You were a punk. A rough and tough punk. You didn't care about anyone, going against the whole world alone. Except Leon. He was an even bigger pain in the ass. Raised in a religious family, he knew perfectly well what it was like to be a 'good boy' and despised it with all his soul. You became friends in high school when you got into the same math class. You've become best friends. Your destructive behavior annoyed not only teachers but also classmates, although you just sent everyone the fuck, knowing better than to take into account other people's opopinions

Even so, you were able to graduate with fairly decent grades and enroll in a more or less decent college. Then you found your people. You've got a whole bunch of punk scum. You hung out together, got drunk on weekends, trashed everything in your path and ignored everyone.

Soon, one of you suggested putting together a group. It clicked. In a short time, you were able to organize everything for the normal functioning of the group. You took up vocals because of your sonorous voice, Leon took up guitar because it was the only thing he could play, the rest took up drums and bass. After recording a couple of albums, things went up the hill. From basements and apartments, your performances turned into clubs and bars, sometimes you even managed to slip in to warm up to famous bands, raising your popularity.

After another concert, you plopped down on the couch next to Leon, throwing his legs over his lap, ignoring his displeasure. The concert was fire. Two hours of freedom and rock. You're terribly tired, almost hoarse, you could use a hot bath and a week of sleep, but it was worth every second spent on stage in front of a crowd of fans. You sighed, spreading out on an uncomfortable couch, but that was enough for you. You just needed at least some kind of horizontal surface to rest on.