-o-

October 2nd

Hey Mikes,

Look at what I sent you; a letter! Shocking, I know. You were really overreacting when you said that there was no way for us to keep in contact. I may be the sassy one but you're the drama queen.

How is your life at Uncle's? Learned any Italian? Made any friends? Stopped moping and accepted this little adventure with welcoming arms? Have you seen Dante yet? Mom says he resembles Jack Black. I'm not sure if she was kidding or not. Hard to tell with her, you know? Grandma's house is an absolute wreck. I found a creepy bat stuck in this weird, clear rectangle thing. She says it's Grandpa's paperweight. It was cool so I kind of sneaked it out to my car when she wasn't paying attention. I doubt she'll notice or even miss it if she does. Grandma hates most of Grandpa's stuff anyway. It's neat in a really macabre way and I can't wait to show it to you. Maybe I'll send a picture if I can get one of her stupid old cameras to work.

The guys all say hello and a couple other things that I don't exactly want to write in case Uncle Dante somehow finds this. Don't need the old guy to having a heart attack. But you know them well so you can probably use your imagination to come up with some dirty comments. Tee hee hee.

Have some fun and keep your head up,

Your Fabulous and Loving Brother, Gerard

P.S. Mom says hi.

P.P.S. Dad says hi.

P.P.S.S. Grandma and Grandpa say hi.

P.P.P.S.S. I don't even think I have the right amount of P's and S's anymore. Oh well. By the way, extending your visit by two months.

October 23rd

Gerard-

No. We agreed I only had to stay in this hellhole for three. I have not learned to speak Italian, I have not made any friends, I have not stopped “moping,” and I haven't seen Uncle Dante yet. I haven't even heard him flush the toilet.

I hate it here. I'm sick of this stupid beach and its stupid fucking smell and not being able to talk to anyone besides my mirror. I'm coming home after three months and that's that. The postal service here is shit. It took them twenty-one days to deliver your letter, mostly because everyone's afraid to come up to the mansion. Wish Frank a happy birthday for me. I'd rather have cake sent over here versus a picture of a weird bat paperweight.

-Mikey

November 11th

My Dear Brother,

Sorry. Your argument is invalid. You're staying with Uncle Dante and that's the final word. I'm sorry but I don't want you to see Grandma like this. It breaks my heart and I can barely make it through a day without crying. I don't want you to experience the same thing.

Please, Mikey. Listen to me on this one. It's only two more months out of your life. You can tough it out.

Just keep working on Dante. I'm sure he'll come out eventually. Make him breakfast or something. Holy fuck, become the Breakfast Monkey!!!!

I'm really sorry about this. Truly, I am.

Love and hugs,

Gerard

November 28th

Gerard -

This is the worst birthday present you've ever given me. It surpasses the Hello Kitty underwear.

-Mikey

December 3rd

My Darling Little Michael,

Well, I've got Christmas covered. Can't wait for you to get your present. You'd be surprised what you can find on the Internet. The package should arrive in a few days and don't ask me what it is your getting. I shall not say. Order has been placed. Normally I wouldn't do something like this but I'm giving you the short end of the stick with this whole Dante thing. I figured you might be getting lonely over there. Once again, I can't express how insane the Internet is... You'll be shocked. I certainly was, and still kind of am over what I did.

The Best Brother Imaginable,

Gerard Arthur Way

P.S. You may want to find something else to eat besides fish. Inconvenient, I know, but that's the way the coffee's brewed. Do they even have coffee there...? Oh, dear God. Mikey, I'm so sorry!!!!!!!

-o-

“Here's your ticket, enjoy the movie!” I said in a chipper tone.

“Here's your ticket, enjoy the movie.” I grinned with lackluster enthusiasm.

“Here's your ticket, enjoy the movie,” I sighed, exhausted half-smile on my face.

“Here's your stupid ticket, enjoy the stupid movie!” I snapped huffily, scowling

“TAKE YOUR GODDAMN TICKET AND GO WATCH THE MOTHERFUCKING MOVIE!” I shouted furiously, throwing the paper stub at the nauseatingly stereotypical jock-and-cheerleader couple. They both shot me disgusted looks and grabbed their popcorn, walking away. How much more cliche could you get? I felt like they had just stepped out of some pointless eighties flick where the two biggest jerks in school finally learn to love all the people they'd bullied in the past. The identical blonde heads ducked around the corner towards theater six, but not before I heard the girl whisper;

“What a freak,” to her boyfriend with the local Carolinian accent I'd become so used to and started to get myself. He grunted in agreement and I clenched my fists, nails a millisecond away from drawing blood. Clearly the timid little “nerd” hadn't pulled off a genius stunt to steal their popularity and whip their morals back into shape. I opened my mouth to shout at them again but a strict voice snarled my name, cutting me off.

“Nicole!” It hissed, and the familiar stench of cheap cologne and beer spiraled up in a cloud behind me, bombarding my nostrils. I grimaced, turning around on my heels and staring up into the flabby face of my boss, Ryan.

“Yes?” I asked innocently, blinking up at him in a fashion that suggested I'd had no idea what it was that I'd done. His purple cheeks gained a red tint as he pinched up his thin mouth and squinted his pig-like hazel eyes, appearing to be about to explode in a burst of fiery rage.

“My office,” he snarled, toxic breath smacking me in the face and making me recoil. It smelled like cigarettes and alcohol and death. “Now,” he snatched my wrist in his huge, pudgy hand and began dragging me through the run-down lobby that he was too cheap to have redone.

In the large room, there were paper movie posters plastered over the grubby blue walls, ripped and hanging in faded tatters. A sad little sagging bench sat awkwardly in the middle of a sea of shaggy, eighties carpet that no one ever bothered to vacuum. It was littered with crushed popcorn and shredded foam cups from the disgusting health-hazard that brought every other snack bar in the world to shame. I hadn't even seen any of the pimply teenage employees using gloves while actually touching the food they distributed. People bought tickets out of an old and useless photo booth that was like a miniature leaning tower of Pisa, the lock box hidden poorly behind a stained yellow curtain. Since it was close to the holidays, a lumpy and lopsided Santa hat was perched atop the large black rectangle in an attempt to make the dump more festive.

Needless to say, I hated working there but I needed money since I was still living in my car. Sadly, I couldn't bring our car over when a kindhearted man and his girlfriend had taken pity on me and allowed me to travel with them from Britain back to America. Shocking; the world actually has nice people sprinkled here and there.

Anyway, Ryan stomped into his unsanitary office, me in tow. Pictures of girls in bikinis draped over cars were tacked up to the vomit-colored walls, increasing the minute room's “I-Don't-Want-To-Know-What-He-Does-In-Here” feel. Empty bottles of alcohol, packets of cigarettes, and old Playboy magazines were thrown carelessly across the floor in an ocean of filth. A scratched pool table was placed in the middle of the mess, his ancient computer running on it with a faint humming sound. Ryan dragged me towards the red roller desk chair, shoving down on my shoulder and forcing me into the cracked, vinyl seat. My boss was extremely overweight so I could feel the sagging in the cushion when I half-fell into it. I prepared for another lecture on treating the customers with respect, but what I got was entirely different.

“How do you explain,” he pointed a sausage finger at the blurry computer screen, “this?” I leaned in and squinted at the unclear image, making the material of the chair squeak. Through the fuzzy pixels, I could make out a familiar face; my own.

I was smiling widely, laughing at something behind the camera, eyes wide with joy. My hair was flying wildly in the air and coiling around my head due to the rough wind captured in the snapshot, so I seemed to be Medusa. A large and lush green plant was behind me so it looked like I was coming out of a jungle. I clutched a plastic, black take-out container in my hands. Little did I know that after seeing that picture, which had gone missing long ago, I would stay up at night and trying to remember what I was cracking up about. Of course, you never can recall the happy stuff easily.

My stomach dropped.

It was the picture Justin had taken after the second date we'd went on. It was a high-definition memory imprinted on my brain because he'd chosen to go to a steakhouse, so I'd ended up eating a bowl of soggy lettuce. Justin was so upset with himself for not questioning if this was alright with me before we'd come, but I'd tried to tell him it wasn't his fault and that I could find something on the non-vegan menu. However, the best part was that Justin didn't order any sort of meat whatsoever, joining me on the glorious salad route. (I'd learned later to accept that he was a carnivore over time and gave him the okay he wanted to ingest the food he wished.) It shocked me that he'd done that; respecting my beliefs so much. It was sweet. Beyond sweet in my opinion.

“W-what's this doing on the Internet?” I inquired, staring continuously at the grainy photograph, eyes starting to burn from the poor quality. Ryan huffed and crossed his arms over his ever-growing beer gut, stretching the fabric of his gray work vest tensely against his hulking shoulders.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he growled. I glanced up at him, raising my eyebrows and receeding away from the screen.

“I don't see why you're so upset about this,” I stated, lounging back in the chair and lacing my fingers together. “It's not like one of your personal and AWOL photos has been put up on the web by God knows who.” My heart fluttered as I voiced the sentence, hope swelling up in my chest like a balloon. Maybe this was Justin's way of trying to find me. It was a lot more efficient than my milk carton idea.

Ryan sighed and rubbed his greasy comb-over in anger.

“Bad publicity for the theater.” I rolled my eyes at the notion.

“Yeah. Random snap shot of one of your employees online. Really going to kill the business.” Ryan glared at me and reached over to the mouse, scrolling up towards the top of the site.

There was a picture of a scrawny man with acne-scarred, pasty skin and oily hair arm-in-arm with a beautiful- yet scantily-clad- woman. In large white letters were the words, “Lonely Joes, Available Hos.”

I nearly fell out of my seat and retched.

“I'm not a ho!” I shouted standing up and knocking over the chair in a fit fury. It smacked into the floor with a loud crash! but I was too upset to care. “Who in Hell is calling me a ho?!” I wanted to throw that stupid computer off the desk and stomp on it for all I was worth. I was not selling my body for money and I most certainly was not “available.”

“Why don't you ask Mark?” Ryan interjected, seeming to be slightly smug and snotty. I whipped my head away from the website and glowered at him, fuming.

“What?” I growled, rage pulsating through my veins like red-hot lava. Ryan jerked a thumb towards the green phone that sat on the wall behind him before starting towards the exit.

“He's on hold, line one,” he called over his shoulder before closing the large door behind him with a thump. I stared at the phone as if it were Hitler, sending bolts of hate lightening out of my eyes. Whoever this Mark guy was, I wished I could punch him. I strode over to the phone, but with each step a bit of my fury disappeared as if sliding off of me and slithering into the ground. I would later think back on that moment and realize that the anger was being replaced my complete and utter fear. I grabbed the receiver in one hand and lifted it out of its cradled, pressing the rubbery one button. I held the phone up to my ear, breathing in slowly and evenly.

“Hi, you've reached the 'Lonely Joes, Available Hos' hotline, Mark speaking,” bubbled a male voice. I opened my mouth, first words trembling slightly. Calm down, I told myself. Calm, calm calm.

“Y-yes, Mark?” I began twisting the corner of my employee uniform around my thumb, biting my cheek. “Uh, hi.” Really? Hi? That's what I was going to say to him? When he worked for this awful company? “Um,” I tried again, thinking I should probably say my name. “T-this is Nicole and, er, I wa-”

“Nicole?” He interrupted, “Nicole who?” I considered not telling the stranger my last name, but figured he probably already had it if I was on the ludicrous site.

“Kaufman. Nicole Kaufman.” I told the unknown man, shaking my leg nervously. My heart was pounding and I didn't know why. I shouldn't have been scared; I should have still been mad and angry and telling him to fuck off. I stared at a small space of wall that wasn't covered by Ryan's pornographic taste in decor.

“Kaufman...” Mark repeated, rolling my last name off his tongue and I heard the sound of clicking keys snapping their way across the connection like little tap dancers. “Ah, yes. Number Three Seventy-One,” he confirmed after a moment. “Says here at the bottom you're not for sale to a buyer with the intention of sex,” he read then paused. “Really? You're not a ho? Maybe that's why it took you so long... What the hell are you even doing this website anyway?” He sighed. “Well, I guess whoever posted this picture-”

“Wait, who did post the picture?” I asked, suddenly very interested. Maybe it was Justin after all and he was searching for me. True, it was over a gross and demeaning site, but it may have reunited us.

“I'm sorry, Nicole, that's classified information.” He apologized, sounding less enthusiastic and slightly more sincere than I would have expected. His phone facade was slowly melting away like ice cream in the hot sun. “But...” He trailed off dramatically, getting a snippet of perkiness back in his tone. “I do have good news!” He announced happily, as if he could solve the clusterfuck I called my life. I groaned, too worried to say anything yet. “You've finally been ordered!” The receiver dropped to my side as my arm turned to jelly, the sentence filling my ears and engulfing my brain in its cruel tentacles.

I stared at the phone in my hand, mouth agape. Ordered. I had been ordered. I was going to be shipped off to some random stranger's house like a CrockPot and locked there for God only knew how long. Who even looked online to find people that were for rent? Jesus, I hated that; I was rented. This was fucking bullshit. I blinked a few times, trying to fathom what was going on, then raised the speaker up to my ear once again. The sound of Mark breathing pushed through the connection like a snail that kept peeking its head in and out of a shell.

"Who wants to..." I paused, searching for a way to make the situation sound less disgusting. "Meet me?" I asked slowly, refusing to say the word "ordered." I didn't- nor would I ever- belong to anyone. I wasn't even sure how I was supposed to react. Cry? Scream? Faint? Act like this was normal? Please, this was as far from normal as you could get. Hell, who would be so awkward and desperate that they actually bought a person to come live with them?

"Oh, I think you'll like him," Mark reassured me. "His brother says he's not crazy sex addict; just a lonely, average guy." I inhaled a larger amount of oxygen, nearly making my lungs burst, and held it for ten seconds, exhaling slowly.

"His name, Mark," I questioned more calmly than I would've thought possible, twirling the curly phone cord around my index finger until it turned purple. "I need to know so I can give it to the police when I'm being beaten or raped or killed slowly." Mark laughed drily, obviously not amused with my humor.

"That won't happen..." I scoffed, doubting him. "His name's Mikey Way."

Notes

Not sure how I feel about this one... I think it's absolute shit... Anyway, Mikey and Nicole meet in the next chapter! Woo! I do not own "The Breakfast Monkey."