✔ CHURCH BOYS ⇢ MCHARRISON/LENNSTARR

THREE (edited)

Sorry if this feels too much like Deadpool is narrating and not John! I'm writing this and watching Deadpool at the same time. So, John is going to be the "funny" one, or at least as funny as I can try to be. Deadpool. Great movie by the way. I would totally recommend it. A little gory and stuff but it's hilarious and amazing. Like someone I know. *cough, cough*...arctic_beatles...*cough,cough* love you fam.

👭 💄 👭

John's POV

I walk in, only to see two boys hugging it out. I roll my eyes. They better cut it out before people start talking. It makes me upset that people can go around and do things without a care. If I even get in a car, the police hovers over me, thinking I'll run over some old lady or something.

No one around here trusts me, not after those times I've been put away. No one will ever trust me again, or at least, I don't think. Once you're put in the slammer once, you're an outcast, a monster.

And for what? 50 fucking bucks. Was it worth it? I think not. And to be honest, I didn't even get the money. Apparently there are "silent alarms" that I was unaware existed. I was halfway out the door when they came, whatever you prefer to call them. The fuzz, the cops, the po po, Poe. Poelice.

I needed food, I needed new clothes. I just needed something and that 50 bucks was gonna get it for me. Or at least, something. I have an aunt that ignores me, dead mother and father? I have no fucking idea. Maybe he's dead, maybe he's alive, maybe he's screwing some hookers in vegas. You never know. All I know is that I'm not with him and if he's still alive he's not much of a help. Like my aunt.

She's always working, but she's a waitress, doesn't make much money. Barely any money at all. So, that's my story, I guess.

I rub my ankle against the knife in my old, worn out shoe. I never travelled without her. I named her daisy. She's as beautiful as she sounds. 7 inches of flawless stainless steel. I've messed around with several gangs in towns around Liverpool so old daisy comes in handy a lot.

And the hand gun hidden in my pants in the one place no one will look? Ichabod. Finest gun this side of Liverpool. Old Ich has gotten me out of a lot of trouble.

You know your lonely when your only friends are your knife, gun and the small pack of Tic Tacs in your back pocket. Old Tic loves me, in all his orangey glory. At least inanimate objects trust me and don't think I'm some monster.

No one actually knows why I was arrested all those times. And that's because I never told anyone. Rumors are always circling around that I murdered people. Whenever people ask me about it I say nothing. If I don't say anything no one can take it the wrong way. And, if they ask too many questions, or they threaten me, they'll have to book an appointment with Daisy and Ichabod.

But for now, our schedule is booked. I'm thinking about becoming an assassin. It's a pretty profitable job. I mean, everyone wants to finish someone off. And me and old Ich are armed and ready. Daisy's mainly only for fun.

But, to them, I was just regular old John Lennon. Wait, they don't know my name. Well, to them I was just regular. They looked around my age. One of them was looking at me.

He had dark hair, long eyelashes and light skin. I swear, he wore 'frickin mascara, and he mascara atop that mascara, and atop that mascara were fake eyelashes, and atop- You-You get the point, his eyelashes were fucking long.

So, he was looking at me and he looked none the wiser. He also looked pretty adorable, he was one of those baby faced boys. You would swear he was at least 14.

He was hugging the other, he was tall with black hair. From the back he looks kinda like Hedy Lamarr. But Hedy didn't turn around or anything. He just remained there, his body melted completely against the other.

The boy looking at me gave me a sheepish wave. I returned it, smiling a half-baked, half-assed, half-psychotic, smile.

Hedy must have felt him wave because he turned around and stared at me, only to hide behind mascara. Fake eyelashes tells him that everything is fine and that I'm just another member of the choir.

It's true. I've been singing since I was born. My first sentence was the opening lyric to Pistol 'Packin Mama. My aunt said that was wasn't exactly encouraging good things for me. What? It's a good song! So, there we were, just staring at each other.

I should probably stop talking to you and start talking to them. But, nah. You're fun, you're cool and you have NO WAY OF INTERRUPTING. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Good, anyway, I was searching for words to say. Sup? Too futuristic. Ello ello? Too old fashioned. Hi? Too casual. Salutations? I don't want to sound like a grandpa. Whats cooking good looking? Maybe...no, no.

"Hi." Mascara says.

"What's cooking good looking?" I blurt out.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Okay, panic time.

"Hey, aren't you John Lennon?" Eyelashes asks.

I start to slowly reach down. Daisy, a certain little man would like to speak with you.

"I think you go to my school." He adds.

Oh, thank god. Daisy and Ichabod were tired anyway. They had quite the night last night and they're soooooo tuckered out. I mean, when a drug gang is after you, you need your friends. I mean, I don't buy drugs and I've just tangled with a lot of sick fucks. You know? I hear the door to the church open and a boys voice ask,

"Is your hand down your pants?"

I jerk it out,

"No."