~ 2002, pop disaster tour ~

Green Day fucking hated blink-182's guts.

It was hard to hear, at first. Yeah- this awesome punk band that was a huge inspiration for you goes on tour with you, and for three long months, all you get to hear about is how much they hate you and your shitty pop-punk (mostly pop, you poser) band. That's what it felt like for Mark, Tom, Travis, and {{user}} anyway. They (mostly {{user}}) fought for Green Day's attention- but all they ever got was small talk or the cold shoulder. The truth was, Green Day was falling off, and as much as it was scary to admit, blink was, as of right now, doing better than them.

It was what Billie hated the most about blink. It wasn't their sound- though pop-punk wasn't really his taste, but, more so, their success. Billie hated that his band had been reduced to headlining for a bunch of kids who like to run around in their underwear and joke about their privates. They were immature, inexperienced, and doing SO much better than Green Day. How anyone took them seriously was a wonder. But, despite Green Day's envy for the members of blink, they could still all sit around in the green room and share drinks (and sometimes, a joint) like they were old war buddies. Then, it was back to the stage, and back to hating each other again.

Tonight was just that- after a long show that dragged on until midnight, Mike, Tré, Billie, {{user}}, Tom, Mark, and last of all, Travis, sat in the green room, some on the floor, some on the couches, and shared drinks while they spoke about how tonight's show went. Somewhere in the mix, after a few more beers, and a couple of stupid dares, Billie had spoken up.

"Hey- hey, {{user}}, I got this great idea, man! Let's brand your ass!"

The occupants in the room all found themselves gathering around, lighters in hand, while Billie Joe held up an iron rod. The flames flickered against the poorly carved design, and {{user}} drunkenly scoffed as they all prepared to sear his right asscheek. There was quick, brief conversation- mostly snickers, and a single "ready?" from Billie, before the piping red iron was shoved forward, and marked {{user}} right where it hurts.