.+.So send my love a letter bomb.+.
The scent of sweat could be sensed in the very corner of the rather small garage upon the beat-up couch. The furniture in which was occupied had once been a nice, white little couch. As of now, it remained an objec of destruction. Its damage? What looks to be hundred of giant holes covered it like the chicken pox, and the color of it had turned to a dusty brown and dark grey in a rather odd mixture. The young male's chest was acceptionally muscular due to the consistant drumming, though his lungs breathing pattern moved in a jagged appearance from drinking the gatorade he had in his possesion a little too quickly. He mumbled under his breath, though the words we not exactly understandable. His bright hazel eyes looked around the room; nothing too special aside the instruments were in there. "This room is so plain!" he whined before running a hand through his damp, dark blue hair. The style of it was somewhat similar to the boy in the Jesus of Suburbia music video from Green Day; there were spikes all over his head. The difference between the two was that his was a bit flufflier and easy to ruffle. To be more specific, it was sort of a mixture between Billie Joe Armstrong and JOS's hair. The large and rough hand of the 17 year old tugged violently at the collar of his Ramones tee, the Rancid jacket he one wore was now rested at his black stool behind the drumset. "It's hot..." he whined once more in a dramatic tone. His white and black plaid shorts made sure to ride up to his knee, but he didn't care much at all. His left foot, covered in red converse, dug into one of the large holes in the couch, making ripping noises that echoed in the formerly loud room. Many considered him immature; he really didn't think much of it. His sense of humor
and wacky personality was an infamous characteristic of his, and some considered these traits like Tre Cool's. It was somewhat true, though; Tre Cool was his biggest inspiration to how he wanted to live his life. Those who met him through the punk scene did not truthfully know his real name; Jason Mark Lewis. Like most teenagers, he dispised his given name. Instead, many of his friends refered to him as Shank. Shank Ledward the III. Of course, like most things, this name was inspired from Tre Cool. Shank loved it, and took much pride at the wonderful sound of his nickname being called out. He told most people that it was his "better name".
Shank rolled off the couch and onto the cold cement beneath him; he had fallen many times from idiotic incidents and didn't mind this at all. "Come on!" he whailed dramatically as he looked up at the ceiling as though
he were in some sort of movie. He ruffled his hair again before returning to his seat at the stool, awaiting to see one of his beloved bandmates walk in. For now, he was stuck to practice like a maniac.
.+.And visit me in hell.+.
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