Poser Punk (Frerard)

Chapter 1 | A rich punk

What do you do if you are a punk, but have rich parents?

Those two things go against each other, rich and punk are opposites and only things you see in posers.
A rich punk...what a joke!

Punks are poor, dirty, respectless, don't have manners and don't give a fuck about their public image. All punks care about is having fun and bringing justice, whether that is getting drunk and beating up nazis and racists or if it's stealing make up and stuff from a store.
They listen to music that's loud an all over the place, with weird lyrics that are screamed off tune to the instruments beeing smashed on stage, while the fans dance in a way that ends up with atleast one broken bone.
They wear chlothes that haven't been washed in years, that are falling apart, and are only beeing held together by scrap fabric patches and dental floss as thread, mabey some chains aswell.
They don't wash their hair, and have colorful funky hair that is spiked up, and metal through whatever body parts they're able to stick a needle through. Putting ink under their skin everywhere they could aswell. And they don't care about laws and rules, they make their own and don't even follow those!

That's everything what makes a punk punk!
And it was everything that defined Frank, well....except for the poor part, wich got him to be called a poser by many.

He hated the fact that his parents had money, and an abundance of that even.
They were rich, and so was he.
Living in a mansion rather than a suburban house or smelly apartment with rent due...

'Punks are suppost to sleep on the streets, under bridges, in parking lots, in abandoned warehouses...everywhere BUT a mansion!'
Frank thought, sitting upset at the dinnertable, eating some fancy foods the private chef made for him and his parents.
Well atleast it tasted good, but a punk was suppost to steal food to survive, or live off of fast food, not fresh home cooked 5-star chef food!

"Frank, are you alright?"
Frank's father asked, looking up ftom his plate. He was a nice man, not caught up in his richness at all.

"I'm fine..."
Frank mumbled in response. He wasn't good at lying or hiding his feelings, so everyone could tell something was bothering him again.

His father sighed, his mother mostly ignoring what was happening since she knew frank wouldn't talk even if she tried to force him.

"Frank, please son, what is bothering you this time?"
He asked, shaking his head and putting down his cutlery.

Frank kept his mouth shut, not even answering, making his father sigh again and just continue eating.

"...you can go back to your room once your finished baby."
Frank's mother said, knowing that he would go to his room either way.
He was a punk after all, a rich punk...

"Thanks"
Frank mumbled before standing up and going to his room.

He walked up the 3 flights of stairs, walking down the left hallway until almost reaching the end, before stopping at a room. It wasn't his bedroom, no it was his guitar room, the best room of his.
He liked this one more than his bedroom, gameroom, library, music room, movie room and study room combined!

He walked into the room, it's pretty big.
The walls were filled by guitars hanging on it, all different models and shapes and different string counts, some with and some without frets.
On the ground were a few more guitars, but mostly Amps, pedals and speakers, everything a guitar player could dream of.

He walked over to a guitar that's sitting on a stand, picking it up and putting the strap around his body.
He turned on the speakers and Amp without even bending down, just flicking the switch with his foot while he got a pick from his dispenser.
Yes, a dispenser, for guitar picks. It was honestly the best thing his parents let be build for him, he was very grateful for it.