The crowds were fierce and heavily armed with long, sparkling nails and heavy jewelry. Every rabid fan's eyes were on me, everyone wanted the same thing: Nicki.
I stood on the barricade which was the only thing separating her from her rabid, literally foaming at the mouth, fan base. My jeans were made of black leather and were as tight as a second set of skin. The shirt I wore was torn at the seams, leaving gaping holes in crucial places; but it was all part of the job. My ass-kicking career was launched around four months ago at the release of Pink Friday where the incredibly low bass and fast beats sent millions into a spiraling mental illness.
It spread like the plague through every big-shot city known to man, then quickly reached every corner of every continent. Only the strong survived the infection: like me.
Only the metal-heads who loved death core and black metal and die-hard My Chemical Romance fans were still around. The witty lyrics we base our lives on kept us alive and healthy. Before the world turned in to a rabid wasteland, the broadcasters dubbed the new epidemic 'The Pink Plague'.
So how did I land the job of protecting the cause of this insanity, you may ask? Maybe it was because I am the baddest in the business. Maybe it was because I actually volunteered for the unpopular position.
When in reality, it was because I withheld an undying love for her.
No one knows why, or how, I survived the Pink Plague when I was dancing around to Did It On Em along with the rest of the zombies. Even the smartest of the band of scientists that were developing a cure didn't have the slightest clue.
My task is simple: keep Nicki alive until we can cure the world of this disaster she caused. I didn't blame her, however, because she was only doing what she does best. My friends think I'm crazy, but I believe I'm just a lovesick girl with a huge crush on a well known superstar.
The heavy gun felt warm in my hands as I took aim at all the heads that got too close. A direct shot in the forehead would send them tumbling to the ground in agony. Left for dead.
I leapt from the barricade, my razored ashwhite hair flipping behind me, and smashed a fist into the nearest temple. Two more hit the ground with a thud.
I glanced behind me where Nicki stood, watching me destroy the monsters she had created. Her expression was blank, but I knew exactly what she was thinking. 'How?'
Two more fans came at me, both with a chest that was just about the size of my whole body, and I fired a clean shot through both of them.
I sliced through crowds and crowds of then until the venue floor was a burial ground of glitter and designer jeans.
I took my place by Nicki's side, careful not to get blood on her perfectly manicure hands. "How did I do?" I asked her, a hopeful gleam in my eye.
"Claire, you do beautifully every time. I just can't believe this is all because of me. Who knew so many people would go insane because of my horrible album." she replied, her voice cracking at the words 'horrible' and 'album'.
I wiped my hands on my pants and squeezed her shoulder gently. "Nicki, it was a work of art! No one knows what happened but you can't blame it on yourself." I gave her a reassuring smile then took her hand and led her back to the tour bus.
I loved the feeling of being with her, protecting her from everything; it was us against the world. I dont know if she knew I loved her, but she seemed as though she may love me too.
I unlocked the doors and ushered her inside, securely locking them behind me. Nicki situated herself on her plush purple couch, wrapping her arms around a fuzzy pink pillow.
