Popularity = $$$$ | gerard/ray

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Lovely it would be if I was the only artist on this street, thought Gerard as he pressed a button on the side of his phone, boosting the volume of his music. He nodded to the beat without taking his eyes off his artwork. Nobody else even has good taste anymore. He glanced over and glared at the person of maybe his age barely two yards away. Especially not that guy. The boy played guitar, wore glasses, and had very curly brown hair. All that dude plays is fucking weird metal from the '80s.

Dude was a monster on guitar, Gerard knew, but the guy's covers didn't get him in the right frame of mind for creating. The only kind of which that was was all the music saved on his phone, and the guitarist never played any genre anywhere close.

Gerard sighed and looked away from the boy, turning his attention back to the drawing he was working on. He drew caricatures on the city streets of tourists for the money his job at the comic shop wasn't pulling in. He was even still looking for another job because his college tuition was seeming to cost more and more by the second and he was positive the stores (and his roommates) were trying to starve him. But that just meant these were his 'starving student' days, he guessed.

Art was his major in college and he and dreamt of becoming a comic book illustrator and/or author when he graduated. He had even already picked out his pen name. Drawing was his passion and he couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life (unless it involved classic punk music). The tips from drawing on the street was the only way he was getting by, and that curly-haired guy was stealing all his clientele.

He unconsciously started singing along to the Misfits song that had started playing as he finished up the drawing of the couple in front of him. Shading here, definition there, color. He could feel the glare of the guitarist next to him, but Gerard didn't care. This was the only way he could focus on his song and, therefore, his drawing.

Through the ear he left earphone-less, he could hear the guy play and sing louder. Gerard frowned and picked up the finished drawing and blew off the pencil dust in a pause from the vocals. He sang louder at the guy as he handed the couple the drawing. They thanked and tipped him, then left smiling.

Gerard was almost deterred. Seeing people happy with his work always lightened his mood.

But this little bitch over here was ruining not only his creative mood, but his chance for tips. The crowd gathering around him was aggravating (and astounding for any street performer).

Gerard packed up his things, belting the song out until it finished as the guy screamed the end of the song he was playing.

With his art briefcase (his most prized possession) packed, Gerard walked past the guy and his applauding tippers. The artists flipped each other off as a greeting, a habit they had gotten into doing whenever one passed the other.

"Fuck you and your fucking talent," he muttered as he continued walking away. Gerard was set in the direction of his completely craptastic house he shared with three other broke college students.

Tomorrow, Gerard promised himself, as he did every evening. He nodded to himself and pulled the leather strap of his briefcase higher on his shoulder. Tomorrow I'll go off on that guy.

]«+»[

Oh, how gorgeous this street would be if it wasn't plagued by mean artists too deep into the punk scene, Ray sighed as he screwed the cap back onto his water bottle. He readjusted his guitar in his lap and glared at the caricaturist barely more than a yard away. The artist had black hair that was short-ish, unwashed and slightly spiked. The guy was probably around Ray's age, he guessed. Ray pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shook his head at the weirdo. I swear if he tries drowning me out with The Misfits again...