Beware that there will most likely be things in the text that follows that will be offensive. Celine is offensive, Vince is offensive too. What happens in the story is offensive as well and will only get more so with each posted part. Not for minors. Not for anyone with any degree of maturity either. Not for anyone with self-respect. Not really for anyone at all. I hope. I mean it, you are better off not reading this at all, it’s the lowest form of writing, pornographic fan erotica about people of whom i am not a fan. We will never be able to say that you gained anything by reading it or me by writing it. Fair warning. At any rate, it’s fiction, any similarities to those living or dead is purely coincidental.
THE BALLAD OF VINCE AND CELINE
The last thing they expected that morning was rock and pop royalty sharing the city bus with them. But by the end of the day, the memory of the bus ride would be lost in a gridlock of the seven deadly sins that would’ve made Binsfeld’s demons blush.
Neither Jarred nor Kelly recognized Vince Neil and Celine Dion when they first got on the bus. Jarred didn’t notice them; he had his brand new earbuds cranking LCD Soundsystem and was reading a manual for the new mic he had just found hidden in amongst all the crap at the PTA store. Kelly saw them step unto the bus, but thought only about how odd that the couple looked so much like aged versions of someone who used to play in some hair metal band and that Canadian diva with the long horse face, her name eluded him.
Yet, as sad and ugly as Kelly found them, there was something strangely attractive about both of them, a certain walk-of-the-cock confidence that stirred a breeze of perfumed air as they passed by the morning passengers and headed to the back of the bus. Most people took one look and went back to their newspapers, books, or whatever. But Kelly, as much as his contrite Catholic upbringing told him not to, could not stop his neck from twisting around, following them with his eyes all the way until they reached the back of the bus and draped themselves over the empty back seat. Vince took the seat next to the window, cracked it open and let the wind blow thru his thinning hair like he had done a thousand times facing the fan in some photographer’s studio. Celine leaned back against Vince’s side and stretched one of her extra looooong legs over the rest of the hard plastic seats.
Kelly couldn’t help himself and tried to get a glimpse of her panties when she lifted her leg, he was after all still a teenager, though at seventeen, he could easily pass for twenty. But he didn’t see anything, the skirt was tight around her knees so all he could get was a glimpse of some abstract piece of fleshy thigh. Disappointed he looked back up at the couple to find Celine staring right at him with a knowing smirk on her lips. Embarrassed, all Kelly could muster was a three-finger spasm pretending to be a hand wave and a smile that looked more like an upper lip nervous twitch. Celine stared him down and licked her lips. Kelly couldn’t take it anymore and looked away.
At this point Kelly realized that this really was the Canadian singer from the Titanic movie, and elbowed Jarred hard on the ribs. Annoyed Jarred ignored him. Another elbow to the ribs and the universal sign for take off the headphones and Kelly had Jarred’s attention.
Dude, that is that famous Canadian singer with the horse face sitting in the back, whispered Kelly.
Jarred had no idea what he was talking about, having missed the superstars’ entrance. Kelly explained what had happened in half whispers and conspiring gestures.
Celine watched them from the back of the bus, the nervous whispering, the restless legs, the hesitant haircuts, the insistent elbowing, the restrained shoulders, the wandering eyes. Very satisfying, she thought, and reached with one hand to stroke Vince through his too-tight jeans. Vince snapped out of his reverie where he was re-living one of his many insane adventures with the Crüe, wondering if maybe he should write his own autobiography. After all, there were things he never told the ghostwriters for The Dirt, like that time with that little girl… mmm, that feels good, oh, hello Celine. And as Celine stroked him hard, he once again remembered what it was about this lanky, long-legged, semi-ugly, middle-aged woman that was so damn sexy: she was one fucking bitch. He wanted to cut her. Maybe later.
Under veiled pretenses that did not fool anyone, Kelly sneaked a few glances back at the hot couple. Celine was keeping a stern eye on both boys the whole time. Kelly could not believe it, would not believe it, it had to be some TV prank show with superstar look-a-likes. Or there had to be some other explanation he couldn’t come up with. It had to be something else. What the hell was his name, the dude from Motley Crue… oh, who cares. At this point Kelly just gave in and turned around to look at the couple and see if it really was them. And, of course, it was, a bit older, a bit flabbier, with less hair and more wrinkles, but it was him, and he was looking out the window in a semi stupor while the singer, what’s her name, stroked Vince’s cock which was now stretching the fabric of his pants in a ridiculous way. But Vince didn’t seem to care. He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a bottle of pills, took out a few, put them in his mouth, then pulled out a flask and took a big swig, and turned to kiss Celine, in what Kelly could only describe as a disgusting way. Like that fishmouth guy who married Liza Minnelli, but with more saliva. Vince lunged at Celine, open mouthed and slobbering while she sat, immobile, her mouth barely open, her lips as stiff as Vince’s cock and looking directly at the boys the whole time.
Jarrod turned back to Kelly, did you see that? Fuck going to class today. We’re staying on this bus as long as they are here. Fuckin-a, said Kelly, rubbing his pants, it’s… oh I got it, Celine fucking Dion! Out loud, and every head turned to them. And Celine let out a sinister cackle while Vince did another shot from his flask.