Chapter 3: Holiday
By the time Jimmy had reached the trashy city next to Jingletown, night had fallen and it was beginning to rain. Many were enjoying it, particularly the two boys making cat calls at a hooker with a now-soaked T-shirt, but to Jimmy, the rain felt like flames tearing at his very essence. He ducked into the bar across the street, instantly relaxing as the mixed smell of pot and alcohol filled his nostrils. He took a seat on a bar stool and glanced around. The lighting was very dim and Jimmy's eyes were slow to adjust, but after a while, Jimmy could make out his surroundings.
He spotted grimy walls and tables occupied by a variety of people, many of which seemed to be prostitutes and drug dealers. A few stools away from him sat two men conversing loudly about politics. Their conversation seemed so out of place in a skanky bar like this that Jimmy almost laughed. Almost.
"He's only doing it for the good of the country," protested the man furthest from Jimmy, who looked as if he had stumbled into the wrong building. His clothes were much finer than any of the other occupants' and he looked very well-groomed. By contrast, the other men in the bar appeared incredibly unhygienic. Perhaps he was from another town.
"Look, all's I know is that this place sucks," replied the other man, who seemed to fit in with the crowd. "Bush sucks, the U.S. sucks, they all suck."
"And you swallow!" shouted someone from the back. The bar briefly filled with laughter.
"No, he's right," said one of the drug dealers. "You know when they don't allow pot that there's something wrong here." More laughter. Jimmy rolled his eyes and ordered a beer, putting his fake ID to use. As he drank silently, more and more people joined in the discussion.
"Rape's illegal, there's definitely something wrong."
"Why would you rape anybody when this city is crawling with call girls?"
"They're too fucking expensive!"
"Good, you can't afford us. You're fugly as shit," one of them replied.
"You know you want me," the man shouted. The hooker looked disgusted.
"Hey, hands off, that's MY ho!" shouted another man.
Jimmy drank beer after beer contentedly as he watched fist fights and arguments break out. The pro-Bush man finally left the bar with a disgusted look on his face, as if he had just trod in dog poo.
As the din of the fights grew louder and people debated over ridiculous laws, a very drunken Jimmy got to his feet and spoke.
"This is how the government works," he declared. Everyone turned to look at him. "Zieg Hiel to the president gasman," he continued, with a drunken salute. "Bombs away is your punishment. Pulverize the Eiffel Towers who criticize your government. Bang! Bang! goes the broken glass, just kill all the fags that don't agree." Every occupant of the bar stared blankly at him, trying to work out what he had just said.
"I don't know about you," Jimmy said,"but trials by fire setting fire is not a way that's meant for me." The bar buzzed with muttering and whispers. Jimmy sat back down and chugged another beer as if nothing had happened.
A man approached Jimmy and grumbled,"You're coming with me. Bring your beer." Then he turned to face the other occupants and yelled,"I'm gonna go have myself a little fun! Vandalism is as beautiful as a rock in a cop's face! Who's with me?" and with that said, he strode out of the bar dragging a staggering Jimmy. Several followed.
There was much that Jimmy did not remember about that night. He didn't remember getting into the man's car, stealing guns, and shooting at random passersby. He didn't remember writing "Jesus of Suburbia" on every bare brick wall. He didn't remember getting high off meth amphetamine. He didn't even recall sneaking into a flea ridden motel room with a girl he had met on the streets.
All Jimmy knew was when he woke, he was lying on a dusty road with a pounding headache and the taste of bile in his mouth.