By Minim Calibre
Notes: CWRPopslashbandom, oh, to hell with it. MayFed. With a special guest. Dude, it’s MAYFED. That should be warning enough. Barely spellchecked, crackaddled, goofy, steam-blowing-off bullshit.
Kevin’s NYR (New Year’s Resolution, but he thought NYR sounded edgier) was simple: No More Drama, not without a script.
So of course, it wound up broken before the week was out.
He should have known the bitch’s lawyers would play dirty. And he never should have left his cell phone where some fuckin’ assistant with a grudge and a dick pickled in Spears Juice could get a hold of it. Backing up even further, he never should have handed the damn thing to Chad so he could show off the camera function.
The pictures of him and Chad on New Year’s Eve just weren’t Details cover material.
Not unless they were doing some kinda special gay hijinks issue.
That last 40 had been a mistake, but man, it had gone down as smooth as Chad’s dick did later.
“Fuck, Chad, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”
There was a long pause on the other end, the only sound the thumping leg of a one-balled dog getting off on a belly rub. Then: “Jesus, Kev. We’ve gotta think of something. Kenzie’s fuckin’ pissed.”
“Tell her the hair looks great.” That always worked with, well, all the chicks. And her hair really did look great, from what he remembered of it. “Chad, man, we’ve gotta do something. Kenzie’s pissed, yeah, but Brit’s lawyer is threatening to use this so she can get the kids.”
“That’s fucked up, dude.”
“No fuckin’ shit. I can’t do that to the boys. Fuck, and this whole rehab of my image was going so great before this.”
“Okay, okay. Hang on. I know a dude, Played on the Hill with us? He went through this same exact shit. Well, without the custody bullshit. And it was just cockshots, not, you know, sucking my dick. But still, same exact shit. Let me give you his number. But don’t call: just text him.”
Apparently, Chad thought the solution to all their problems was wrapped up in the 5’7″ of Pete-Fuckin’-Wentz. Kevin wasn’t so sure he believed it: how smart could a guy be if he let himself get mixed up with one of those good-girl Southern pop tart chicks? “Don’t answer that, Chad,” he added.
“Dude, just hang up and text him.”
Kevin groaned. Looked at the pictures of the kids the nanny’d taken on Christmas Eve. Typed in the number and sent the text: Yo, Wentz: U know how 2 spin this?
Whos ths?
U might know me as kfed chad sd he filld u in?
O ya hi thts fd up. Ok I cn hlp wth ths.
A few text messages and one press release, complete with one of the less explict photos, later, the K-Fed Rehabilitation Project was back on track, and fuck if Kevin didn’t even get a record deal out of it. He had to admit, Chad knew what he was talking about. And by that, Kevin meant Chad REALLY knew what he was talking about.
“Decaydance is pleased to announce our latest act…”