You, me, and the edge vol. 1

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"We've got nowhere else to be", she said, mostly unironically. She'd honestly rather be spending her Tuesday playing actual gigs than doing stupid photoshoots. Her friend, a renegade and avid Pamyu Pamyu supporter, glanced downward.

"I don't like the idea of Babymetal. Infants should be kept away from most alloys as they can be rather dangerous"
"Well, maybe you're just not hardcore enough."

Gilgameshing away, the edgy one left the proprietor of mysterious floating odango feeling rather Yukari Rotten. She couldn't now seek advice from the self-proclaimed goddess of rock who'd closed the door to the tour can van and accidentally activated the funky fresh hydraulic system. The faint aroma of Limp Bizkit led her disappointment to a nearby pawn shop; one of those money lent places where the air was dusty, as were the windows and carpet. Being very careful not to get any dust on her mysterious floating odango, she approached the manager and asked, in the most polite and culturally respectful manner possible, "would you happen to have anything that'd give me more edges?"

"I see your problem, kid", the cashier remarked, frankly. "You don't have any edges. Your hair is in buns, and the buns aren't even stuck to your head. Might I provide some recommended reading? This one's called Possessed By an Evil Pair of Drumsticks: The Anthology. And it just so happens to come with a pair of free drumsticks, would you look at that. They're even signed by the author".

Her eyes widened in amazement, or possibly terror, though there was a good chance it could have been both. She didn't feel all too ready for the edgy life, but the opportunity had presented itself so fast that she was left without a choice in the heat of the moment.

She bought the publication, for three easy payments of 19.99... yen.

They had a show to play that night, obviously. She missed the rehearsals due to being absolutely plastered on fizzy pop and Ramune. "Why do I act like such a weeb, man?" she complained as the curtains rose, her voice soon drowned out by screams of excitement. Or perhaps agony.

Maybe because she was about to bombard her audience with a sixteen-hour drum solo, the likes of which had never been seen before.

They enjoyed every hour of it.

"Dude", she stammered, shortly after the autograph signings, "where's the afterparty?"
"Pretty sure it's in bed, don't ya think?"
"Stop oppressing me, baka. 'Bed' is one of my trigger words. I'm hitting up the nearest hotel and getting snickerfaced, but not before I steal somebody's bike for no logical reason."

After the appropriate cheat code had been enabled, a confused citizen flew off their bike as she rode away into the sunset.

The remaining band members (of which there was only one) had waited around until approximately 3:49am, and yet there was no sign of her returning.

"I bet she'd be out writing some stupid article for Illogicopedia at this time of night."
"¡Hola, muchachos!"

She stumbled through the wall of the tour van somehow whilst it was still moving. Well, actually, the ice cream cart made it through first, and then her in a poncho and sombrero.

"You'd better give me an explanation as to why you've been out for so long. Also, you'd better have green tea flavour. Or taro, maybe black sesame. Actually, taro matches my hair..."
"Matches your personality, too, 'cause you're a sweet potato."
She could tell by the look on her face that it wasn't a compliment.

"Well, unfortunately for you, I always knew I was a potato"
"If you're gonna give me that attitude, I might as well head back for my night booking"
"But you've been giving me attitude for the past-"

Jumping out the nearest window, the sombrero-clad odango harvester hoped to land in the hotel where she'd made her booking. Thankfully, she did, and the receptionist met her with a blank stare once she broke down the door.
"Is my room still open? I was hoping your hours would cater to edgy types like myself."
The lady at the counter smirked. "You don't look like the edgy type. All our hotels are open 24 hours."

Deciding that elevators were for squares, she attempted to take her moped up the stairs and promptly woke up everyone in the vicinity. After entering the room she pulled out the fuel she conveniently kept at the back of her moped and set the nearest couch on fire, watching the sky through her window remain a motionless black, much like her ideal wardrobe. Before long, her friend and manager had arrived in an attempt to save her. They begun to notice the subtle differences in her visage. She no longer had those mysterious buns, but her hair now had flamboyant spikes (na na na) and contained every possible edge that wax and gel could generate. They came to retrieve the sticks, and once they did, they put them in the fire.

"I can't... hold on... to my edges", she cried, buns reforming and spikes melting away. Elvis had left the building.
"It was for your own good", her stout balding manager told her matter-of-factly, "and not your bad".

To this day, the edge moves on in pawn shops everywhere. Disaffected adolescents discover it, only to be possessed. Don't let it happen to you. It could lead to you assaulting people with arduously long drum solos, or even setting nearby couches on fire and having to use the dreaded fire escape to avoid hefty fines.

Don't let it crawl into your skin.