Bye Bye Birdie One-Shots

Birdie's Hangover (Angst)

         The famous rock star stared himself down in the dark mirror, admiring his cold cut features. He always knew he was the most handsome out of his siblings, after all he was the only child. His hand rested on the dresser, all his upper body weight pressing down. He had one of the most tense nights tonight- the crowd adored him. The problem was that he always had the same reaction. Screaming girls, falling in love with his every move. He absolutely adored the attention, he had to admit. But what's the use in singing the same few songs with a change now and then just to attract more viewers?

       Conrad lifted his hand, cracking his back with one firm twist of his body. He grabbed his leather jacket and combed his hair back, feeling the messy tangles catch painfully in the teeth of the brush. He opened the door to reveal a bright red Cadillac, all shiny and new. Smirking, he took one step out in his tight pants and squeaky leather boots.

"I've got a lot of livin' to do."

-----

6 beers later...

-----

       Conrad's fist hit the counter, and he chortled a laugh, naturally sounding like a deep voiced goat. He had no idea who these people were, nor where he was for that matter. He was still at the tavern right? His eyes dragged around the scene, pausing on blurry faces and bright pink lights.  He stared down at the floor, noticing one of his boots were ripped open at the bottom.

"Well shit." He said out loud. "Tha' was m'fav'rit boot." He burped and looked over at the wall. The neon clock told him the time. Time to go home, really.

       Birdie's head pounded and he clenched his teeth tight. The world around him seemed to twist- he needed a ride home. He called one of his buddies, (because drunk driving isn't cool, kids) and was driven home. He stumbled inside, taking off his ruined boots with a disgruntled expression. His head seemed to wander off on it's own, into another dimension. Birdie fell on his somewhat stiff bed with a muffled "oomf". 

        He opened his eyes to look up at the ceiling. The ceiling was dark, yet he was seeing so clearly each dent and bump of the uneven plaster coating, the defined rough layers overlapping each other. Conrad started getting hot flashes, and his face turned beet red. He unbuttoned his white shirt and fanned himself as well as he could. The satin sheets just seemed to make it worse. Thoughts began flooding into the rock star's head. 

       "An entrepreneur? You'll be better off as a male prostitute." His father had told him. "Going door to door, it's completely ineffective and you'll never amount to anything more if you ever try that shit." He continued puffing on his cigar as he read the newspaper, shutting out all other noise, which meant shutting out Conrad as well. The 12 year old went back up to his room, crumpling up all his ideas and shoving them into a drawer. He didn't want to throw them away; that would mean throwing his dreams away. He wasn't ready to give up yet. 

Lololol what even is this shit

I should have never written this

-The author (Dougo)