Ain't No Rest For The Wicked

There's a difference between disliking people and being physically and emotionally unable to socialize. Gerard would know, seeing as he had the social anxiety case to end all social anxiety. Art school was a hell of a lot better than high school had been, but living on his own made shit a lot harder for Gerard. It was for this reason that he had lived in his mom's basement for as long as he could (which turned out to be about two years after graduating high school), but eventually she had convinced him- with weeks of bribing and gentle prodding- that getting his own apartment would at least help him with his necessary social skills. And now, here he was, in a little three-room apartment above a comic book store, only a few blocks away from the main building of his art school. It could have been much worse, really- the owners left him alone except to collect rent, so he only had to meet people face to face in class or when he went for groceries. Class was pretty easy- even in art school, he was an outcast, but he got his work done and nobody really questioned him. Basically, he was an awkward, lonely art school kid who spent a lot of time in online RPGs and running his tumblr blog. It was his substitute for socializing- plenty of online friends who couldn't judge his nervous habits, who wouldn't hear him stutter or make him constantly uncomfortable. His best and only friend had been his little brother for years, and although Mikey was pretty cool, it wasn't the same as having kids your own age to just...... know. Even after he got his laptop, things were still just...... tragically lonely. The feeling of being completely unable to have any friends whatsoever outside of lame chatrooms was basically the worst thing ever.

GERARD'S POV
It's a Friday night, and i'm all alone- yeah, yeah. The usual. It's not every Friday that I summon the lord of hell, though. That's new. I should probably explain- I'm not satanic, contrary to the beliefs of pretty much my entire high school. I'm not really a religious person. I mean, i'm obviously a weirdo, possibly with a lovely future in an asylum. I was just kinda sitting around, looking at research on Satan n' demons n' shit for a comic, and I was like, 'hey, maybe i'll try and summon Lucifer." Cause, I mean, if this whole religion is real anyway, i'm on a one way trip to hell, what with my ~homosexual lifestyle~. So I might as well sell my soul, get something good out of the whole thing. And if it's all a bust, there's still nothing to worry about. So that basically leads up to exactly why i'm painting weird symbols on a spare sheet spread across the kitchen floor. Candles n' shit, the whole shebang. Finishing the final line, I pull up the page on my, phone with the chant and start- and then I stutter. I literally just fuckin' stuttered on a satanic chant. Taking a breath, I start over, managing to keep it even this time. I finish and, unsure of what to do, just kind of pull myself up onto the counter, waiting. A few moments later, the candles sputter and then flare, the flames pulsing before going out completely, and I flip on the kitchen light to find someone right up in my face. Like, three inches in front of me. Here we go, folks, I literally just summoned Lucifer- except he's like this punk guy with rad tattoos and he doesn't look much older than me and let me just say this is unexpected. He takes a step back, crossing his arms. "You called for the King of Hell, bitch?" I blinked, leaning back. "Y-you're....... I ...... shit, okay....... N-nice to meet you, Satan." He smirked, rolling his eyes. "Nice to meet you, art guy who's about to sell his soul for something that's probably not worth it." Honestly right now I should be terrified, seeing as he's the king of hell, but I just kind of want to bitch at him. Unfortunately, this is one of the many times when my mind refuses to cooperate, and I find myself kinda awkwardly stuttering before managing to get out "D-don't use that tone with me, L-lucifer." The weird demon dude looked offended. "Dude, i'm not Lucifer. I'm Frank. Lucifer isn't the permanent king of hell, you dolt. He's, like, a grandpa now." This short guy, who was apparently the king of hell, was standing in my kitchen at two a.m. and fuckin' sassing me. And here I was, in my ratty black sweatpants and faded Iron Maiden shirt, trying not to have an anxiety attack while selling my soul to the devil. You know, ordinary Friday night art school stuff. "A-alright, t-thanks for the demonic history lesson, man, but c-could we just get on with selling my soul? C-cause I'd rather not have an anxiety attack in front of the Lord of Hell, I-i mean that seems a lil bit embarrassing-" He immediately looked a bit more worried than he technically should, seeing as he was the King of Hell and all that fun stuff, but he shrugged. "Okay, whatever. Your soul. I was just trying to be nice." Before I could stop myself, I gave a short, semi-choked laugh. "Y-you're the King of Hell, and you're trying to be n-nice?!?!" He made a kinda bitchy face at me, leaning against the wall. "I'm not a dick, man. My job is torturing evil assholes, not giving art school kids panic attacks for no reason." I opened my mouth to say something, but in a flash of movement, his hand was clamped over my mouth. I gave an alarmed shrieking noise, muffled by...... the devil's hand. Kinky. "So, you wanted to sell your soul?"

Notes

IDK, I'm a crap writer but I like this one.