One thing Tim prided himself on was how he was cool with everybody. He was cool with the teenage musicians he signed to Hellcat Records, and he was cool with the older guys (guys his age) at Epitaph. He was cool with all the musicians he toured with, and he was cool with the tech-guys who ran Machete for him. He was cool with skatepunks, metalheads, straightedgers, drug dealers, cokeheads, skinheads, divas, homeless people, and Rob Aston. He was cool with everyone he met.

Except for Bert McCracken.

Tim walked into his living room after a long day in the studio with a new band to find Bert crouched on his couch, with his filthy sneakers on the cushion, holding a dripping slice of pizza in one hand and a blunt in the other.

"What the fuck?" Tim said.

Bert looked up at him and smiled. "Hey, man. I'm just waiting for Branden." Branden and his wife Spike had been staying in Tim's guestroom while their Utah house was being renovated.

Tim walked over and pulled the blunt out of Bert's mouth. "No drugs in my house." He ground it out in the coffee table ashtray, then pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

"You know weed is less dangerous and less addictive than nicotine?" Bert said. He shoved half the slice of pizza in his mouth, and a thin line of grease fell onto his shirt.

"Shut the fuck up," Tim said, without much venom. He'd only met Bert twice before, but he already knew it was useless to argue with him.

"So hey!" Bert said. He hopped up and kicked his legs out so he was sitting on the couch more comfortably. "Me and Branden are gonna see a movie. Wanna come?"

Tim walked out of the room without responding, and returned with a roll of paper towels. "Clean off the couch," he said, throwing them at Bert.

Bert ducked his head, and the paper towels sailed past him. "That's not very punk rock of you, Tim."

"You know what's punk rock?" Tim said, leaning forward threateningly. "Beating the shit out of five foot-tall emo potheads messing up my house."

Bert stretched his neck up to meet Tim's eyes. "You would look awesome with a smoky gray eyeliner thing going on. Can I do your make-up?"

"Branden!" Tim shouted.

Bert's mouth stretched into an evil grin. "He can't save you," he said in a Gollum-type voice.

Tim sat down on the chair opposite Bert and finished his cigarette. Bert lifted his legs up over his shoulders and began playing drums on his butt. Branden rushed down the stairs a moment later.

"Sorry, sorry," Branden said. "I just had to charge my ipod."

Tim pointed at Bert. "Can I get some kind of warning when this asshole is gonna be around?"

Branden held up his hands apologetically. "We'll be out all day, and he's gone tomorrow morning."

Bert stood up. "Unless you want me to put you in drag, because I think I can make you a very convincing woman."

"Spike's about his size," Branden said to Bert.

Tim punched Branden's arm lightly. "Don't encourage him."

Branden just smiled and put his arm around Bert. "You shoulda been there when Bert was a kid," he said to Tim. "Talk about a handful."

Bert fluttered his eyelashes. "I was an angel."

"An angel I had to bail out of jail twice," Branden said. "And I won't even start cataloging things of mine you puked on, or we'll never make the movie."

"Have a good time," Tim said weakly as they made their way to the door. Bert twisted his head back and blew Tim a kiss. Tim flipped him off.

Once they were gone, Tim straightened up the living room, then ran the dishwasher while he was at it. He didn't know why Bert bothered him so much. Something about the guy just got under his skin. He could talk for an hour with the intern at Machete who thought 9/11 was an inside job, but one smirk from Bert McCracken and he was ready to start swinging. He just needed to keep his distance.

Tim invited Spike to dinner, and they went to a nearby Italian place. Tim offered to play her some tour video they'd shot, but she said she had work to do, and retreated to the guest room. Tim checked his voicemail, and while everything could wait until the morning, he'd promised one of his bands he'd get back to them on their demos, so he pulled up their folder on his computer and sat in the living room listening to it.

He was only three tracks in when the doorbell rang. It was around eleven, but Tim often had friends and family visit unannounced. He also had a twelve year-old niece who ran away from home almost weekly, and would then spend the night lying on Tim's kitchen floor complaining about how no one could possibly understand her suffering. Tim gave her a notebook and told her to write it all down in lyric form. He was pretty sure she was gonna be a star before she was eighteen.

Tim also had to sometimes talk a crazed fan off his front porch, but he was cool with everybody, and had no problem entertaining the occasional stalker. His mother always bothered him to get a security system, and his brother was always trying to give him a dog, but Tim felt perfectly safe.

He opened the door to find a short, attractive woman in her forties with blond hair. She was wearing a conservative, high-necked blouse and khaki pants. Tim didn't peg her for a fan.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Um...are you Tim Armstrong?" she asked.

He nodded.

A relieved laugh escaped her lips. "I can't believe I found you," she said.

Tim eyed her suspiciously. No weapons. She didn't even have a purse. "Found me?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Samantha Rae."

He stared at her a moment before the name made sense to him. "Samantha Rae," he said softly. "Holy shit. Samantha?" He stepped backwards. "Come in."

Samantha walked inside and Tim shut the door behind her. He gestured for her to sit on the couch and took the chair across from her. He stared at her a moment, then got up and pulled her into a hug.

"It's so good to see you," Tim said. "Fuck, it's been like twenty years."

"Twenty-seven," Samantha said.

Tim sat back down. "You're still beautiful."

Samantha blushed. "And you have a..." She circled her hand over her own head. "Is that a spiderweb?"

Tim smiled. "Yeah, you know how it is." He lowered his eyes. "You know, you were my first. I was sixteen and I'd never..."

Samantha looked down at her feet. "I was eighteen, and you were my first too."

"They closed down the club where we met," Tim told her.

"I remember that place," Samantha said with a smile. "With the little stage and the sticky floors. Do you remember rushing me past your parents' bedroom?"

Tim laughed. "I thought I was so sneaky, but they totally knew. The next day I got 'the talk' from my mom." His smile faded. "Where did you go?"

Samantha looked surprised. "Where did I...?"

"You never gave me your number," Tim said. "I gave you mine, but in the morning you were gone, and you never called."

"I wasn't entirely honest with you back then." Samantha blinked, her eyes filling with tears.

Tim put his hand on her knee. "Hey, it's cool. It was twenty-seven years ago. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter anymore."

Samantha looked up, her eyes still wet. "I was engaged," she said. "I was visiting someone in San Francisco, and the next day I had to go home. Two weeks later I was married."

Tim smiled. "So I was like, your last fling." He nodded. "That's cool."

Samantha looked off to the side. "There's something else."

Tim stood up. "I'm sorry. Can I get you something to drink? Are you hungry?"

She looked up at him. "I got pregnant."

Tim stared at her. "You...what?" He sat down again. "Wait, are you saying...with me? Are you sure?"

"My husband and I weren't intimate until we were married," Samantha said. "But I was having morning sickness on my wedding day. I told him it was his, and when the baby was born, everyone just thought he was two weeks early." She took in an unsteady breath. "But he was yours."

Tim moved the chair closer to her and took her hands in his. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Samantha shook her head. "It would've ruined both our lives. I was married to a successful man who could provide for me, and you didn't need the burden of a baby at sixteen."

Tim looked down. "I never had any kids," he said softly. "I would've liked to see him."

"You can see him," Samantha said. "I'm still married, so I can't let my husband know, but Rob lives in LA now, so maybe you could..." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I'm sorry. Can I bother you for that drink? Just water, please."

"Sure," Tim said, and he went into the kitchen.

As Tim was walking back into the living room, the front door opened, and Branden and Bert walked in. Branden headed for the stairs, where Spike was waiting for him, but Bert stopped in front of Samantha.

"Rob?" Samantha said.

Bert frowned. "Mom?"

Tim dropped the glass, and it shattered on the hardwood floor.

"No," Tim said, still standing at the edge of the living room. "No fucking way. There is no fucking way -"

"Don't swear in front of my mom," Bert said to Tim. "She's a Mormon for fuck's sake. Jesus Christ, Tim."

Tim walked up to Samantha. "This is him?" he said, his voice bordering on hysterical. He pointed at Bert. "This is your twenty-seven year-old son?"

"This is Rob," Samantha said. "Why is he here? Do you know him?"

Bert turned to face Tim. "Why is my mother at your house? Is this an intervention?" He frowned. "My last intervention had cookies."

Tim put his hands to his head. "I had sex with your mother."

"Her?" Branden said. He put his arm around Spike. "Oh, no offense, ma'am. It's just that he usually likes them younger."

Tim dropped his hands and sighed. "I had sex with your mother in 1981."

"1981?" Bert asked. "Oh. That was right before I was born." His eyes widened. "Wait. What?"

Samantha stood up. "I visited my cousin in San Francisco right before I got married," she explained to Bert. "I had a one-night stand with Tim here, and he's your real father."

Bert's mouth fell open and he stared at Tim. "How quick do you think we can get a reality TV show?"

"Fuck this," Tim said, and he stormed out the front door.

"Call Matt," Branden said to Spike, handing her his phone before running out the front door after Tim.

Bert sat on the couch next to Samantha. "So how's Joey?"

"It's his last year in college," Samantha said. "He's going to be an engineer." She paused and pushed some of Bert's hair off his face. "I heard your new album. It's nice, but does everything have to be about blood and sadness? Why can't you write love songs like John Mayer?"

Bert put his hair back in front of his face and huffed. "John Mayer fucking sucks, mom."

"Language," Samantha said.

Spike hung up the phone. "Can I get you two some tea?"

Outside, Branden caught up with Tim at the door to his car and grabbed him by the arm. "Give me your keys."

Tim turned around to face him. "What? Why?"

Branden put his hand over the hand where Tim was holding his car keys. "You shouldn't be alone right now."

Tim loosened his grip on the keys and let Brandon take them away from him.

"It's just..." Tim said. "All that time you were in Utah, playing with him, listening to Op Ivy, and I was his father." He leaned against the car and put his hand to his forehead. "And then you end up in my band. How does that happen?"

Branden shrugged. "I guess you guys reminded me of him. I mean, you love music like he does, you work as hard as he does, you both -"

"But I hate him," Tim said. "He's the only person in the world I actively hate, and he's my..." Tim paled. "He's my son. What the fuck?"

Another car came up the driveway, parked behind Tim's, and Matt stepped out.

Tim folded his arms over his chest. "Called in the big guns, huh?"

"Just like old times." Matt approached him and hugged him. "Spike told me." He pulled back, but left one arm around Tim. "I remember Samantha. Prettiest girl at the club. You came to my house the next day and told me everything." He chuckled. "You were so proud."

Tim smiled and nudged him. "Matt was the neighborhood chick magnet," he told Branden. "He lost it in eighth grade to a high school cheerleader. He was a legend." His smile faded. "Bet she didn't get pregnant with a filthy screaming vomiting douchebag."

"You have to talk to him," Matt said.

"He's been with me all night," Branden explained. "And he doesn't do drugs around me. He should be more mellow than usual."

Matt put his hand on the small of Tim's back. "Come on," he said, and he guided Tim toward the front door.

Inside, Spike had disappeared, and Samantha and Bert were standing up in the entranceway.

"It's late," Samantha said to Tim. "I should go."

Tim hugged her. "Thanks for coming over. It was good to see you."

Samantha released him and hugged Bert. "Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?"

Bert ducked out of the hug. "Maybe Christmas."

Samantha kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight everyone," she said, and she walked out the door.

Tim turned toward Bert. "I suppose we have to talk."

Bert smiled slightly, his expression unreadable.

"We'll be upstairs," Matt said as he followed Branden up to the bedrooms. "Just shout if you need anything."

Tim put his hand over his face and sat down on the couch. When he took his hand away, Bert was standing in front of him, his arms extended.

"I'm not fucking hugging you," Tim said.

"Super." Bert plopped down on the couch next to him. "Now just tell me I'm a failure and an embarrassment and you'll be exactly like my other dad." He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. "I gotta say, I'm impressed with my mom. I didn't think she had it in her." He took in a drag and exhaled at the ceiling. "And by 'it' I mean your monster cock."

"It was a long time ago," Tim mumbled.

Bert put his arm around the back of the couch, behind Tim, and turned so he was facing him. "So you don't consider yourself my -"

"It'll take some getting used to," Tim interrupted.

Bert nodded, studied his fingernails, sighed, ground out his cigarette, and then launched himself into Tim's lap.

"Get off me!" Tim yelled. Bert's knee was in his stomach, and his filthy sneaker was between Tim's legs. Bert grabbed Tim around the shoulders like a crazed monkey and pulled Tim's face into his chest. Tim punched Bert in the stomach, hard, but it didn't deter him. Tim reached up and elbowed him in the face, and Bert's grip loosened. Tim knocked him onto the ground.

Bert looked up from where he was sprawled on the floor. "No cuddletimes?"

"What are you doing?" Tim asked.

"I'm trying to kiss you," Bert said.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm not into this whole gay emo thing you do, especially since we're...related."

"All the more reason." Bert leapt to his feet gracefully and returned to his spot on the couch. "We're bonding. Socially, spiritually, expectorately." He put his face close to Tim's, tilted his head, and smiled. "Just close your eyes and pretend I'm my mom." And he kissed him.

Tim meant to push him away. He put his hands on Bert's shoulders and was about to knock him halfway across the room. But then Bert's tongue ran across the inside of his lower lip, his hand snaked under Tim's shirt and over his stomach, and Tim found himself gripping Bert's shoulders instead.

When Bert finally broke the kiss, Tim's vision was blurry and his heart was beating fast. He finally worked up the sense to push Bert away, but he just held him at arm's length, staring at him. "Bert," Tim said. "I'm your father."

Bert smiled. "Are you gonna cut off my hand now? Because that would not be sexy."

"Nothing about this relationship should be sexy." Tim put his arms down, trying to limit the amount of physical contact with Bert. "You should go. There's another bedroom on the third floor."

"Okay," Bert said lightly. "Let me just blow you real quick."

Tim stood up. "What?" He looked at the stairs. "Matt!" But he could hear music coming from the second floor, probably one of the bands Branden was producing, and knew they couldn't hear him. It wasn't that he needed Matt's protection; he could beat the shit out of skinny, wheezy Bert in his sleep. But Matt was the band's moral compass, the one who could always talk Tim out of a bad idea. And Bert McCracken was a really bad idea.

Bert stood up and guided Tim up against the wall.

"This is so fucking wrong," Tim said.

Bert grinned. "That's what makes it so fucking hot." And he slid down to his knees.

Tim pushed Bert's face away from the fly of his pants, but it was hard to feign resistance when his knees had turned to liquid as soon as he felt Bert's breath through the fabric. Bert didn't give up, tonguing his half-hard dick through his pants while he undid the button and pulled down the zipper.

"Bert -" Tim began.

"Just fucking let me..." Bert said, and then his mouth was around Tim's dick.

Tim leaned his head back against the wall a little too hard and moaned, partly because of the impact, but mostly because of what Bert's tongue was doing. "Bert, you have to stop," he said, his voice strained.

Bert just took him in deeper.

"Fuck," Tim choked out. His body arched against the wall and he came inside of Bert's mouth.

Bert stood up slowly, put one arm on either side of Tim's body, and licked his lips. "You taste just like me."

"You are a fucking psycho," Tim whispered.

The doorbell rang, and they both jumped a bit at the sudden noise. Bert moved first to answer it, but Tim hurried to catch up to him.

They opened the door to reveal a twelve year-old boy with striking features and light brown hair. Behind him, parked at the curb, was a limousine.

"Please excuse the late hour," the boy said. "We've driven all the way from Los Angeles. Bert McCracken's wife told me he might be here?"

"That's him," Tim said, gesturing to Bert beside him.

Bert slapped Tim's shoulder. "Don't sell me out, asshole." He glowered at the boy. "Are you a process server?"

"He's a kid," Tim said. He turned to the boy. "Come in."

The boy turned to the limo and shouted, "Grandma! I'm just going in for a minute!" He stepped into the house and Tim closed the door behind him.

"Would you like something to drink?" Tim asked, but the kid was distracted, staring at Bert.

"Bert McCracken," the kid said softly. "Did you sell sperm to Utah Health Services in 1997?"

Bert frowned. "I'd be...fifteen?" He shrugged. "I was homeless and on meth back then, but yeah. I remember selling blood and sperm for a fix. Why?"

The boy took a deep breath. "I've found documents that show my late father used your sperm in my conception." He paused. "I believe I'm your son."

"What the fuck." Tim sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands.

"My son?" Bert asked, wide-eyed. "But...that shit was supposed to be confidential. I can't be held responsible for -"

"I'm not looking for any money from you," the boy said. "I inherited some money when my father passed away, and my grandmother is well off. I just wanted to establish some sort of relationship..." He held his hand out tentatively. "I'm Prince Michael Jackson. It's nice to meet you, sir."

Bert just stared at him. "Prince Michael...You're Michael Jackson's kid?" He covered his mouth with his hands and turned to Tim, his eyes shining wet. "I'm the father of Michael Jackson's kid! Holy fucking shit!" He grabbed Prince's hand. "Prince! Fuck! I mean...it's so good to meet you." He pointed at Tim. "Hey! That's your grandfather!"

"Fucking shoot me," Tim muttered.

Bert fell to his knees and pulled Prince into a hug. "I never met your father, but I was such a big fan. He was my idol! I can't believe I'm..." He held Prince out at arm's length. "Oh my god. There are so many things...can you play piano?"

Prince nodded.

"Can you roll a joint?"

"A what?" Prince asked.

"Bert!" Tim yelled.

Bert hugged Prince again, stifling a sob into his shoulder. "I have so much to teach you."

"This is ridiculous." Tim stood up and walked over to Bert and Prince. "Prince, why don't you go get your grandmother? You two can spend the night. I have plenty of room."

"Thank you, sir," Prince said with a wide smile. "I mean, thank you, grandfather."

Tim forced a smile. "Never fucking call me that again."

Prince stepped outside, and Matt appeared on the stairs.

"What's going on?" Matt asked.

"I have a son!" Bert shouted. He put his arm around Tim. "Me, sonny boy, and papa here and gonna go outside and play catch for a little while."

"It's the middle of the night," Tim said.

Prince re-appeared in the doorway with an older woman following behind him.

"You can show Mrs. Jackson the third floor bedroom, right?" Bert asked.

Matt eyed them warily, but his politeness won out over his curiosity. He walked into the living room and took Mrs. Jackson's hand.

Bert hugged Tim briefly, then pulled back, grinning at him. "I'll find a baseball and meet you outside, okay?" He ran off toward the back of the house without waiting for a reply.

Tim looked up, but Matt and Prince's mother had already disappeared up the stairs. He looked down at Prince, who had folded his hands in front of him and was waiting politely.

"Have you ever heard The Ramones?" Tim asked.

Prince shook his head. "No, sir."

Tim gestured to the couch, and Prince sat down. Tim went over to his stereo, cued up the 1976 self-titled album, and hit Play. He went into the kitchen and got two cans of soda. When he came back, he noticed that Prince was tapping his foot on the edge of the coffee table. Tim handed him a soda.

"I like this," Prince said with a smile.

Tim grabbed the stereo remote control and sat down next to him. "Then we're gonna get along great, Prince."

In the distance they could hear Bert shouting, "Guys? I found a wiffleball! Ready to play catch?"

Tim turned up the volume.