Title: Fire Burn
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob (origin story, take 9,742)
Rating: Songfic. R for language. R for content and adult topics.
Status: posted to the site September 2004
Archive: The traditional places. If you don't know what the
traditional places are, you might want to write and ask. And here's
how:
Feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequels: Dunno. This may spawn an entire downline.
Disclaimers: Kevin Smith and View Askew own everything. I just
Toil in the Slash Vineyards, pressing the Grapes of Angst.
Notes: Weird fucking day. Partner contemplating suicide again, I'm
suffering the aftermath of too much wine, and I heard about the
falling of a god. So Ares is lost to us, and I feel curiously off-
kilter, as if this world has lost something irretrievably precious
with this one human's death. Plus I've heard my mother's cousin has
terminal brain cancer, which means another round of Let's Drop Like
Flies in my family. It's now four in the morning and I'm wondering
if I'm inflating things and I've cycled through Nine Inch Nails and
Melissa Etheridge and Alice, and am now listening to Indigo Girls.
Somewhere in all of this, a story arose.
Summary: Jay leaves home in an incendiary fashion.
Warnings: Language, both in the song and in the story. Intimations
of incest, drug references, abuse references, and underage homosexual
exploration. No actual sex. (Oh, waah yourself--it's not that kind
of story.)
Dedication: to Billie, friend Keith's former one and only, who has Jay's
mom, though thankfully, not Jay's dad. We live in hope of eighteen
and her escape.
"Fire Burn"
by Kelandris the Mad
*The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire*
Easy, the boy thought. Easy. Easier than letting his dad at him,
easier than dodging, easier than scoring for his mom when she was
sick. He tossed the lighter up in the air, leaning against the back
fence. Easy, he kept thinking. Too easy?
Maybe not. Maybe it was just he expected more. But it was pretty
watching the colors in the flames--orange and red over his room, red
and black over his dad's, yellow and blue in the kitchen when all the
bottles under the sink exploded. Yeah. Pretty.
*The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn*
He sat down gracefully on his haunches, folding like a reed into the
cluster of thornbushes by the back fence. His long blond hair
snagged on the thorns but he didn't notice. His blue eyes nearly
burned brighter than the flames, and in their centers, he knew, was
reflected the brilliant burning glow of orange hell his house had
become.
He tossed the lighter into the air again. Up. Down. Up. Easy.
Sick, he thought now. Slowly, still watching the dancing glow of the
flames up the wooden walls of his bedroom, he eased back into the
bushes, thinking. Up flew the lighter, down to his tightened fist.
What had it been? Why had today been different? He didn't remember
anything out of the ordinary from this morning. He'd gotten up a
little late for school, had his dad punch the breath out of him for
it, had pulled on the first clothes he'd found that looked reasonably
clean, and had gotten the hell out of Hell House. No big, though,
happened every morning like that. One more punch when he got home,
then some scarce absenting and he'd get through the night intact.
One wrong step, he'd have his dad on his ass--sometimes literally--so
it was worth his time to get it right.
Tonight he thought he had, `cause Dad'd left him alone. And then...
something. Something woke him up. What?
*Hello my name is Jimmy Pop and I'm a dumb white guy
I'm not old or new but middle school fifth grade like junior high*
So yeah, he'd lost track of the days again. What the fuck did anyone
expect? Too poor for new clothes, too poor for a new watch when he'd
broke his in a fall, too poor for a calendar, even the free ones.
Mama had to save everything she made for booze and crack, after all.
Pizza now and again and steak for Dad and that was about it.
He kept inching back, slowly, now hearing sirens and sighing. Shit.
Had to happen, didn't want the glory to spread to homes nearby, but
it had been pretty for a while. He inched back until he was
practically bent double, pressing back against two loose boards that
slowly bent outwards and back as he inched underneath the back
fence. And then, he was out, straightening, brushing dirt off his
jeans. And he pocketed the lighter, taking off at a dead run. His
brain had been running for a while, hadn't stopped yet.
*Yeah I'm hung like planet Pluto hard to see with the naked eye
But if I crashed into Uranus I would stick it where the sun don't
shine*
Midnight, he remembered, the little clock by his bed had said that.
Something...some voices. Voices ebbing and falling and he'd almost
gone back to sleep when they sharpened, began to cut the still air,
and he lowered his breathing, listening. Sometimes he only got one
chance before they burst into the room, hitting on him, bloodying his
lip again, punching him. So he listened.
And one of them had said his name. His mom, he remembered now. His
mama's voice like a whisky sour given breath, saying his name. He'd
strained, not wanting to go to the door and open it, just waiting,
concentrating, listening. And then she'd said it.
"Fuck you," he heard again, pitched to a terrible clarity against the
red-painted walls of his skull. "Take that shit to Jay, you so hot
for it."
And his dad hadn't, he hadn't, he'd just smacked Mama and gone back
to sleep. Jay knew, because Jay had sat up, frozen under the thin
sheet, waiting.
*Cause I'm kind of like Han Solo always stroking my own wookie
I'm the root of all that's evil yeah but you can call me cookie*
But the next morning, he knew that had been it. Because she'd
known. She'd known what his dad was. *And she hadn't stopped him.*
All day that phrase ran through his head, put him in a permanent
haze, a vague rage, randomly punching objects just to watch them fall.
And that daze today, even Bobby couldn't break, Jay just going
through the motions of what little bit of school he tolerated.
Flipping the lighter. Flipping the lighter with the seeds of a plan
forming inside, and dodging Bobby's worried eyes as he stalked the
halls of Leonardo High.
*The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn*
Bobby. Yeah. There was somewhere he could go. He began running
across the scrub field, out to the road and across, and then down
several darkened side streets, still hearing sirens. Fuck them.
Let `em come. He'd be ready.
Nah, fuck that. Better--he'd be gone.
*Yo yo this hard-core ghetto gangster image takes a lot of practice
I'm not black like Barry White no I am white like Frank Black is*
He remembered, he'd heard the last bell ring and Bobby, sweet face
all frowning and worried and shit, had tried to pull him aside. But
he had the idea by then, the idea that made him grab the lighter in
his pocket in a death grip, making sure it hadn't vanished on him.
He remembered Bobby--check it, *Bobby*, actually *talking* to
him, out loud in front of other people!--asking him to come over after
school for homework or some shit. Like he ever did homework.
But he just shook his head. Nah. He had other plans today. And
he'd gone home and grabbed an old military-surplus bag he had in the
bottom of the closet. It had about a pound of pot that a friend had
gotten for him, before the friend went to prison. And normally he'd
be honoring that friend's share of any profits, but that friend had
rather noisily gone mad in prison, and was now in a nice little
padded white room somewhere in Boston. So all that pot was his now,
and that was a good thing. One way or another, he was going to
fuckin' need it.
*So if man is five and the devil is six than that must make me seven
This honkey's gone to heaven*
He quickly threw in some things--couple pairs of underwear, couple t-
shirts, couple pair of long-johns and cut-off sweats. Couple caps.
All the socks he could find that were clean--that was four complete
pairs. And he loaded in the top all six of the comics he owned, and
four or five of his favorite CDs, and a book he'd gotten for Bobby.
The Batman action figure Bobby'd given him he gently wrapped in a
knit cap and set inside the bag carefully.
He cinched the bag closed and went to work on his pockets--shoved the
twenty or so dollars he'd hidden around the room in his pockets along
with his favorite pipe and a few packs of matches and a couple silver
rings he liked to wear and some black nail polish and a nail file.
He looked around, shrugging, deciding that was about it, and then
quietly shredded every other paper source in the room, which were
mostly magazines. He'd shoved the torn pages into his closet, and
then slipped out, concealing the olive drab carryall underneath the
thorn bushes. And then, tired, he'd gone to bed for a while, only
waking up when his mom shook him awake.
He looked into her pinched, narrow face, so much like his at times,
and fought the urge to punch her rather than sitting up and smiling.
**You knew,** his brain accused. **You knew, you've known all along,
and you didn't care. You didn't fucking care once. ONCE.**
But he said nothing, only ambled after her, called by the mighty
siren song of pepperoni and extra cheese.
*But if I go to hell then I hope I burn well
I'll spend my days with J.F.K., Marvin Gaye, Martha Raye, and
Lawrence Welk*
All the while he jittered, trying not to glare at Mama, trying not to
attract the attention of his Dad. Fuckers. Both of them. Fuckers.
Playing around with family. Fuck. Ers.
And as soon as he could, he excused himself, and went back to his
room. And he waited until it was dark, and the house was silent,
save for snoring. And he dug out the torn magazine pages, piling
them all on his bed. And he struck his lighter for the first time.
He'd waited in the back yard, waiting until his room was an inferno,
waited until he heard yelling from inside and saw his mom and dad run
out the front door, coughing, run around the side of the house. And
that'd been just more fucking affirmation that he'd done the right
thing, hadn't it? Mama had started to run back to Jay's room,
running around the side of the house, and Dad had pulled her back.
*And she'd let him.* Jay watched them both stand there, shaking his
head, watching as they walked to the front of the house.
Fuck. Ers.
*And Kurt Cobain, Kojak, Mark Twain and Jimi Hendrix's poltergeist
And Webster yeah Emmanuel Lewis cause he's the anti-christ*
And now he ran, ran for Bobby's and safety, and when he got there he
still heard sirens in his head. He ran to the side of Bobby's house,
opening the window that was way too easy to open, climbing inside and
climbing into Bobby's bed.
"Mrr...whazz...?"
"Shh," he whispered. "It's Jay..." And the shudders took him, the
shudders and the tears he'd fought back all day, wanting to scream,
wanting to cry out, and now was even worse, because screaming in his
house, shit, that was every fuckin' day, but here, man, here Bobby's
entire fucking family would pour in wanting to know what was wrong.
But Bobby didn't ask. Bobby just turned and held him until he
calmed, until the worst of it was over, and he wiped his face on his
sleeve and looked over, eyes shining in the dark.
"You smell like smoke," Bobby said softly.
"Yeah," Jay said, sniffing. "House burned down. Bobby, I gotta
leave."
He watched as his friend's eyes grew big, waited for the accusation,
and it never came.
"When?" was all he asked.
"Tonight. I came to say g'bye."
And suddenly Bobby's arms were around him, tight, and he was being
held close, so tight he nearly couldn't breathe. And man, this
couldn't be what it was, you know? 'Cause he'd tried this before and
Bobby, Bobby man, he'd always said no. And then Bobby was kissing
him and his brain melted.
Fuck, his lips were soft. And they were trembling like Jay's entire
body was. And it wasn't like kissin' no girl, and it sure as hell
wasn't like his Dad holdin' him down. This was different. This was
so different. So much better.
Bobby pulled away, looking at him.
"Lemme pack. I'll go with you," he said.
*The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire*
"Nah, you can't, man, I don't know where I'm gonna be sleepin', I
don't know where I'm gonna go, I--"
"You're going with me," Bobby said. And he kissed him again. Then
he pulled back, ducking his head down and looking away. Jay frowned,
and tapped him on the chest.
"Hey. Brain guy. 'S not all you."
"What?"
"How many fuckin' times have I offered ta go down, man? I thought
you knew."
"I...I, um..."
And Bobby looked up, looking about as lost as he'd ever fuckin' seen
him, and shrugged.
"I knew," he whispered. "I just didn't want to. I didn't--I didn't
think I wanted you."
Huh. "An' now?"
"I..." Bob bit his lip, and Jay heard his breath catch.
"Stay the night," he whispered. "We can leave tomorrow." And he
curled an arm around Jay's waist, drawing him close.
Jay spiraled a strand of his dark hair around his finger, thinking.
Bob shivered again, but didn't pull away.
"You wanna go back to sleep?" he asked.
"No."
"Good."
*The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn
Burn motherfucker burn*
END
(Song is "Fire Water Burn" by the Bloodhound Gang)
*****************
Kelandris the Mad
I wanna shimmy shimmy shimmy until the dawn breaks through
go back
wanna read
another one
tired already
If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read the next one, read the next one. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.
Or if you want, write me.
