't quit! You're with me, Dr. Death Defying… I'll be your surgeon, your proctor, your helicopter; anti-matter for the master plan! The future is bulletproof, the aftermath is secondary. Killjoys! Are you out there?" His voice suddenly sounded urgent, "Killjoys, if you're out there, make some noise! Come alive now, come alive! Giddy-up, giddy-up now, the race to the glue factory ain't over yet!"

The transmission cut out just as Show Pony skated up over the horizon, the small boom box in one hand. He wore a pair of polka dot tights, a tank top that was two sizes too awkward, a tinted motorcycle helmet and knee guards- but only because they looked cool. He made his way everywhere on roller skates that he stole from a raid back in Washington a year ago… and he hadn't taken them off since. "Lady boy!" A voice called out, "Where the hell have you been?"

Show Pony looked up as he approached the safe house and saw Fun Ghoul staring back at him, squinting in the harsh Nevada sunlight. Show Pony suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to throw a punch, but reminded himself of the zen-like lifestyle he had chosen. Hurt not lest ye be hurt… or something.

Ghoul wasn't out looking for a fight of course- not right now anyway, and he waited around for a response before hollering at Show Pony again. Ghoul was dressed in far too many layers to survive more than twenty minutes outside, but he was up for the challenge. He waved Show Pony down, the tights-wearing man reflected in his aviator sunglasses.

"It's about time!" Ghoul said, "You got the batteries for that thing?" He asked, nodding at the stereo. Show Pony didn't reply, he just skated past him and into the safe house without a word. It was always hard to tell if Show Pony was just being an angsty little bitch, or if he was… well, just being Show Pony. The problem stemmed from his lack of speech; he never said anything, not to anyone- in fact, Ghoul had never heard his voice, and yet still insisted daily on asking him questions he never answered. This miscommunication issue was further exacerbated by the fact that Show Pony also never took off his helmet- at least not in front of anyone. He was a living, breathing, blank canvas and the only things that made any noise were his unique clothes.

Fun Ghoul on the other hand was all about communication, in fact there were often times when there was far too much of it coming from his end of the ring. He wore his heart on his sleeve and said whatever came to mind, which was at times far worse than saying nothing at all. Fortunately though, Fun Ghoul made up for all the over sharing and too much information moments with an expert knowledge in all things technological. He knew computers, machines, cars and electronic weaponry way better than he knew the human creature... and when to shut up for that matter. Back in the early two thousand's, he would've been labelled a nerd, but in 2019, he was a star-class asset. In fact, he was exactly the kind of asset Better Living would pay top dollar for, but Ghoul had better things to do and bigger fish to fry. "Screw them," He would say, "What would I do with all that money anyway?"

"Lady boy!" He called out to Show Pony once more as he followed the skate-wearing crusader inside. Show Pony still said nothing. He simply skated over to a cluttered desk where a man with blazing crimson-dyed hair sat, working away. An anti-Ritalin symbol was stitched into the back of his blue leather jacket that hung off the chair he was sitting on, and his motorcycle boots were caked with mud and dried blood. A yellow mask sat on the table in front of him, next to a bright yellow laser gun. His name was Party Poison, and he was the leader of their particular group of hell bent anti-Better Living vigilantes.

"He doesn't go by that anymore!" Poison replied for Show Pony who crossed his arms and leaned against the wall that was lined with photos, graphic-novel style sketches and photocopied pirate magazines. A battered American Flag topped the montage, hanging like a slowly disintegrating hunting trophy.

"What?" Ghoul said as he took off his aviators and raised an eyebrow. He shot a glance at Poison who stayed bent over his sketch pad on the table.

"He's Show Pony now, you dick," Poison said plainly, looking up only to give Ghoul a dirty look.

"What? How come?" Ghoul asked, cocking his head, "Does he have to change his name every God damn week or so? It's screwing with my mind," He looked at Show Pony who casually inspected his racing gloves. "Does he do it to screw with my mind? Because it feels like it…"

"Maybe," Poison said, picking up a marker and uncapping it with his teeth. He scribbled defiantly, using heavy strokes that filled the room with spine-chilling scraping sounds.

"How do you know he changed his name anyway?" Ghoul asked, "He doesn't even talk,"

"He can fucking write, you know," Poison replied, rolling his eyes. As if to illustrate his point, Show Pony picked up a piece of paper and scribbled some words across it with a pen he kept stashed in the side of the black thong he wore over his tights. He wrote extremely diligently, despite having the handicap of a motorcycle helmet on his head, and held up the note for Ghoul and Poison to read.

"Dr. Death Defying roll call."

Poison glanced at Ghoul before turning back to the desk. "Can you get this working again?" Poison nodded at the stereo that buzzed intermittently.

"Sure," Ghoul said, walking towards it and picking it up. He inspected the device; it was as old as they came- which was probably why it played up so much. Unfortunately though, it was the only way they could hear Dr. Deth Defying's pirate transmissions because nothing Better Living sold was pirate-transmission savvy... or Rock and Roll savvy for that matter. The moment an electric guitar riff came on, a Better Living stereo would self destruct. After all, loud music was a gateway to emotion and self expression.

And that sort of thing will give you wrinkles…

Ghoul pushed a few buttons and shook it a couple of times, but the buzzing continued. It spat out a couple stray lyrics of an old song; "my mosquito" and then "my libido". Finally, he slammed it down hard onto the desk, making the transmission explode back to life. Show Pony jumped when a fast 90's Grunge track belted from stereo's tiny speakers. Poison just kept scribbling.

"Fixed it," Ghoul announced happily, and if Show Pony wasn't such a stickler for keeping his motorcycle helmet on, Ghoul would've seen the look of disdain on his face. Instead, Ghoul just carried on into his haze of self-unawareness, "I love this song!" He smiled to himself and hummed along, "What's it called… um…" Party Poison looked up suddenly, and turned to Fun Ghoul who wracked his brain for the song title. "Damn, I'm lousy at this… ugh…"

Suddenly, Kobra Kid came running into the room, his blonde hair slicked back so hard it slit a cut through the air as he stormed in. "Smells Like Teen Spirit!" He huffed. "Is that the dedication?" He panted, sweat beads pouring down his face and pooling on a massive sweat stain across the chest of his yellow t-shirt. "Man… it's hot outside," he breathed.

Poison looked to Show Pony seriously, "Dr. Death Defying called out to us just before this song?" He asked. Show Pony nodded, and after a brief pause, he scribbled on the back of the piece of paper he used earlier.

"Think so. Transmission cut,"

"Smells Like Teen Spirit…" Poison mulled it over and quickly turned to scribble it onto the piece of art he was working on. He tore the page out of his sketchpad and stuffed it in Show Pony's hands. It was a hand-drawn but print-quality Dark Horse style comic of a young woman trapped in a Ritalin pill bottle. "Get that to print and say hello to Dr. D for me," Poison instructed Show Pony, "We'll see you when we get back!" Show Pony nodded and skated past Ghoul and Kobra who watched him zip past.

"Smells Like Teen Spirit?" Ghoul repeated, scratching his head, "That's the clue?" He shot a glance to Kobra who shrugged. "Where are we headed?"

"Wake up Jet Star and the kid," Poison replied, sorting out his desk and throwing out some perfectly good, but not-good-enough-for-Poison drawings. He pulled on his jacket, "Sounds like we're hitting up a State High School in sun blister ridden California," He spun around to face the others as he strapped on his mask and stuffed his lazer gun into his leather holster. "And for fuck's sake, Kobra, change or something…"

Kobra nodded, "Yes sir!" He yelled as he ran out, almost breaking down the front door in his excitement.

Poison and Ghoul headed out to the old weather beaten Trans Am that waited outside for them like a loyal old Labrador. Poison smirked and they shared a proud split-second glance. "Brings a tear to your eye doesn't it?" Ghoul smiled.

"Like staring at the star spangled banner," Poison said softly, raising his mask for a moment.

Batman had the Batmobile, Dr. Brown had the DeLorean DMC-12… and they had the world's last remaining Trans Am. She broke down all the time, and after their last escapade, Poison was almost certain he'd be burying her in pieces way before her time. But Ghoul was a genius, and a man to his word… he rebuilt her from the ground up and even re-painted her American flag decal. She may have been covered in mud, scratches and dents, but Poison looked at her with starry eyes like she was still under spotlights in a show room. Their logo; a Black Widow spider, ironically painted in white, decorated the rust damaged hood.

Party Poison took a moment to pat the dust covered bonnet, an uncontrollable grin growing on his face. "Nice work, Ghoul," He nodded, sparing a compliment even though he usually tried to deflate instead of inflate Fun Ghoul's already massive ego. Ghoul nodded back with a smile, saluting Poison.

"I'm a man to my word," Ghoul said, "Plus I owed you,"

Poison grinned to himself, "We're even," He said, his red hair moving wildly in the wind. He swung open the car door that squeaked loudly on its hinges, and reached for the transistor radio on the dashboard. He flicked the on-switch and spoke into it, "Eight Legs are here and ready to party," He said. "Killjoys are checking in!"

He revved the engine and put on his mask as Fun Ghoul strapped himself in for what was going to be another crazy ride. Kobra Kid jogged up towards them, practising a few last minute punches and uppercuts. A man in a blue jacket and a little girl in a racing helmet followed closely behind him, dodging a few stray karate chops. "Killjoys!" Ghoul screamed, hanging out of the passenger side window and punching the air, "Make some noise!"