The Ultimate Emo Crossover

Cat Fight

 First of all, I walked into a smoke screen as I opened the door, waving my arms and coughing. When it cleared, there Dahvie was, laying on a settee, surrounded by a slew of preteen girls hanging off him. I wanted to yell "What the fuck?" but still couldn't catch my breath, so I just stared at him, bloodshot, while he smiled all sultry.

"Anderson. Nice performance you put on tonight..."

"Yeah," I coughed, "I bet you dug that, you perv."

"Actually, no. I'm not homosexual like you."

"I'm not a pedophile, like you."

"So you are gay?"

"Says who?"

"You didn't deny it."

"Fuck off, Dahvie. Why the fuck are you in my dressing room? Now it smells like cheap laced middle-school weed."

"Hey! These girls aren't that stupid. I was the one who laced it."

"Whuuu?" One girl moans, her head lolling as she lays on the floor, back on the sette where Dahvie is skewed.

"Now give her hair a little pull," he says to the girl sitting by his feet.

"You sick fuck. What do you want?"

He examines his nails for a long, long time, like they're so damn important. "You still have more fans than me," he finally says.

"Maybe don't steal other people's lyrics then?"

Dahvie leans forward, some vicious look in his red, colored contact eyes. "Those lyrics came to me in a dream before those fuckers ever put them to paper." He leans back again, slowly and satisfied.

I just stand there, still in the doorway because I don't want to be prosecuted for anything, staring at him. "Okay. So why the fuck are you here again?"

Dahvie gets up, like he's annoyed with the whole thing now. He takes two steps forward, stops, closes his eyes, and screams "UP!" The dozen girls all jump up and scramble towards the door. Still standing in place, Dahvie yells "Except you, Audrey!" A small, chubby looking, pale girl with a botched red dye job and layered hair riddled with split ends pauses in place, her hair covering her face as she looks down in shame. She wears a Soul Eater t-shirt, store bought ripped jeans, converse, and 300 silly bands around both arms alongside a "I love Boobies!" cuff.

Dahvie starts walking past her, circling her, looking down at her like some faggy drill sergeant. "What a terrible biographist. I bought you along so you could really capture me. I let you sit in on my motel escapades! And what did you do? What was that you did?"

She doesn't look up. "Threaten to call the cops--"

"Threaten to call the cops," he scoffs, "Do you want me to go to jail, Audrey? Do you know what happens to pretty boys like me in jail? Bad things, girl." He stops and looks down at her. "Do you want me to be raped? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, sir--"

"Cause that's what I'm hearing. That's what I'm hearing, Audrey!"

"Enough, Dahvie!" I have intervene. "She's like twelve, dude, cut it out."

"Oh," Dahvie smiles, tilting his head sinisterly, like he's some haunted robot, "If you like her so much, take her." He shoves her towards me, and she falls against my chest, where I have to catch her. I stand her back up, and she's already shoving her hair repeatedly behind her ears like insecure girls do.

"Let's see how you like it when you have to deal with her midnight depression calls! I'm not your therapist," he points at her, "I'm a fucking icon!" At that, he leaves, snapping his fingers in the air and all his groupies follow.

I take a step back from her. Don't want to be accused of anything. "You okay?"

She nods, still looking at the floor. I can't stand this type of shit, so I put my hand under her chin and lift it up. She shudders. I pull my hand away. "It's not like that! Jesus Christ, what did this guy do to you? Listen," I sit her down on the settee, and I still don't know how the fucking thing got there, like this was some goddamn hookah bar--"Young girls aren't supposed to sleep with their idols," I say to her sternly. I never thought I'd be doing this dad thing right after a concert. I expected to be balls-deep fucked up right now with my boys. "They're supposed to write weird fanfiction about them, k?" She nods.

I frown. "You nod too much. You don't have to do that in response to everything I say."

She nods again, tight lipped.

"Christ. Here, pretend I'm Dahvie," I say, "What would you want to really say to him right now?"

She stares at me, dumbfounded.

"You want to say, 'Fuck you Dahvie! Fucking monkey-ass lookin' perv, lyrically handicapped wench.' Go on, say it."

She's hesitating. "I'm not really allowed to curse--"

"But you're allowed to sext Dahvie Vanity? C'mon, say it."

She breathes in deeply, "Fucking small dicked swampy-ass botched tattoo job kid who got picked last in gym class lookin' faggot..."

I take it in. "Wow."

"Sorry," she mumbles.

"No," I get down on a knee and take her hands, "That was amazing. Now I want you to go home and write the smuttiest, most appalling fanfiction you can--" I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, "And never stop."

She smiles and gives me a little nod, stands, and walks out, leaving me sitting in the middle of the floor.