Killing Bono Page #10

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become your greatest rivals?

What was I supposed to do?

Just... just lie down

and let my little brother get snapped up

by the competition? No, no.

Well, Neil wouldn't let me have you.

And I don't blame him.

I mean, if you were my brother

I wouldn't have let you join

- some other shitty garage band.

- Oh, sh*t. You were U2.

We didn't know that.

None of us did.

- And we were pretty shitty.

- Yeah.

I had it all planned out.

Form a band.

Given the choice, would you

really have picked us over him?

Release a series

of ground-breaking albums.

I'd wanna say, yes.

Tour the world's greatest stadiums.

But could you... have picked us

over your own brother?

Pull off the biggest rock and roll

invasion of America since the Beatles.

This was my life. Just waiting to happen

and all I had to do was live it.

There was just one problem.

Him.

Well, if you've got a problem, why

don't you just do something about it?

Oh, yeah? What?

What, what?

What should I do about it?

Will you keep your eyes on the road?

Hey, is that the...

Neil!

Neil! Neil!

Look, it's just a shame you can't

support us on Saturday.

What?

We offered you a support slot,

you said no.

What?

- He didn't tell you?

- No. He didn't tell me.

Would you be willing to repeat this

in a court of law?

On behalf of the defence?

- Whose defence?

- Mine.

Because I'm going to

bleeding murder him.

OK, I guess this is it.

Are you ready?

- For my 15 seconds of fame?

- Enough to put you off forever.

Get out of me f***ing way.

You out of the way, now. Come on.

Bono. Bono.

Neil McCormick.

I'm a friend of the band's.

I should be under

Paul McGuinness's list.

- OK, go straight in.

- Thanks.

Neil. What the f*** are you doing?

Ivan.

What are you doing here?

You're supposed to be on tour.

Yeah, I know. I came back for you,

you d*ckhead.

- Yeah?

- Yeah, but...

...I'm an idiot because...

What happened to your face?

Never mind. Because I found out

about the U2 gig.

- Oh.

- Oh.

You turned down U2, Neil. Again.

On my behalf, again,

without telling me.

Again.

I just wanted us to do it on our own.

Why does everything that we ever do

always have to come back to them?

It's like some sick cosmic joke!

Have you heard this song? I mean,

is he taking the piss now or what?

He still hasn't found what he's looking

for. He's got everything he ever wanted.

No, he's got everything

that you ever wanted.

How do you know what he wants?

I mean, you're going on about him

like he's a fifty foot, singing genie

that you can't shove

back in the bottle. No!

He's Bono.

He's just Paul Hewson grown up.

And you need to get over it,

and get yourself to-f***ing-gether,

so we can play this gig

and steal their thunder.

It's not happening. I spoke to

McGuinness. The gig is off.

Well, I told Bono that we'd do it.

What?

Even though you've

bollocksed it up again,

and probably don't deserve it,

it is on.

All you got to do is sing, man.

It's four numbers.

Just like back at school.

We're supporting U2!

We're supporting U...

...2.

- What the f*** is that?

- Just leave it, never mind.

What do you mean, never mind?

There was a firearm

shoved down the front of your trousers.

What would you have done if I wasn't

here? What's the plan, Neil?

Come down and stick that thing

to Bono's head?

- Don't be stupid.

- That's what it looks like, genius!

Like a complete nut job

trying to solve all his problems

by coming in here and killing Bono.

No.

There's two lads

in the toilet with a gun.

- I think we should probably leave now.

- Yeah, I think you're probably right.

No, f*** it. Go.

Move, move!

Get out of here.

Neil!

What do you think I am? Stupid?

Right, come here...

Piss off.

Ah, right.

Jump in.

You've business with Mr. Machin.

No, no, no, Plugger. Wait.

We got the gig.

We're supporting U2.

Is that what do you think I am?

Stupid?

I take it that's why you had the gun?

So... fill me in, brother.

How much are we into

Danny Machin for?

All in all?

- Thirteen grand, give or take.

- Thirteen grand?

What is that, five grand a kneecap

and three for our heads?

- That doesn't add up, Ivan.

- I don't care!

I should be on top of the world

but now I'm gonna die.

And it's your fault.

Again!

Got them.

Don't shoot me!

Get 'em out.

- Mr. Machin!

- Let's get this over with.

Mr. Machin,

you've got to believe us.

We've landed a really, really,

really massive gig.

Sit the f*** down.

The press want to bury me.

It's a f***ing witch-hunt!

And I'm calling in all debts.

Well...

We can't pay but...

but if you just maybe give us some...

I'm not giving anything!

No more f***ing favours!

Now you're not leaving here,

till you pay me back.

And if you can't pay me back,

you're not leaving at all.

We're really gonna die.

Now, Plugger here tells me

you were a journalist.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, rock critic

for Hot Press.

A few bits for the school mag.

I tell you, my Pulitzer Prize

is still a ways off, I...

Shut up, Neil. Neil's just

being modest, Mr. Machin.

He's a great writer.

He's brilliant.

It's his calling.

Isn't that right, Neil?

Yeah. Yeah.

My calling. You need someone

with press credentials.

Someone to tell your side of the story.

Set the record straight.

The man behind the myth,

kind of thing.

Without bias, without agenda.

Oh, there's an agenda, all right.

I assume you want to live?

OK. So you do this thing for me.

You write my story,

you sell it to the papers

and you pay me back every penny.

You can ask me anything you like.

But you stay here and you write

till you're finished and it better be

good enough to publish.

Hang on.

We can't stay here.

Like we said,

we've got this big gig on...

You're not going anywhere,

you daft bollock.

Either of you.

You can sharpen his pencils.

- Come on.

- Will you stop your pacing?

I can't. We're supposed to be

sound checking right now.

You were the one that convinced him

this was such a great idea.

In what f***ing universe

is this my fault?

You have a gift.

Never mind the pop star bollocks.

You could be the next James Joyce.

Only with better punctuation.

Oh, here we go.

We may not have time to finish this.

- Will we take the Land Rover?

- You take it.

Right, lads. Let's go.

And if I don't see your piece

in the papers by the weekend...

...it's bath time with Plugger.

Understand?

Come on. Machin's in there.

Go, go, go, go, go!

- Don't move!

- Right, f***ing don't move!

Seamus. Ronan.

Right, lads.

Get ready to jump out.

Dublin road's just over that hill.

It's been rock and roll, lads.

Now bugger off outta here.

- What, here?

- Yeah.

- It's in the middle of nowhere.

- Piss off!

Plugger!

I'm f***ing freezing.

This way, is it?

- What's so funny?

- Being alive.

It's f***ing absurd but it's great,

isn't it?

Yeah.

Do you reckon that's the Dublin bus?

If it is, we still might make the gig.

No, we're miles away,

we'll never make it.

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