Sold to Franz Ferdinand

Departure.

It is 9am on a Saturday. Instead of being awoken by the rays of light that aren't filtered out by my blinds, a shrieking noise is the cause of my sleep abruptly ending.

"Get your dumb arse down here, Y/N!" yells my mother. Ah. Mother dearest. Fuckin' hate her.

As I change into my old-man clothing (I of course get my fashion advice from the one and only Richard Ayoade), I hear the annoying, but still less annoying than my mother, buzzing of our house's doorbell.
Who the fuck is coming here at 9:02 in the morning? At least that would soon be revealed. After buttoning up my shirt, I walk my way to the stairs. This shirt was one of many that I had stolen from my dad's wardrobe when he was still here. I understand why he left.

"Lazy piece of shite, if you don't come downstairs this instant, I am giving you away for free!" Giving me away? Please dear God, tell me this is true. As I strut down the dusty stairs, careful not to touch the railing because it is fucking nasty, I see my mother talking to someone in the hallway. Who the fuck. Okay.

"What's up bitch," I exclaim whilst I jump off the last few steps, feeling cool as shit. "Why'd you summon me here?"

"Are you fucking blind, I knew I never should've let your idiot father hit it raw. I can't believe you're still alive, after all those attempted abortions..." yap yap yap, she's still talking but I filter it out because apparently the person who rang the doorbell was... some middle-aged guy? Oh I'm not wearing my glasses. I put them on. I look at the man. He is Alex Kapranos.

"Hello mister sir Huntley, how are you on this fine spring day?" I ask him, gentlemanly.

"Alright."

"So, uh, why're you in my house."

"Oh, right! To buy you. Or adopt. We haven't decided yet."

"We?"

"The band, silly! Bob's in the car."

Fuck me. (Not really.)

"Wait, so I get to leave my mum?" I ask sincerely, because of fucking course I want to leave this shithole. "It smells of piss and heroin and I can't take it anymore! Help me please, mister Kapranos."

"Okay." he says as he hands my, still complaining, mother a five dollar bill, two small post-it notes with the stickiness gone because of lint and dust, and one rather large rubber ducky. Why dollars? Ew. "Let's leave. You're right about the smells."

"I know right! Anyway, my question is, did the bitch advertise me on Ebay? Craigslist? Please not on Facebook Marketplace." I ask as we walk out.

"Nah, we actually reached out to her!"

Huh.

"Kidding, of course! How the fuck are we supposed to know about your existence. The woman was parading around town with a big cardboard sign where she was promoting her shop. The merchandise being, well, comprised of you, and quite a lot of alcohol..." he says, those last few words a tad louder than a whisper.

"Still better than being sold online." I say confidently (it's true! I have experience!).

We reach the car, a Fiat Multipla with flames on the sides and Hello Kitty on the front hood, and I see Bob Hardy in the driver's seat. Of course Alex doesn't drive.

"This car ugly as hell." I inform them.

"We know." Alex says and they sigh in unison.
"Hop on in, Y/N."

"Could I sit in the front, I get sick if I don't."

"No." Goddamnit Alex.

I crawl into the backseat, trying to fit my long legs into this small, stupid, wretched car. This car is still better than my house, well, ex-house now. Bob and Alex are discussing some stuff, grown-up stuff probably. I listen a bit more intently and soon realise they're just whispering gibberish to each other.

"What the fuck are you doing. You are two adult men, who've just bought a person, prattling about, doing nothing productive!"

They stop talking, turn around and look at me, unblinkingly. This is scary. Bob then reaches out his hand, holding a CD, towards the middle part of the car where you can probably put a CD in. He inserts it. It starts spinning, producing a whirring sound. I hear the chords to Wonderwall. This is no longer better than my ex-house.