Anything, Anywhere, Anytime // OC X John Lydon (Johny Rotten)

Morning garageland

"Back in the garage with my bullshit detector

Carbon monoxide, making sure it's effective

People ringing up making offers for my life.

But I just wanna stay in the garage all night."

Dramy groaned. "Hhhghhh..."

Their eyes slowly opened as the harsh light from outside immediately attacked their pupils.

"We're a garage band.

We come from garageland."

Their eyebrows furrowed, as they lay there, breathing in deep breaths and taking in the song that was playing in their head. Or, more like, the song that was playing in the background.

You know that feeling—that split second in the morning. When your eyes flutter open, it's light outside, and you feel nothing. No fears, no anxiety. Your brain hasn't even realised that you're awake yet. It's pure bliss, isn't it?

"Meanwhile things are hotting up in the West End alright

Contracts in the offices, groups in the night

My bummin' slummin' friends have all got new boots

An' someone just asked me if the group would wear suits"

That's, of course, until it disappears and hits you all at once.

... The Clash.... Garageland... Last track in their self-titled album... Nice one..

They thought, content. One of their favourite songs.

"I don't wanna hear about what the rich are doing

I don't wanna go to where the rich are going

They think they're so clever, they think they're so right

But the truth is only known by guttersnipes."

Wait... I don't have a radio... Or a record player... Or a CD player in that case.

They sat up all of a sudden, their eyes wide open, trying to remember... What? Where the fuck am I? What the fuck?

A violent headache and stomachache hit them all at once, which made them recoil and almost knocked their breath out.

They looked around the room. They were on a couch, a red blanket draped over their body. Completely naked body.

Oh fuck.

Their heart started to race a little bit, and they were now really unsure of what was happening.
They held their head in their hands, trying their best to remember how last night ended.
They were in that state of total fucking confusion when you wake up and you seem to even forget your own name.

They furrowed their eyebrows and huffed, the matte memories of last night finally coming back to them.

Right, right, so the last thing they remember is being with Sime... They were outside a bar, talking to someone; they then left with Sime, who had dragged them to another bar, despite them clearly having had enough booze and drugs for one night.
So logically speaking, this must be Simes house, he must have dragged them back over here after they probably passed out or something.
I thought he lived with his mum..
They thought

Dramy's eyes scanned their surroundings. They were in a flat, on the couch in the living room. The room itself was pretty small, a big box TV sat right across said couch, turned off. Between the couch and the TV was an oblong glass table that had a big crack right in the middle. A broken cup was placed next to it, along with a few papers and a TV remote.
A rug was placed under the couch and table, like one you'd see in a Slavic household. It was ripped.

The walls were painted a yellowish white, a few cracks ran along the walls, revealing red bricks underneath.

A stove and fridge were also crammed into the same room. Just your usual small London flat.

There was another door on the other side of the room, and one near the main entrance door. Presumably for the bathroom and one bedroom.

"There's twenty-two singers! But one microphone

Back in the garage

There's five guitar players! But one guitar

Back in the garage

Complaints! Complaints! Wot an old bag

Back in the garage

All night"

The song came to an end as they stood up carefully, getting lightheaded and stumbling slightly. Their head pounded with pain, and their whole body felt sore.

They bent down to pick up their shirt and put it on.

"...John?"

Dramy called out to Sime by his first name. Nothing.

Their glance landed on the record player sat on a table in the corner of the room, which caught their attention. They walked up to it right as the vinyl stopped tuning and the song stopped playing.

Next to the record player was a chair, on which some vinyls were lazily stacked.

"The Clash, Give em enough rope, London Calling, Sandinista, Combat Rock...."

They flipped through all the vinyls that were on the chair.

All of them being The Clash albums.

"He's missing one, that knob head."

He, in fact, was missing the album. Cut the crap.

Their attention was quickly ripped away from the albums, and now it was focused on a little piece of paper next to the records.

They picked it up; it was a note left by John.

"Listen to some tunes while I'm out; won't be long. -John"

They read it and put it back down.

However, that didn't make them feel any better. Their heart was still racing, and the impending feeling of doom dominated their emotions. They were probably forgetting something important.

All of a sudden, they froze; their heart dropped in realisation.

"OH FU-