#NO JOKE THE YOUNGER TIM LOOKS LIKE ME WHEN I GOT MY FIRST HAIRCUT
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ok I just started the new detective Pikachu and I can't fucking breathe cause my stupid little transgender brain has decided Tim is trans based on his goddamn HAIR EVOLUTION
YOUR TELLING ME THIS ISNT JUST THE REF PHOTO FOR MY FIEST MASC HAIRCUT I GAVE THE HAIRDRESSER WHN I CAME OUT VS WHAT SHE GAVE ME????
#Pokemon#pokemon detective pikachu#detective pikachu#detective pikachu returns#Tim Goodman#Trans#transgender#POOR TIM#THAT FIRST HAIRCUT IS A CANNON EVENT FOR TRANS MEN EVERYWHERE#NO JOKE THE YOUNGER TIM LOOKS LIKE ME WHEN I GOT MY FIRST HAIRCUT#BUT SLIGHTLY LESS HORRIBLE#AND NO GLASSES#WHAT#Update#I'm like halfway through#Oh my god this game feels like I'm reading a twelve year olds first Pokemon fanfic while high on copious amounts of cocaine#What is going on#I JUST FINISHED IT I CANT TAKE THIS SHIT SERIOUSLY#I KNOW ITS EMOTIONAL BUT PLEASE FOR GOD SAKE GIVE THE CHARACTERS ACTUAL EXPRESSIONS!!!! SHADING!!!! MAKE EM LOOK ALL DIRTIED UP!!!!!#LITERALLY ANYTHING?????
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(Still based on DCeased&DCeased Unkillables. Spiritual sequel of this one because that's the mood, folks.)
Jason sees Damian in the Batman's costume for the first time.
-
âDonât laughâ, Damian growls, and his voice is so much deeper than it used to be back when he was ten years old and he barely reached Jasonâs chest, but it hasn't lost that particular brand of petulance that practically begs to be teased.
âIâm not laughingâ, Jason lies, doing his best to keep a straight face.
Damian clicks his tongue and keeps studying the stack of paperwork in front of him in that elegantly indignant way of his.
âItâs just weirdâ, Jason continues after a moment, unsolicited. âYouâve got to give me that.â
âI donât have to give you anythingâ, Damian answers. âMy sympathy for your horrendous sense of humor least of all.â
âI didnât say it was funny, I only said-â
âYou were laughingâ, Damian cuts him off, deadpan and matter-of-factly just like his dad used to be. That thought makes Jason bites the inside of his own cheek. He feels conflicted between the urge to laugh and this sadness that keeps eating at his insides.
âMaybe I was laughing a little bitâ, he admits eventually. âBut itâs just because itâs weird, you know, having a Batman whoâs younger than me. Having a Superman whoâs younger than me. I couldâve been the kindergarten teacher of half the Justice League right now. Let me laugh on it, otherwise my head will implode and you donât want that.â
Another dismissive click of the tongue.
âThatâs what you think.â
âThatâs what I know, sweetheart.â
âIâm still an assassinâ, Damian reminds him, almost affably. It used to be his favorite intimidation back in the days. Tim had probably heard that sentence too many times to count them.
âNope, youâre notâ, Jason laughs. âYouâre the goddamn Batman now, kiddo. And that means no more assassin threats for you. You canât afford it anymore.â
Damian stops reading Green Canaryâs latest report and looks up for the first time since this whole little squabble started. The cowl is currently pulled back on his neck, his hair is so long it curls around his temples, and Jason makes a mental note to ask Alfred to arrange an impromptu haircutting session as soon as he can.
âIs that whatâs bothering you?â, Damian asks, and maybe his intention was to sound aggressive, but Jason only hears the insecurity that almost breaks his voice.
âI didn-â
âDo you think that you should be the Batman?â, Damian continues in one quick breath, as if he believed that if he slowed his words down too much, they wouldn't come out of his mouth, and itâs obviously not a spur-of-the-moment thought that one, but something heâs probably mulled over since the very first moment heâs discovered Jason was alive.
And yet, he doesn't say it out of anger, he doesn't sound bitter, he doesn't even sound mad, but almost... hopeful? Yes, thatâs what knocks the wind out of Jason: the idea of Damian actually asking him to take the cape and the cowl from his hands.
âNoâ, he refuses immediately, without even thinking. âMy sweet lord, no. I can not be Batman.â
âWhy not?â, Damian insists. âYou wanted it, once.â
âI was crazy once. I was also dead once. And an Outlaw. And a killer. And a lot of awful things we donât need to list right nowâ, Jason retorts. âPoint is, Iâm not good Batman material. But kid, if you donât want to be Batman either, no one can force the responsibility on you, not even Bruce or - god forbid such thing from existing - his ghost.â
Damian shakes his head and leans back on his chair, looking exhausted.
âItâs not that.â
âThen what?â
âYou are⌠older.â
Jason snorts.
âThanks for the reminder.â
âYou were Robin before meâ, Damian adds.
Jason feels conflicted again. Once upon a time, he wouldâve snapped, insulted Damian, and left the room slamming the door behind him. He wouldâve disappeared for at least a couple of weeks, just to show up some time later and act like nothing had happened. Once upon a time, he couldâve afforded all of that. Now he canât.
âNot all Robins want to be Batman, Damianâ, he answers after a moment, because thatâs all he can offer to the kid: white lies, and a shoulder to cry on. Thatâs all heâs good for, now.
Damian looks away from him and doesnât comment. For a moment Jason wonders if maybe even Damian - the little assassin specifically bred for the job, the proud heir of the Wayneâs bloodline, Bruceâs one and only biological son - had dreamt of something different. Itâs weird to even think about it, but.
âGoodâ, Damian announces.
âGood?â
âYou would make an awful Batman.â
Jason laughs, and briefly considers the idea of walking over to the desk to give the kid a hug. In the end he decides against it. Damian may be the new Batman, but Jasonâs not so sure he's given up his habit of carrying knives everywhere.
âOn that we agreeâ, he answers simply.
He allows a few minutes to pass, then he clears his throat. He could leave it at that, with a shared laugh and a silent confirmation of support. But this is a brave new world, and they both deserve a little more than that, at this point.
âYou will notâ, he adds then, and Damian, who was just getting back to his papers, looks up at him again.
âYou will be a great Batman. You already areâ, Jason clarifies. âBruce would be proud of you. And Dick too. Tim would probably have some smart remark about gnome-sized costumes, but he would be also very proud of what youâve become.â
In spite of his lame humor attempt, he spots a watery gleam in the kid's eyes, so he hurries on before his courage fails him.
âAnd I am too. Just so you know itâ, he concludes, looking at his own hands.
He pretends not to hear Damian swallowing back a few times. Itâs not his business. Beside, if they start crying Cassandra and Alfred will hear them, and that wouldnât be good.
âOkayâ, Damian manages to say, and he almost succeeds in keeping his voice even. âThanks.â
âHey, what are estranged older brother for, right?â, Jason jokes.
Damian nods stiffly, then pulls the cowl back on his face.
Jason canât say he blames him.
âYou do look funny, thoughâ, he says instead, and when Damian throws a knife at him he feels almost relieved.
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Abandoned - fic
Characters: Jason Todd, Ric Grayson, bits of Tim, Cass and Damian Summary: Ric was an only child. A man named Jay decided to remind him that, in another life, he wasnât. A/N: Reminder Ric Grayson is one of the worst things to ever exist and the fact that they completely ignored what would happen with those really close relationships he had with his siblings is a bunch of bullshit. So hereâs Jason word-vomiting for me. I wrote this in one go in the middle of the night. Sorry itâs garbage. The batkids were driving back to Gotham from some top secret mission and shit probably.
~~
Ric frowned as he stepped out of the bar. There was a car blocking his cab in the alleyway.
And that in itself wasnât a problem, not really. Had happened before. What made it worse was that there was a man in a leather jacket standing nearby, leaning on a light pole, puffing away at a cigarette. Ric didnât know why, but he had an intense feeling the man was the carâs owner, and that this little blockade was on purpose.
Ric huffed, shoving his hands in his pocket as he began to stomp closer. He didnât really want to fight one of the fine folks of Bludhaven today, but would if he had to. He had fares to find and bills to pay, and this guy looked like one of those smarmy assholes who would drag out a stupid argument just out of spite.
As he got closer, the man glanced over, a sharp grin flashing onto his face in recognition. He popped the cigarette into his mouth and pushed off the streetlamp, fixing in his jacket. While he did so, Ric caught a glimpse of scars, violent looking ones, and even a few wounds still in the process of healing.
Ric blinked, and his stomach dropped in frustration.
One of them.
âBruce Wayne sent another one of you, huh?â He snapped before thinking too much about it. The man snorted a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. Ric took note of the white streak near his bangs.
âNah. If he knew I was here, heâd kill me actually.â A drag of the cigarette. âAgain.â
Ric stopped in front of him, waiting.
âAh, yeah. Sorry. Amnesia.â The man exhaled smoke right into Ricâs face. âYou wouldnât get the joke.â
âDoesnât sound like itâd be funny even if I did.â Ric countered easily. âMind telling me why you blocked my cab?â
The man shrugged. âWanted to talk.â
Ric groaned, glancing to the skies. âLook, Iâll tell you the same thing I told that Barbara woman. Iâm sorry I donât remember whatever relationships we had before, but I donât want to come back to Goth-â
âI donât give a shit about all that. Donât come back, I donât care. Itâs your life.â The man cut off. âThatâs not what I wanted to talk about.â
ââŚOh.â Ric pursed his lips, looking around. âThen what do you want?â
âI want to talk aboutâŚâ The man seemed to think over his words. âWhat you else left behind.â Suddenly he gestured his arm towards his own car, directing Ric to look for himself. âI want to talk about them.â
Ric glanced over and realized that the manâs car wasnât empty. There were three people inside, three kids by the look of it. Two in the back and one in the front.
The teenagers in the back could have been twins from where he was standing. Both with black hair and pale skin. Petite. The girlâs hair was longer, almost to her shoulders, but the boy could have used a haircut himself too. The girl smiled and pointed to something on the phone the boy was holding between them. The boy laughed too.
In the front passenger seat was a younger boy. He was also consumed by the phone in his hands, headphones shoved into his ears and sweatshirt hood over his head. His knees were curled up to his chest, and he looked like he was hugging himself.
He lookedâŚsad.
Not that the two in the back looked any better. They looked tired. More tired than a couple of teenagers should. Concerningly tired.
Ric looked back to the man. âWho are they?â And almost an after thought: âWho are you?â
ââŚYou used to call me Jay sometimes. So letâs go with that.â Jay said absently. âAnd theyâŚare your siblings.â
Ric was already shaking his head as he looked back. The three in the car didnât seem to notice them. âI donât have any brothers and sisters. Iâm an only child.â
âBy blood, yeah. By found familyâŚyouâre the oldest of five. Legally too, technically.â
Ric looked back. âFive? Thereâs only three kids in that car.â
Jay pointed to himself. âYou were also kiddoâs legal guardian for a few years, too. But thatâs less important in the long run I guess. Kind of.â
Ricâs stomach was churning now. âOkay, so Bruce Wayne had a bunch of kids besides me. So what?â
âSoâŚthatâs what I wanted to talk to you about.â Jay took another sharp inhale of his cigarette, seemingly steeling himself. Thinking. âBecause Bruce is one thing. The secret cave and what we did down there is one thing. Donât want to come back to that? Fine. Be as big an asshole as you want about it. I donât care. No one does. Nightwing was a beloved hero around the world, but if it came down to the world having Nightwing or having DickâŚRichard Grayson safe, not a single person would pick the former. Besides, heroes retire. Heroes quit. Heroes become bad guys. No big thing. It was wrong of Bruce and Barbara and whoever else to try to force you back into a role you didnât remember.â
Ric waited.
âThatâs one thing.â Jay repeated, and suddenly his voice was angry behind the cigarette. âBut abandoning those kids is another.â
A moment to let that sink in.
âAnd sure, at first I thought Iâd come here and say abandoning the people who love you was really shitty, but you know? A lot of people fucking love you and I donât care about a single one of them.â
He pointed towards the car.
âBut them? They adored you. Still do frankly. Especially kiddo.â Jay emphasized his point by jabbing his finger forward again. âYou saved his life. You saved all their lives in one way or another. And even more than that â you loved them when it kinda seemed like no one else would. You gave a shit when not even Bruce did.â
Jay dropped his cigarette back between his fingers. Exhaled, and it was shaky. Upset.
âAnd I get it, I do. Leaving Batman? Easy. Leaving Bruce? Honestly, even easier. Itâs not a life any of us should have or want andâŚyou got out. Yeah, it was through getting shot in the head and forgetting everything, but. You got out.â Jay waved it off. âBut what I have a problem with is that you left them and you donât even care.â
âBecause I donât know them.â Ric countered, feeling his own emotions bubbling up. âHow can I care about someone I donât know?â
âLiterally, you did all the fucking time!â Jay hissed. It seemed like he wanted to shout, but instantly turned it to a whisper. He glanced nervously at the car, and Ric realized â the kids didnât notice them because Jason didnât want them to. He didnât want them to see Ric, or hear this conversation. âIt was what made youâŚyou. What made you special. Because it didnât matter who it was or what theyâd done. Even if you didnât know someoneâs name, you cared.â
Ric just stared. âIâm not that person anymore.â
âAnd Iâm suspicious about that, because Iâm pretty sure amnesia doesnât change who you are as a core person, and Dick Grayson was no fake when it came to his heart, but thatâs not whatâs important here.â Jason snapped. The cigarette was close to burning his hand and he dropped his, squishing it under his heel. Immediately he pulled another pack from his pocket, along with a lighter. He shoved the stick into his mouth and lit it. âBecause, okay, I can even forgive you not caring about some of the people around you when you woke up. Bruce, Barbara, even Alfred, maybe. Me.â
He paused, to inhale. Then exhaled the smoke, but into the sky this time.
âBut theyâre just kids.â Jay whispered, looking at Dick with some of the most pained eyes heâd ever seen. âWhat happened wasnât their fault, wasnât their choice. Trust me, if it was, that asshole in the front seat would have taken that bullet for you in a heartbeat, a goddamn thirteen year old.â
Ric let his hands in his pocket roll into fists.
âBut this wasnât their fault, and theyâre the ones suffering the most here. Because, yeah, youâre not Dick Grayson, and youâve made that clear. Youâve made it very clear you want no association with how the old you was, or anything he did. But theyâre a bunch of fucking kids who have to convince themselves that their older brother is dead and gone and never coming back, but watch you be alive and well down here in fucking Bludhaven anyway.â
Ric found his gaze slowly drifting back to the car. The girl in the backseat had taken the phone now, the boy next to her leaning on her shoulder with his eyes closed. The little boy in the front hadnât moved.
âAnd I take back what I said earlier. You being his legal guardian is important. Because you were like his dad, then. His motherfucking dad. You remember losing your dad. Imagine how it is for him to be forgotten and abandoned by his, while heâs still around out there enjoying his life?â Jay spit. âAnd Tim â you were there when his dad was murdered. When his best friend was. His girlfriend. One of the only ones there for him. You were there for Cass when she didnât even know how to fucking speak. When she had no one but some parents who wanted to kill her. It was years ago, but how do you think they both feel now? How do you think theyâre coping?â
âSo what, are you saying this whole mess is my fault?â Ric snapped back. âItâs my fault I got shot and lost my whole life?â
âNo. Itâs not your fault what happened to you. But it is your fault how you reacted to it.â Jay answered coldly. âAvoid your old job. Avoid the people harassing you and trying to force you to remember something you canât. But those three did nothing to you. Theyâre children. And you abandoned them without even giving them a damn chance. Without even attempting to start over with them or let them try.â
âWhy are you telling me this?â Ric demanded. âWhat do you want me to do about it?â
âNothing. I donât want you to do a damn thing.â Jay shrugged. âI just wanted you to know.â
âWhy?â
âSo you know what youâre missing out on, being a stubborn piece of garbage who refuses to even acknowledge the people of his past, let alone interact with them.â Jay took a long inhale, and Ric watched the cigarette slowly turn to ash. âTheyâre good kids, Ric. Good kids you helped make. And now youâre mocking them with your mere existence and man. It just sucks.â
âAnd what am I supposed to do about it?â
âLike I said â nothing. Just wanted you to know. Barbara came down here and said her peace, so I figured I should be allowed to say mine.â He dropped the remainder of his cigarette and snuffed it out. âYou mind going to your car first? Iâm sure youâve picked up on it right now, but I donât want the babies to see you if I can help it. Youâre still a bit of a raw wound for them, if you didnât catch that.â
Ric stared at him for a moment. ââŚTell the kids Iâm sorry, if the conversation ever comes up.â
Jay shrugged. âI would if I thought you meant it, Ric. After all, Dick made it a point to not lie to them, if he could help it.â
Ric grit his teeth and turned towards his car without another word, making sure to keep his face in the shadows as he passed the windows of Jayâs car. None of the occupants even glanced up.
âGood luck with those memories and shit.â Jay called after him. Ric didnât respond, and slammed his door a little harder than he meant to after he dropped into the car. He started his engine and rolled down his window, listening.
Jay was whistling as he walked back to the car, and jerked open his own driver side door.
âWhat took so long?â A young voice whined. Ric glanced into his rearview mirror to see it was the boy in the front seat. He hadnât looked up from his phone. âI didnât think destroying your lungs with cigarettes was an extended affair.â
âWas watching some old men down the street fight over a chess match.â Jay seemed to say nonchalantly. âAlso had more than one cig. Excuse me if I donât want to waste my supply, and enjoy the moment.â
The boyâs answer was cut off as Jay got into the car and shut the door. Ric listened as his engine started, and watched as they pulled away, freeing him from his temporary prison.
He threw his cab in reverse, dropping out of the alley and onto the road. He shifted to drive, and took off, ironically, the same way Jay and his crew went. In fact, they were at a light just down the block, waiting for it to turn green.
And Ric found himself frozen, blocking both lanes with his car, because the girl â Cass, heâd called her â was staring out her back window, directly at him.
When sheâd caught his eye, she simply smiled, though it was clearly sad, and gave him a single wave.
Then the light turned, and Dick Graysonâs siblings disappeared around the corner.
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Cleaning Toilets on Grave Yard Shift is a Trip, Man
by Don Hall
As a freshman in college (way back in 1980), I knew living at home was not going to work for me. Part of it was that my stepfather (at the time) flat out told me he would pay for my way if I majored in criminal law and I wanted to major in music. I had a scholarship for the tuition but needed to make some bread to pay for a place to squat when not practicing my trumpet and studying music theory.
A friend of a friend recommended a gig working nights (midnight to 9:00a.m.) on a cleaning crew for a few of Wichitaâs more prominent restaurant/bars. It paid well and it fit my schedule, so I bit.
I met the Boss at midnight at the local Chi-Chiâs. Having worked as a waiter there for exactly three hours, I knew the location. I walked in and he sized me up. Canât remember his name but I recall that he looked hard. You know the guy â pot belly as hard as a rock, a permanent five oâclock shadow, a shock of wirey hair poking out of a weathered ball cap.
He handed me a pair of enormous hard rubber gloves and we walked back to the kitchen. âTurn it on and power wash the place.â He growled as he passed over a thick black hose with a nozzle.
âPower wash?â
âThe water is frigging hot as hell so donât get it on you if you can help it. Spray everything. There are drains on the floor so donât worry about that. Theyâre supposed to put away the pans and cooking stuff but if they didnât...â and he grabbed the hose back, took aim at a metal bowl half-filled with dried up refried beans and cockroaches, and blasted it across the room. â...target practice.â And he cackled like heâd told a dirty joke about a whore and a priest.
There was a checklist beyond target practice. The floors of the entire place. Carpets. Bathrooms. We didnât do the windows but we did disinfect the surfaces and table tops.
He and I cleaned four bars that night. I was handed a weekly schedule. I never saw the Boss again.
On my next scheduled shift, after a day of classes, rehearsals, and four hours of sleep, I met the crew. This time we started at Joe Kellyâs Oyster Dock. It was a fish place (duh) with a huge circular bar in the middle and a hard wood floor made with huge planks of aged wood. The crew were two other guys, both about a decade my senior.Â
Duffy wore lots of black leather. He had a dark blue Mohawk and had a fifteen inch knife strapped to his left leg. He rode a motorcycle and wore mirrored sunglasses even in the dim recesses of the restaurant. He also was a frothing Born Again Pentecostal Christian.
Tim was a classic burnout. Think Jeff Bridges in The Big Lewbowski but without the charm. Heâd done a lot of drugs in his younger years and it showed in his perpetually stoned demeanor and vacant stares. That night, he told me his favorite job heâd ever had was as the manager of The Circle Cinema, Wichitaâs since closed down porn theater. He loved that gig but got fired for being caught getting a hand job by a sixteen year old girl.
Now, being eighteen years young, I canât say I was the brightest bulb in the lamp but my wattage outshone these two retards like a lighthouse lamp eclipses a Christmas Tree strand.
Within a week, Tim handed me a note from the Boss. Scrawled in black pen and in all caps, it read: YOU ARE NOW THE CREW SUPERVISOR. EXTRA $3.00 HOUR. YOUR (sic) IN CHARGE. Neither Duffy nor Tim cared much. They werenât big thinkers so having the college kid tell them what to clean and in what order wasnât a problem.
Of the two, Duffy was the more focused. All I had to do was give him the order (âDo the floors, disinfect the bar, hit the kitchen.â) and aside from him jawing on and on about Jesus and Christian Rock all night, I never worried about him.
Tim, on the other hand, was like working with a child. Almost every night, I had to talk him through the order of cleaning the floors (âFirst sweep. Then vacuum. Then wet mop. Then dry mop. Then buff.â) The guy was just barely there on most nights and spent long smoke breaks at the bar in between each step. âWhich one now?â heâd ask in between drags on his Winston Lights.
Neither of them would clean the bathrooms. Ever. That was the only area that my Supervisor authority ran dry. Any time Iâd even suggest that Duffy do the bathrooms heâd go into a full-on rant/whine about it. Tim just ignored me when Iâd task it to him. So, the bathrooms were almost always my domain.
Hereâs a bit of knowledge to dole out. Drunk men are juvenile. They piss on stuff. They piss on the floor around the urinals. They piss on the toilet. They piss on full rolls of toilet paper. Like Storm Troopers in Star Wars, their aim is for shit.
Drunk women on the other side are monsters. Filthy and almost angry in the bathroom. Shit smeared on the walls. Used tampons stuck to the floor. Half-empty glasses left in the corners covered in lipstick. Half-eaten food on the sinks.Â
I donât know if when half-cocked on Long Island Ice Teas the longstanding rage at being paid less and treated like a pair of tits on legs seeps out like a poisonous sweat, but going into any womenâs restroom after a Friday or Saturday night of business was like entering the threshold to hell.
I found my rhythm, working the grave yard shift and going to classes during the day. I didnât sleep much but I was eighteen and had more energy than a weasel on crack so that never seemed a problem. Duffy and Tim were both odd founts of random knowledge and theyâd tell me stories of women theyâd been with, of other jobs they had, and conspiracy theories about Iran and Russia and mind control via the television.
There was the time Duffy spent an entire shift on target practice and grabbing crock ware bowls filled with roaches and microwaving them. There was the night Tim forgot about his cigarette and caught a vintage Coke sign on fire in Willy Câs Cafe.
And then there was Walter.
Walter was a skinny-as-a-matchstick kid (actually he was five years older than me) with a pompadour haircut and out of his tiny body came the voice of James Earl Jones. It was a dissonance to hear him talk with this booming gravitas and then see the pipsqueak dude uttering the sound. He was also a fantastic actor. I knew Walter from my regular casting in Wichitaâs Shakespeare in the Parks and, when he was looking for work, I hooked him up.
Now there were four of us and we could hit two bars at the same time. I always paired up Duffy and Tim because regardless of the work, Walter and I had grand, sweeping conversations about theater, art, movies, and music. We also both really like to prank each other.
Walterâs pranks came in the form of phone calls and plastic vomit. It was as if he spent a lot of time at a Spencerâs Gifts and just couldnât get enough. My pranks were mean. I was gifted my sense of humor from my grandfather who was known for tricking his son into believing he was deaf by talking to him for hours without making a sound and taught his grandson to try to catch rocks with his head.
One night as Iâm buffing the floor in one of the restaurants and Walter is on bathrooms, Walter comes out from the womenâs. His face is as pale as a sheet of paper and he looks mortified. I shut down the buffer.
âD-Don. I canât. I mean, I just canât...â
âWhat is it, dude? Whatâs going on?â
âThereâs a...itâs in the toilet...thereâs a fetus in the toilet...â
âA fetus? Like an aborted fetus?â
âYeah...â
âOh, fuck. OK. Why donât you buff and Iâll go check it out.â
The relief on his face was visceral.
Sure enough, when I take a look in the third stall, there is what appears to be a curled up, pink fetus floating in the bowl. Iâm a bit horrified until I notice the tail. A long thin tail one might see on a...oh. Apparently, this rat has been in the sewer system and the water has gradually peeled off every strand of fur, leaving nothing less than a curled up, pink dead rat in the toilet.
And, yes. Iâm a a horrible asshole.
Iâm a bastard because I put on my rubber gloves, picked the rat up by itâs tail, put it behind my back, and walk out to Walter. I feign horror. I make my lower lip tremble. He shuts off the buffer.
âWas it...?â
âYeah. A fetus. A dead baby in the toilet.â
âOh my god. Oh my god.â
âI think itâs a boy fetus. How about you CHECK!â and I hurl the rat at Walter. It hits him square on his skinny chest and he lets out a high-pitched scream so alien to his deep vocal stylings that it creates another sort of disconnect. He squeals a second time, like a tea kettle or an actress in a Jason Voorhees movie. His eyes roll back into his skull and he drops like a sack of flour onto the floor.
I laugh so hard I feel like I might go blind or have a stroke.
Walter quit that night. I cleaned the rest of the place myself. A week or so later, I caught up with him at Shakespeare rehearsal. I offer my apologies but a few others want to know why. And, in his booming voice, he tells the tale of the fetus with epic flair and manages to recreate his screech to boot. When he was finished, we all applauded him and he took a bow.
I worked this crew for a full year before transferring schools to another state (better scholarship with a good high school friend in the marching band). Itâs funny how my memories of this graveyard shift gig eclipses my memories of my first two years of college but isnât that the fun thing about the narrative of our lives?
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