"Here lies James Vincent Grey. Rest In Peace."
The gravestone read. The words deliberately chiseled into the smooth surface didn't do justice to the man lying six feet below.
The grass had just started growing over the freshly covered grave and the ground in the surrounding area was covered in bottles and cigarette butts, all left behind by visitors coming to pay their last respects to the man they all loved to hate.
The parties would never be as wild, the music would never be as loud, the booze never quite as potent, and the drugs never as hard without the presence of their patron saint to overlook the festivities.
"You've done it this time, Jimmy." A man with dark hair said, his voice thick with melancholy. "You didn't tell anyone what to write on your grave. They didn't even put your proper title."
The man dropped to his knees, uncapping the black sharpie he had brought with him. He scrawled Saint just above the name of the man who could easily be considered his closest friend, and even a bit more in some cases, and he drew a heart with an inverted cross jutting through the center just beside the name.
Sure, it may seem a bit pompous to hold a title like that, and especially to add that to a simple grave marker, but that's exactly what it was. It was a ridiculous title, but it just added to the character known to the world as Saint Jimmy.
He was larger than life. From the tips of the spikes atop his head, to the thick lines of black that rimmed eyes, all the way down to the ratty pants he wore, which were more hole than jean, he was different. Saint Jimmy was held in a class of his own.
Everything he did was extreme. Legend says he was born with a smoking pistol in one hand, a ready syringe in his other, and an unlit cigarette between his lips. And even more people recall his birth by adding a few lines about how he burst out in swears rather than cries promptly after exiting the asylum of his mother's womb. Although it sounds outlandish, upon meeting him, it was easy to believe. When you met him, it felt as though he was born covered in tattoos and the scars adorning him were birthmarks rather than battle scars. You could imagine him as a small child with jet black hair and an even darker heart. He seemed to have been born as a demon destined to grace the world with his damned ways.
He'd never been quite what you'd imagine a saint to be. Saints were associated with holy things, with love and grace. He was made of the unholiest bits, void of nearly all good, yet he still was a saint. The patron saint of anger, of violence, of drugs and drinks, of disaster, and above all, the patron saint of denial. A leader to the misunderstood and lost.
"Fuck." The man kneeling down at the grave mumbled, burying his face in his hands. "Why'd you have to go and do this? You just had to go and shoot yourself." He took a deep breath. "All the boys told me that your angel face wasn't quite so angelic in that casket. They told me you shot yourself straight through the head and they couldn't put all the pieces back together." He let out a dry laugh, which lacked even the slightest hint of emotion. "What are you? Fucking Humpty Dumpty?"
"God dammit, Jimmy. Why'd you do this? We were supposed to be Johnny and Jimmy, the dynamic duo! We were supposed to be together forever. You're the saint! You were supposed to teach me your ways and show me how to live in this world! You promised!" He slammed a fist against the ground as his voice cracked. "But you lied! I should have known you would do this. I should have known everything was too good to be true. Whatsername told me I couldn't trust you! She knew you'd let me down like this!"
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the cold, polished surface of the gravestone he had just drawn on. "You fucking asshole. I hate you!" And despite all of his rational mind screaming at him to get up and move on, his emotions won over. He just stayed like that for a long while, knees hugged to his chest, head resting against the stone, as a groan of utter agony grew in the back of his throat, until it finally amounted into a scream of pain. With that sound, any person listening would have come to the conclusion that the man's world was coming to an end, and in a twisted way, it actually was.
This marked the end of an era.
It was the moment the Jesus of Suburbia realized that he was living a lie. The drug dealer he sought refuge in was only a lie. His own title, the Jesus of Suburbia, was a lie. He was nothing special. He was merely Johnny of Jingletown, stepson of Brad, not a son of God in the slightest. And Saint Jimmy was just ordinary Jimmy. He wasn't a real Saint, sent down by God to guide Johnny in his adventures, he was another charismatic drug dealer.
But none of that mattered. Johnny believed in his friend while he was living, and that was all that truely mattered.
Eventually, Johnny's cries subsided. For once his red eyes could be blamed on tears rather than alcohol or drugs, and his hoarse voice could be blamed on cries of pain rather than whoops of happiness.
"Oh God, I really am a nothing," Johnny sighed, finally shifting to sit upright with his legs crossed indian-style. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and held it between his lips as he struck a match and brought it up to light the cigarette. "Brad was right. I am nothing and I'll never be more than that." His words were muffled by the cancer stick between his teeth. Slowly, he took a drag and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. He tilted his head to watch the wisps smoke dissipate into the blue sky as he exhaled. "Man, I remember my first night in this shitty town. You found me, you took me in." He paused to take another drag. "You taught me how to live."
Johnny had been stumbling around the dirty town, completely alone. Sure, he originally arrived with a massive group of friends, but Tunny ran off to fight in the war, and everyone else found better things to do with their lives. They abandoned the Jesus of Suburbia. They shut him out and left him to fend for himself, a terrible treachery, a sin that could never be forgiven.
Then he came along.
Johnny was sitting on the sidewalk, knees drawn up to his chest, back resting against the side of a building, listening to the cars zooming by and inhaling the dirty city air, when a pair of clunky boots came marching up and stopped beside him. His eyes panned upward, past the torn jeans and chains draped about the man's slim hips, past the unbuttoned, black shirt that showed off slightly toned muscles and and delicate sparrow tattoos across the man's waist. His eyes met shocking green ones surrounded by smeared black lines. The standing man offered his hand and a wry smirk.
"My name's Jimmy, Saint Jimmy," He stated boldly as he pulled Johnny up off of the dirty ground. "And don't wear it out."
Johnny just stood there for the longest time, breath caught in the back of his throat. He was captivated. The man- Saint Jimmy- was, by far, the most interesting person he'd met in his 22 years of living. No one before had ever had such an air of confidence or authority. No one before had ever presented themselves in such a self-assured manner. No one before had ever managed to weasel their way into the deepest crevices of Johnny's mind so fast. Saint Jimmy had to be someone specially made for him, he had to have been born for the sole purpose of leading Johnny through the world.
Jimmy raised a thick eyebrow, "Hey, boy, do you have a name?" Johnny nodded in response. "So what is it?"
Mentally, Johnny kicked himself. "Uh, Johnny. My name's Johnny."
"Well, Johnny, are you just going to keep standing there basking in my glory, or are you going to come with me?" He turned on a heel and made his way down the sidewalk, taking long strides so he could arrive at his intended destination with plenty of time to spare. The chains on his belt and the buckles of his boots jingled with every step, the polar opposite of the merry jingle bells that spread joy during the Christmas season.
Johnny stood where he was for a few moments. He nervously licked his lips, running all of the possible scenarios through his mind before finally deciding that he'd regret standing around more than he'd regret any negative outcome. He started jogging to catch up to Jimmy, his Converse made a dull thud with each step.
"I'm coming." He called out.
"You know, it was really weird how our relationship worked out. One minute I was on the ground, then I was at your place, next thing I knew, we were together almost all the time and you were my best friend." The man mumbled, his tears finally stopped falling. He was calling upon good feelings, happy thoughts to help him recollect himself.
He reached out his hand to drag his fingers across the carved stone. "Hey, Jimmy, remember that first party you took me to?" He smiled to himself, shaking his head slightly. "You showed up at my apartment and told me that I needed to get dressed. So I did just that, then you claimed I didn't look good enough, so you smeared a bunch of black shit around my eyes."
He closed his eyes, remembering the bright lights, loud music, wild dancing, and even wilder people that surrounded him at that party. He remembered the drugs, too. The puffs of smoke and people with half-lidded eyes. People whose heads and arms moved in jerks with spoons, lighters, and syringes ready to shoot more drugs into their hungry veins. Sleazy women, and men alike, wore hardly any clothes, what they did wear clung their skin, showing off every little curve and accent of their bodies. Everything about the place made Johnny think, damn, this is how you live.
"Get dressed Johnny! We're going to a party!" Jimmy declared, stomping into his friend's apartment. He collapsed on the couch, propping his boots up on the adjacent coffee table.
Johnny didn't really know what kind of a party Jimmy was talking about, but he did know it couldn't possibly be a fancy one. Eventually he settled on wearing a black button down, not too nice, not too casual, perfect for any occasion.
"Oh, you are not going out looking like that." Jimmy said, rising to his feet.
"What's wrong with how I look? What are you doing?" He tried swatting Jimmy's hands away from his face, to no avail, so he just stood there, dealing with the eyeliner being applied to his eyes.
"It's just a little eyeliner, it wont kill you." The saint laughed, tucking the makeup back into his pocket. He looked his friend up and down before wrinkling his nose and reaching up to unbutton Johnny's shirt.
"Jimmy, if you're going to undress me at least buy me a drink first." Johnny rolled his eyes, deciding to go along with whatever genius plan the saint happened to come up with.
Finally, the shirt was unbuttoned, "Just leave the black shirt at home. Keep the undershirt on, though."
Johnny rose a brow. Really? He was just wearing an old, gray muscle shirt patterned with quite a few suspicious stains. But whatever Jimmy wanted went, so he just went along with it.
Half an hour later, the pair was at a rather large building. A normal person would call it sketchy, but Jimmy seemed right at home, as if there was nothing wrong with the blackened windows or the heavy bass practically shaking the ground.
The minute they walked inside, Johnny was overwhelmed by little things that triggered each of his senses. Heavy smoke gave the whole room a dreamlike and hazy look. The smell of sweat and tobacco smoke took a bit for him to adjust too. He was almost instantly overtaken by the heat of the place, the moving bodies made it feel like the middle of June rather than October.
"Hey, I have some friends I need to meet up with," Jimmy yelled over the music. "But find me if you're up for a good time." He turned and was absorbed into the crowd of dancing people .
"Hey cutie, wanna dance?" Johnny heard a sing-song voice as a hand was placed lightly on his shoulder. He turned to see a girl with cinnamon skin and eyeliner applied so well that it would put Saint Jimmy's makeup skills to shame.
Johnny was stunned. The girl before him was gorgeous, wonderful, different. She held herself with the utmost confidence. Usually Johnny saw people in skimpy clothing and he assumed they were just begging to get laid and lacked all self respect. But it was the opposite with this stranger, he knew she had all the self respect in the world, her shorts and skin-tight crop top were worn because she new that she had it, whatever it was, and she had a right to flaunt it all she wanted.
"Uh, I-I don't dance." Johnny stuttered, his pale cheeks flaring up red. "W-well that's not really the right word. I just can't dance."
The girl let out a laugh, not some tinkling pixi laugh or something that sounded like the ringing of a bell, but a real laugh. A sound that rang through Johnny's ears and made him believe that there really was good in the world. "Honey, anyone can dance. You just have to put yourself out there and risk looking like a fool." She gave him a lopsided smile before grabbing his hands and guiding them to her waist. "So you put your hands here, and I put mine here," She placed her hands on his shoulders. "And we move like this." She started swaying side to side, shifting her weight from one sneaker clad foot to the other, and Johnny awkwardly followed suit.
"I'm Johnny." He dared to ask a question, even though he didn't quite trust his mouth not to make a fool of himself. "What do folks call ya', hon?"
She flashed a smile, "People 'round here call me Whatsername." There was a beat of silence. "You came here with Saint Jimmy, didn't you?" Johnny nodded, "I'd be careful if I were you. He's not the most reliable person."
He looked at Whatsername like she grew a second head. "You're lying. Jimmy's the best! How do you know anything about him?"
Whatsername stopped moving. "Calm the fuck down, Johnny. I'm just trying to give you honest advice. Jimmy used to be my boyfriend. He was nothing but broken promises. He said he'd give me the world, but he got bored and left me."
"I don't see why anyone would leave you." Johnny replied. "I know I never would."
"Are you flirting with me?" Whatsername asked, and she spoke again, not even giving Johnny a chance to stutter out an excuse or reply. "Because, babe, it's working." She leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "We should really spend some time together. "