#me pulls out a plastic sword to smack them like say it again idiot i dare you

[maelstromdeparture]

i have a rant because something happened recently that was a lil funny but mostly has been bugging me just a smidge

okay so i was recently in texas for several reasons (mostly Ateez but that is not what this is about) one of those reasons was my bf and i went to animefest together

several things that should be known: i live in a very small state the kind that considers what many states would call a town a big city. it's a very red state. i tend to be very feminine presenting and have been seriously told i look like a disney princess. i have spent a lot of my life in either fully female dominated or fully male dominated spaces (ballet, sorority, computer science, physics, law school) and am not unused to sexism as a result

but most of my interactions with sexism (that isn't like little things) is family member interactions or customer service (when i still worked coffee shops) because while i was the only girl in my physics classes in just shy of a rural part of the state, those boys had it figured out and i never had problems.

i haven't been to a lot of fan events so most of my fan activity is online, this isn't the first year i've gone to anime conventions (first one this big tho) but it is the first year i've gone with my boyfriend. no one bat an eye when we went to the local one this year. but texas? it's funny because it wasn't a big thing, it was just little things but it still surprised me

when bf and i decided we were going he was like "do you want to cosplay?" and im like "i mean if you're down absolutely let's do it" and he told me to pick the cosplay so we did demon slayer. which is not an anime he watches but he knows about it because i talk about it.

9/10 vendors and people we talked to would comment on the cosplays to him. ask him something about the show. and then the look of shock on their faces when they realize that he knows nothing about the anime. that no he didn't convince his girlfriend to cosplay at the anime con with him. he cosplayed for me. so many people looked like the idea that was something someone could do had never occurred to them.

not a single person we talked to considered for a second that i was who liked demon slayer, i think only two people even considered that we both liked demon slayer. almost everyone we talked to immediately assumed i was there for him.

it was funny the first couple times and then i was quickly like "right sexism because i'm a girl love that for us" at least watching these idiots go through five stages of grief when they realized not only did they screw up embarrassingly they did it in front of a real life girl that actually likes the same anime was hilarious.

i had so much fun being there that it didn't bother me too much in the moment just brief irritation the fifth time it happened but since then i keep thinking about it and i just find it frustrating

[death-himself]

I don't know if you do prompts, but if you do, I was wondering if you'd ever consider adding a part in the Bogeyman!Virgil verse where the family has a fight.

Kids at that age are so temperamental, and they say things they don't mean to their family when they're so young, expressing hatred a lot. It's bound to happen, and siblings especially fight so often.

I could imagine one of the kids screaming at Virgil that he's a monster, not their real brother, that they hate him, that they hope they never see him again. It's pretty standard for a child, but I doubt Virgil would know that, and with his past of being unloved, I could see him immediately being heartbroken and devastated.

Love your work!

Sorry it took so long to get to this anon! The one-shot I wrote for this one actually ended up being like twice as long as usual :) I can imagine all of the kids, especially Roman or Patton getting upset with him pretty easily. And maybe this would also work for Thomas, I mean a single father of four kids would probably end up getting mad at them and hurting their feelings unintentionally every once in a while.

Anyway here’s the fic, I added Remus and Emile in just because (warnings for angst, fear, and Roman being an asshole at the beginning)

It was an accident. He didn’t mean to break it. He would’ve never broken one of their toys on purpose. He stared blankly at Roman’s plastic sword, the blade bent at a very noticeable angle. Roman’s eyes widened as he gazed at the damage, snatching the sword from Virgil’s hands to get a closer look. His eyes filled with tears instantly, big drops falling onto his broken weapon.

Virgil bit at his lip, guilt filling his stomach as he crouched down in front of him. He put a hand on Roman’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “I’m sorry Ro, I didn’t mean—” Roman shoved his hand away with a whimper, smacking him as hard as he could with his sword. Virgil flinched, despite the kid’s blow not causing him any pain. “I’m sorry, okay? We can get you a new one.”

“No! I liked this one!”

“Well...then maybe we could—”

“No!” Roman shrieked. “Go away! I hate you!” Virgil’s heart sunk into his stomach.

“Y-You don’t mean that Ro.” Virgil tried to put his hand back on Roman’s shoulder, but only got another smack from his toy sword.

“My sword was broken by a meanie monster.” Roman muttered angrily. As he stomped out of the bedroom and down the stairs, Virgil stayed crouched, watching him leave with glazed over eyes. It had been so long since he had been called a monster, he had forgotten how much it stung. And now it hurt much, much more.

He took a shaky breath, gaze shifting to the ground. Roman did tell him to go away...

Okay. He’ll go away.

Thomas had heard Roman screaming and ran to the stairs, just in time to see the kid in question storming down with tearful eyes, and Virgil melting into the shadows and leaving. In Roman’s hands was his favorite toy sword, now bent beyond usable. “Oh Roman, what happened?”

“Virgil broke it! He’s a big meanie!” Thomas glanced up the stairs, where Virgil had disappeared. Not hearing Patton talking to him in the living room or Logan asking him questions in Virgil’s room meant he probably wasn’t anywhere in the house. Of course of all the sons to disappear after an emotional outburst it just had to be the one who could teleport.

“Were you two playing and it broke, or was he mad and broke it?”

“We were playing, and he was holdin’ it, and then he smacked it against the wall and it broke!”

“Do you think he meant to break it?” Roman huffed, wiping at his eyes before crossing his arms.

“...No, but he still broke it.” A bit of relief filled Thomas at that, but he would never tell Roman. Son or not, he wasn’t sure if we would know how to calm down an angry bogeyman that intentionally breaks his adopted brother’s toys.

“Do you know where Virgil went?” Roman blinked, the question breaking him out of his anger for a moment. He looked back up the stairs, eyes glancing around for a moment, surprised at Virgil’s absence, before huffing and turning back around.

“...No, but good riddance! He broke my sword!” Thomas took a deep breath. Okay, so Virgil could be anywhere. Now he just had to hope he was somewhere with a stable connection; maybe he could call him. If not, he might’ve just lost a son. His heart began to pound at that, but he hid his worry before Roman could see.

Right, he had to deal with Roman first. He slowly took the broken sword from Roman’s hands, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I’ll see if I can fix this. If it can bend without breaking, I might be able to bend it back. Why don’t you watch some cartoons with Patton while I give that a try?”

“But what if you end up breaking it more?”

“Then I can get you a new one. We might even be able to get you a new one today if you want.”

Roman whimpered. “But I like mine.”

“I know you do, bud. But sometimes...things break and have to be replaced. Nothing lasts forever.” Thomas glanced up the stairs, hoping to see Virgil returning. Still missing. “I’ll need you to apologize to Virgil later, okay? You said a lot of mean things to him, and probably made him feel really bad. And he’ll have to apologize for breaking your toy. Sound good?” 

Roman was still clearly upset, but he nodded anyway, staring down at his feet as he thought. Thomas ushered him into the living room to distract him with the TV, then sent a text to Virgil’s phone, hoping he would get it.

Virgil had gone back to his cave. After officially moving in with his dad and brothers, he had expected to never want to—or feel the need to—come back here. But it was just as cold as he remembered. He sat with his back against the wall, staring through unfocused eyes as the shadows on the other side of the cave seemed to taunt him.

Maybe they were. Maybe they were thinking “what an idiot, caring for humans. It’d never work out in the end. Something always goes wrong.” At least that was what he was thinking. He knew how quickly humans could turn on other humans, it would make sense for them to turn on him much quicker.

His body was still weighed down by guilt. He broke Roman’s favorite toy, of course he would be mad. Virgil knew if one of them had broken something of his, he would probably be pretty upset. His words still rang in his ears, though.

He’d stay in the cave until things might have settled down. Then maybe he’d go back and talk to Dad.

Virgil was gone for two days by the time Roman felt just as much guilt and fear as the bogeyman himself was feeling. Thomas was trying his best to stay calm, knowing Virgil was fully capable of taking care of himself, but that fatherly panic was beginning to take over.

Virgil had told him about the cave he used to live in, and Thomas assumed that he had gone to stay there. But he had no clue where it was. As far as he knew, Virgil could be in some sort of Floridian cave less than a mile away or a cave all the way in Australia. He kept texting and calling in hopes that he would answer, but the chances of him having wi-fi in a cave was slim to nil.

He told Remus about Virgil’s disappearance, hoping that the only other person with demon children would know where his cave was. What he got as his answer was Remus putting him on hold for a whole hour, then coming back to say a terrifyingly serious “I’m on the case” before being hung up on. Whatever Remus was up to only made him more worried.

Virgil hadn’t expected to start his third day in his cave being tackled by two other bogeymen. He let out a startled curse as the two slammed into him and shoved him into the shadows, taking him with them back to their home. He growled, glaring at the two kids and preparing to fight back, before realizing where he was.

Remus bopped his head with a rolled-up newspaper, Emile grinning eagerly behind him. “Hey there Vee!” Virgil sighed, his heart rate beginning to drop back to normal.

“Hey...”

“Uncle Thomas has been real worried about you.” Remus spoke, looking the newspaper over in his hands as if it were a weapon.

“He has?” Virgil tried to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

“Well fuckin’ duh! He wouldn’t have called me of all people if he wasn’t!”

“Did he ask you to get your kids to kidnap me?”

“No, that was my idea.” Emile responded happily, bringing Virgil over to the couch and giving him a cup of hot chocolate. “I thought it’d be funny. Sorry if it scared you.”

“It’s fine, I guess.” Virgil watched as Janus stuck his tongue out at him, a grin on his face as he ran off down to his bedroom, Remy following soon after. Remus kicked his feet up on the coffee table, looking at him expectantly.

“So you gonna teleport back home, or do ya want one of us to drive you there like a human?” Virgil couldn’t answer. It was nice to hear that Dad was worried, but he was more concerned about how Roman felt. Emile seemed to sense his unease, ruffling his hair a bit.

“Thomas told us what happened, and Roman’s really sorry. This sort of thing just sort of happens with kids. Kids as old as your brothers get upset really easily and say things they don’t mean.” A warm smile spread across his face, slowing Virgil’s skipping heart and steadying his constantly anxious mind.

“Roman doesn’t actually hate you, especially not because of just one mess-up. Kids’ brains aren’t exactly developed enough to properly respond to things that upset them, anyway, so this is pretty normal.” Virgil nodded slowly, staring down at the hot chocolate in his hands.

Remus giggled excitedly, saying in the most affectionate voice Virgil had ever heard “I bet you could destroy the world with those smarts, Lilo and Switch.” Emile’s cheeks turned red, and his smile was redirected at his boyfriend.

“It’s just basic developmental psychology, nothing but fifteen minutes of googling will tell you this much.” Remus just hummed happily. Emile turned his attention back to Virgil. “So what do you say? You wanna go back now, or wait a bit?” Virgil pulled his jacket tighter around himself. He did miss the house...and his room...and his family.

He sighed, his anxiety failing as he placed down the cup of hot chocolate, stood up, and without another word dropped into the shadows.

Virgil appeared in his room, relieved (and for whatever reason a bit upset) that no one was there. He gulped, debating whether it would be more awkward to walk out and find the others or just wait there until someone comes in. But Dad decided that for him, singing a song from a musical he hadn’t shown Virgil yet as he went about cleaning the house.

Dad stared up at him, expression blank as his brain tried to figure out what was going on. The memory of their first time seeing each other face-to-face played in Virgil’s head—and wow, he looked just as confused as he did back then.

The lightbulb went off in his brain and his eyes widened, dropping his cleaning supplies and pulling him into a hug, letting out a relieved, almost delirious laugh. “Oh thank goodness you’re okay!” Warmth filled Virgil’s heart as he hugged back as best he could, his arms pinned to his sides by Dad’s tight grip. “You were at your cave, right? I really need to figure out where that place is.”

“Janus and Remy know, Emile sent them to kidnap me and bring me to their place.”

Dad pulled away, eyes wide. “They kidnapped—” He stumbled over his words, sounding both alarmed and confused, before going silent. “You know what, I’m not even surprised.”

“Yeah, those guys are weird.”

“How did those kids know where the cave was, though?” Virgil shrugged.

“I think all three of us were formed there, they just never actually lived there. That’s my best guess at least.”

“Well...I’m just glad they found you. We’ve all been really worried.” Virgil heard four small feet running up the stairs and over to his door, two faces peering in. Smiles spread across Logan and Patton’s faces as they practically tackled Virgil to the ground, clinging onto him as if he’d disappear if they let go. Virgil hugged them back, just happy to see them again.

Then he heard another pair of feet run up the stairs, and Roman appeared in the doorway. Virgil gave him an uneasy smile. “I’m...sorry for breaking your toy, Ro, I didn’t mean—”

Roman’s lip began to quiver and tears streamed down his cheeks as he ran to hug Virgil, clinging on tightly as he babbled out apologies until his words were completely unintelligible. Virgil awkwardly hushed him, running a hand through his hair as his incoherent babbling began to die down. “It’s fine, Ro, I’m okay.”

“It’s not fine!” Roman whined. “You disappeared for two days and I was really mean to you and I thought you’d never come back and I’m sorry!” Virgil looked to Dad, hoping he would be able to help. Dad came over and gently shushed Roman, saying “Virgil’s here now, he’s not gonna leave, we’re all gonna be okay, bud.”

Roman slowly calmed down, tears no longer falling from his eyes and breathing beginning to steady. Dad asked Logan and Patton to go back downstairs while he talked with Roman and Virgil. He had to make sure his two oldest kids would be okay.

[iggy-dearest]

His Mothers Day...

Trigger Warning: toxic thoughts

You got out of bed and stretched, if you were correct it was the tenth of May. 

Mothers day. 

Vergil had slipped out earlier this morning, probably with Dante. You felt like leaving them be for today. It would most likely pull some strings for them. 

You sat in bed for half an hour just staring at the ceiling for no reason, and then decided to get up for the day. 

Upon reaching the kitchen you decided on toast with egg whites for yourself, maybe you’ll have some tea as well. You should probably hurry to the office since Dante and Vergil won’t be there and Lady and Trish are elsewhere. You wonder if Nero’s going to call. Maybe you should call Kyrie, would she think that‘d be weird? Would she think it’d be rude if you didn’t call? Maybe you should call...

You check your cell phone, no calls or texts. A frown settles itself on your face. 

Quickly shaking it off you lock the door to your shared apartment you quickly made your way to Devil May Cry. You don’t feel like being at home today. 

~~~

Opening the heavy door to the building a stench makes its way to assault your nose. How in the name of hell could it stink this much I was just here yesterday, you wonder incredulously. Flipping the light switch on your eyes zero in on the bastard who assaulted your nose. Fucking pizza, you glare the open box with a look of steel. 

Sighing deeply after hanging your bag on the rack you got years ago. You turn around and tie your hair with a stature that screams determination. 

Time to get to work

~~~

Vergil hears his brother sigh deeply as he lays the roses down gently on the ground. He sympathizes..even though he’ll never say it. 

Such a beautiful day, he believes..she would have loved it. 

She would have loved you too. 

Similar to how he does. 

He stepped back therefore giving Dante the space to let his flowers rest. 

Standing there in comfortable silence, one not often untense with the twins. 

Both taking their time to gather themselves before heading back, having spent half the day with their mother already. 

~~~

You smack your hands together to get the dirt off as you open door to the back. Finally getting rid of that awful stench in the trash, pulling out your phone you check your messages and calls.

None missed.

Letting your face droop a little you wonder, what if he forgot? 

What if he just thinks I’m a horrible mother?

What if I am a horrible mother?  

What if I’m a horrible mother and he thinks so too?

You set yourself down on the couch and let your own toxic thoughts consume you.

I am a horrible mother. 

You decide. 

After all you couldn’t stop him from growing up alone...

Nor could you stop him from fighting his father...

Or his uncle..

I’m so useless..

A useless mother...

~~~

Nero steps off of the fairy and stretches his limbs, a yawn grabs his attention. “I don’t get why you wanted to come” he tells his partner in crime, “didn’t you say that you had to pick up the cake by 3” she tells him. Wanting to avoid the real reason why she wanted to tag along. “Did you tell her we were comin’” she asks shaking off the lag of being stuck in one place for too long.

Why couldn’t they bring the van again? 

“Why couldn’t we bring the van again” Nico asked, finally feeling limber. “Cause she would of recognized it and I don't know for sure if she’s at the shop or not. And no I didn’t call her, it’s supposed to be a surprise remember” he reasons with her. Nero you’re a fucking idiot, Nico deadpans inwardly “So you didn’t call your mom on Mother’s Day and you didn’t tell her we were coming. You don’t think she has any other plans” she says striking a pose as if to say ‘are-you-stupid-or-some-shit’. “Don’t gimme that look and Dante said that she didn’t have any plans” that he knew about, Nero also left out the fact that he had talked to Vergil for this.  “You got the card right” Nico feels like she has to double check since Nero can be forgetful sometimes, kind of like you. “Got it” he confirms  holding up a pretty pastel blue card picked out by him and Kyrie. Well mostly Kyrie. “Let’s get going we’re supposed to meet Dante” he says as he already starts walking ahead of Nico.

~~~

“Why are we at the library” Dante asks his brother. Vergil doesn't answer it was already embarrassing enough having to pick up a gift for you with Dante of all people.

He should’ve picked it up yesterday. 

He takes a glance at the clock it’s already 2pm. His eyes narrow, he wants this to go by faster.

Its Mothers Day, the mother of his child should not be alone.

“Thank you for waiting” the overly enthusiastic cashier said to Vergil, who had remained impassive. He silently completed his purchase, usually he would just read it in some corner, not at all interacting with people as he preferred. Doing this was mildly out of his comfort zone, but you were worth it. 

~~~

You let out a breath taking a look around, finally starting to look like the way I left it, you believe. After putting the mop and broom back in the small closet you went to check your phone, having little faith. 

Nico (1 Message)

Your eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, why would Nico be texting you? Opening your cellphone regardless you checked her message. 

Nico: Where r u right now? 

Y/n: Dmc

Y/n: ???

You answered her, maybe she’s in town and needed something, you brushed it off and went to grab the book you had in your bag so you could sit your ass down and read. You’re almost done with it and there’s supposed to be a second book, maybe if you’re lucky you could get your hands on it. 

~~~

Nico sped ahead of Nero so that she could get the door for him, mostly because she doesn’t want anything to happen to your cake. She stepped to the side when she heard her phone bing. Good you texted her back! 

Nero looked at her with an annoyed look plastered on his face. “Nico” his tone of voice sounded so irritated, who can blame him he’s trying to balance a cake in his hands.

Children, he can do.

Swords, no problem.

Cakes, Huston we have a problem.

“Right, sorry. She said she’s at DMC” Nico relayed the message while opening the door for him. “Got it, take the phone out of my pocket and call Dante” call Dante cause it’s still too awkward to talk to Vergil. “Which one, you have like 30” she exaggerates, “Just” he moves his arms to while trying to keep the cake leveled “here take this” he says as Nico takes the cake. Reaching into his pocket for the cheap flip phone he presses numerous buttons to call his uncle “Yeah, she’s at dmc. No we’ll meet you there” Nico hates listening to half conversations, it’s always so confusing. “See you later” she said not wanting to intrude on his family time. “Yeah” Nero said preoccupied with the cake.

~~~ 

“You guys, got everything” Dante asks, they all met up at the end of the block to make sure you couldn’t see or hear them. “Yeah, s’in there” Nero motioned to the plastic bag in his uncles hand. “Booze, can’t be a party without booze” he explained. “Did you call her at all today” Dante asked while they made their way down the block and towards the office. “Why does everybody keep asking me that” Nero wondered aloud as they approached the steps. 

~~~

You hear the door creek open and without looking up from your book you say just loud enough for whoever came in to hear “we’re closed”. “Hey sis”, well that’s not a customer, you look up and are immediately surprised with who entered. “Hi” you drawl out sounding just as confused as you felt “welcome back” you say still confused. “Close your eyes” Dante says,

???

“what” you ask, looking at your lover. 

Who has come to stand behind you, “gotta surprise for you” Dante lets on. You’re still confused but you oblige anyway “no peeking” he says as you close your eyes and fee Vergil's hands come to cover them, just to make sure. 

You heard the door open you started to open your eyes but then willed them to stay closed. 

Nero set the cake down on the pool table and slowly but carefully took the cake out of its boxing. He silently made his way over to where Vergil had his hands over your eyes. 

Vergil slowly lifted his hands off of your eyes so that you could see...your son. 

First you saw the smiling face of your son and then you saw a cake? 

“Happy Mothers day” they all said in unison. Your gaze softened..and your eyes glossed over. You didn’t realize it then but this is your first Mothers Day with all of them together.

“Mom are you crying?!?!” 

“No!!!”

~~~

An hour later while Dante and Vergil play pool albeit a bit freakily since apparently Dante can’t count. 

You and Nero sat on the couch watching them. You with a calm yet loving gaze to the men in front of you. “Mom” his voice softer than normal, maybe it’s the booze or maybe it’s the fact that this is his first Mothers Day with booth of his parents. “Yeah” you answer to taking your eyes off of Dante and Vergil. 

“Happy Mothers Day” he says, voice as light as a feather, right after that you feel a weight on your shoulder.

A happy Mothers Day indeed. 

[bleached-d-soul]

Team ALAB: Night Lifemare

Part 1 of Team ALAB commissions for @the-hapless-ace

ALAB

Adam was a proud faunus.

He learnt way back that one of the main things that humans like Schnees and Winchesters wanted to take their pride first and then whatever else they had. Because the moment faunus lost the pride in thier blood, they would take any abuse thrown at them and think it was alright. That it was natural. Which is exactly why Adam always reminded any and all faunus around him that feeling shameful of their heritage was not an option.

Being proud didn't mean being arrogant, however. And he was not above admitting it when he messed up. As a former terrorist leader, he had a lot of mistakes under his belt. And for each and every one of them, he was ready to atone.

"Oh yeah, baby, shake that ass for me! Wohoooo!"

This time. however, the fault was not his. He didn't blow anything up or gut anyone that led to this mess. No, not by a long shot.

The mess he found himself in was the work of his idiot teammates and he would make sure they paid for it. With interest.

"Oh my, careful with him, Violet! He might bite you!"

"Or maybe he will show you why faunus men are beasts in bed!"

"Show it, bull boy! Show it all!"

He was grateful that the club allowed him to keep his mask on. He was even more grateful to whoever was up there that these ladies thought he was just a cosplayer and not an actual Adam Taurus, the former leader of the White Fang branch.

"Hey there, big bull boy! Sorry but I am afraid we bought you for the rest of the night!"

That gratitude evaporated the moment one of the women slapped a collar on him and took him for some private party.

Whatever remained of that gratitude turned into spite at the fucked up Gods who decided said party being for none other than Willow Schnee of all people. He reached for his sword... And remembered far too late that his was replaced with a plastic prop. The women - many of which he recognized as the wives of Atlas wealthiest businessmen - cheered him on, no doubt mistaking his murderous intent for some roleplaying stuff.

He had half a mind to leave.

He made a step towards the exit.

His collar was pulled with the strength of an Ursa and he found himself in a lap of none other than Willow Schnee.

"You look a lot like Adam Taurus," she said with a drunk gaze and light frown. Then it melted into a hungry smile. "My husband would hate it if I did this."

Did what?

She planted her lips on his. The cheers grew loud and wild as the Schnee matriarch explored his mouth in drunk and needy fever. Her hands roamed over the body that survived countless battles - many of which he led against her family. Her eyes gazed into his, conveying the message of anger and despair. He realized that she knew. She knew who he really was.

And so she buried her tongue even deeper in his mouth, her passion and desperation growing three times stronger. What life could she possibly have that she would be making out with the man who threatened her family and delivered on his promises more than once? Whatever life it was, it certainly was not a good one.

Great, now he was starting to feel sorry for a Schnee of all people.

He blamed Ren for all of this.

ALAB

Ren was a calm and flexible man.

Be it a classroom or a battlefield, he always remained the same. Sharp mind and nimble body. In order to maintain those, it was important to always eat healthy food and get enough sleep and exercise. His smooth skin and silky hair were merely a well-deserved bonus for all the effort and time he put in.

'Maybe I should tone down on it though.'

Such was the thought that ran through the young man's mind as he found himself surrounded by the women of Atlas. Much like the few flowers that survived the harsh winters, the women here were strong and strict most of the day. The current situation in the world demanded nothing less from the military officers situated in the city. But even the coldest of hearts needed to find some warmth. And while Ren was more than happy to provide it, he found these women not simply seeking heat but starving for it.

He had finished his dance routine around ten minutes ago. Mercury's dancing was cocky and full of hip movements aimed to excite and entrail. Adam always moved with the same air of danger as he did on the battlefield, his mere stance screaming for everyone to come near if only brave enough. Jaune was... Well, he was Jaune so he mostly appealed to women with the enthusiastic and energetic brightness.

And Ren? Well, he never liked to move beyond what was necessary. He moved slow and steady, sensual and serene. His dance was not to excite the crowd but to lull them into tranquil state of mind. Like a serpent, he would soothe their minds with elegent and soft approach.

He realized all too late that though he was a serpent, these women were hawks. And before he knew it, he was lying on the table, his kimono long-forgotten on the floor. A living sushi platter... He used to think that, were he not a Huntsman, the job where all he needed to do was relax and rest was a dream job. But with each piece of bite-sized treat leaving his naked flesh, the women eating seemed to grow only hungrier.

And not for more fish and rice.

'I am in danger!'

With a heavy sigh, Ren wondered why Mercury dragged him into this.

ALAB

Mercury was an alpha of the group.

He loved to think that much, at least. He liked his teammates alright and all but come on! Even though he was the son of the hitman, he was surprisingly the most stable one in the group. An ex-terrorist, an emotionally-suppressed ninja and a blonde idiot who tried his luck against Grimm without even knowing what Aura was. Was it any shock that he was the one who had the most luck among the ladies?

Even if right now he wished he was just as bad with them as his teammates.

"Bad boy! Yes, you are the bad boy and you need to be punished!"

The whip whistled through the air, its leather tip mercilessly finding its target. Any other day, he would simply shrug it off. With his Aura, he could tank a freaking nut-punch from Yang and be no worse for the wear. Unfortunately, his Aura ran out five minutes ago after the freaking bitch shattered it with her Semblance. Seriously, this club had some serious security problems.

"You remind me one of my students," she whispered, her hot breath tickling his ear. Slowly, she dragged her silky tongue across his cheek. "The disobedient, destructive degenerate... Nghh, how I wish you were him."

Thing is, he was. Fucking hell, he was pretty sure she was even talking about him. If only Goodwitch was the only person who ever called him that. He knew Goodwitch was a fucking sadist! He told the guys she didn't have the crop for nothing! 'Use it as her weapon'. Fucking bullshit!

"Now tell me, who am I?"

Psychotic sexually-repressed bitch of a teacher! That was what he wanted to say. That was what he did say.

"Wrong answer."

And that was what got him another ten whippings across his back.

Mercury used to wonder what it would be like to sleep with Goodwitch. And honestly, who could blame him? The girls back in Beacon were sweet and all, but their prof was a straight-up MILF, for Gods' sake. Well, now he knew what kind of woman hid behind those glasses and air of professionalism. And he knew that she was too crazy to stick his dick in.

"Aaaagh!"

"That's right, you disobedient little brat! Moan for mercy! Cry for help! Beg your Mistress for relief and love! If you act like the worm you are, she may even show you some benevolence!"

Whipping after whipping, Mercury made sure to burn the memory into his brain.

Jaune was so going to pay for this.

ALAB

Jaune had only himself to blame.

He knew that. And he was one hundred percent sure his team wouldn't let him forget that. In his defense, none of what happened today was his plan.

He just wanted to help out a friend in Atlas while they had some time to themselves. Azure has been his friend since they were ten until her family moved to Mantle and they lost all contact. And then, through the same coincidence, they met again just when she needed help. And sure, why wouldn't he help out an old friend in need? She had a club and said that some of her employees got food poisoning. So of course he volunteered himself and his team to help out. Plus, they could use some extra cash after their last stunt.

What was some dishwashing, waitering or working in the kitchen just for one night?

How could he know that his dear childhood friend was the owner of the host/strip club? She was so innocent when they were ten! Regardless of that, he already gave his word. And an Arc never went on his word.

Which is how he found himself here, giving both female members of the Ace Ops team the full-body massage. Oil and all.

"Hmmm, right there..." Harriet moaned as he started to massage her feet. He was eternally thankful for the masks. Gods know what would done to him if they found out he was the one giving them their message. "I might become a frequent customer of yours."

She let out another loud sensual moan.

'And I might never look her straight in the eyes now.'

"You said it, Harr," Elm whispered, the usually loud and booming lady speaking in serene tone. As he thought back the thorough massage he give to the amazonian beauty, Jaune couldn't help but wish for looser pair of pants. Suddenly, her muscled hand smacked across his ass, drawing out a cry from Jaune. "Are you up for another one? I think I might enjoy a do-over!"

"Hey, no fair, Elm," Harriet moaned as he moved up to her thighs. "He has to do me first! And you know I love my massages done slowly. Then again..."

In a flash, Jaune found himself on the table. The blushing and very naked Harriet on the top of him.

"I think I might enjoy a quickie right now!"

He wondered if his teammates were doing any better.

ALAB

"Okay, so we all agree that this is Jaune's fault, right?"

Mercury was sore. Not the good kind of sore either. After Mistre- After Goodwitch was done whipping him and left, he wasted no time in getting back into the dressing room and drinking the strongest alcohol he could find. Unfortunately, the closest source of much needed haziness was a glasss of peach martini so he was whipped, pissed off and all too painfully sober.

And his situation was absolutely - fucking utterly - not helped by his two remaining temmates complaining about their own 'hard' times.

"So you banged a Schnee MILF?"

Adam choked on his coffee briefly before putting on his mask. "We didn't do anything of that sort. Well, a little bit. But it was mostly a pity sex on my part."

"I don't think I am eating sushi any time soon. Or anything for that matter," Ren shuddered as he stepped out of the shower. When they met him, he was covered in bite marks and lipstick, smelling like the weird mixture of perfume and raw fish. "Remind me to never agree to Jaune's ideas every again."

"You two shouldn't complaing!" Mercury growled in frustration. So Adam made out and banged a MILF. Ren found himself in the middle of hot orgy. And what did he get? A bunch of whip marks across his back and very confused boner! "At least you didn't get stuck with Mistress Goodwitch of all people whipping you for being a bad boy!"

"Mistress?" Adam raised an amused eyebrow. "Never took you for a submissive type, Black."

"Oh fuck off, hornhead," Mercury scoffed. "Fuck, where is Jaune? I swear to Gods if he got lucky too, I am joining Salem."

"You do know you would have to work with your dad again, right?"

Shit, Red did have a point there.

"Eh, I would just kill him."

"I don't think you could do it."

"You think I would go easy on that bastard?"

"No," Adam said. Right before giving him that arrogant smirk of his. "I simply doubt your ability to do it. Last time you fought, you lost your legs."

"Well, your ex is banging the monkey boy so there's that."

Before the two former criminals began turning the place into another bloodbath, their bickering was interrupted by the weak knock on their door. Immediately, all three took defensive positions. Willow promised Adam to see him after the show, something he wasn't looking forward to. Ren had little doubt some of the women he entertained would come back for more.

And Mercury?

"Open the door, Ren. If it's Goodwitch, I am killing her right where she stands."

Fortunately for all of the people present, behind the door stood none other than Jaune. Who managed to look both deathly exhausted and one step away from dying from happiness.

"Jaune? Are you alright?" When Ren received no answer from their team leader, he got worried. "Jaune, are you in there? Tell me what happened?"

"T... T-Thighs..." he managed to whisper. "S-So... So soft yet strong..."

Gods, Elm's and Harriet's thighs would keep him awake for so long now.

"Great," Mercury scoffed. "Now that all of you got some and I got whipped, can we just get the money and go? I really wanna forget this night ever happened?"

"SA-!"

Wait, what was that?

"-LU-!"

Oh Gods, no...

"-TATIONS!"

The door was blasted open. the smoke and ash obscuring their vision. But not enough to mistake the android girl behind the explosion. Not with her bright neon lights glowing. What the hell was she doing here?

"Penny? Why are you here and... naked?"

As the smoke left the room. the entire team bore witness to Penny's form in a lingerie. Though why an android needed that, Mercury didn't understand.

"I have come here to better understand my peers!" She said, cheerful as ever. "And I found all of them supremely satisfied with your services! I want to feel that too!"

Without saying another word, the girl slammed a stack of Lien cards into Mercury's face. Okay, getting slapped in the face with cash while half-naked made him dirty. Very very dirty.

"Ahem, Penny? Our shift is over and I don't think any of us need the money right now," Ren approached diplomatically. "So how about we-"

Before he could finish, Penny stopped him. Hand over his mouth, the sweetest smile on her lips, the redheaded android looked at all of them with the eyes so full of life yet devoid at the same time.

"If you don't do as I say, I will leak the video of you four onto the Atlas network," she gave Ren an especially hard look. "Along with your location and daily routes. I bet all these women would love to meet you outside the club."

"A-Are you blackmailing us?"

Penny nodded eagerly.

"And this is my first time too! What do you think? Am I convincing enough?"

Very. Scarily so.

"Good! Now then... Slave Ren, lie down on the table! I want to try eating some desserts off those toned chest and stomach!" her finger went to Jaune. "My body may be made of hard Atlesian steel but with your ability to insert and manipulate Aura, you should be able to provide me with satisfactory massage, Slave Jaune!" her bright eyes went to Adam. "One sensual dance from you, please, Slave Adam."

Finally, him.

"Slave Mercury... Go sit in the corner."

Okay, not good feeling.

"I will try out some of Miss Goodwitch's things after I am done!"

Fucking hell!

"Hmm, I wonder if this is what Harem should feel like," Penny mused as she took another frosted cupcake off Ren's chest and took a bite. "No matter, I am truly enjoying myself!"

And so with that said, a simple favor asked by Jaune's friend resulted in the entire team ALAB becoming Penny's official if unwilling Harem.

[sicprowl]

Death by Chocolate

Dimitri and Cute Byleth stuff - bc why not?

“What the heck are you wearing?!”

Dimitri frowned, glancing down at his pristine white outfit with black trim, gold buttons, and matching blue and white cape.  Even his long hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, something he’d been proud of.

The nine year old couldn’t help but panic and clutch his novelty bag close, “I-It’s my costume!”

Sylvain blinked, his fake fangs peeking out from his upper lip.  "Yeah, I can see that!  But what are you supposed to be?!“

The red headed vampire guffawed only for Ingrid to stomp on his foot.  She then smacked him out of the way with her Valkyrie shield, “I think you look great Dimitri.”

That seemed to ease the young boy, “T-Thank you.  El helped me pick it out.”

Now it was Sylvain’s turn to be unsure, “Edelgard?  Your step-sister?”

Ingrid punched him with her shield again and gave the blond an approving nod.  "It’s great that you two are getting along.  Getting a new family is…tough.“

Dimitri didn’t reply, not needing to be told how hard it’d been when his father married her mother.  The boy had been excited to get a sibling, but all his interactions with said girl made him think she didn’t want anything to do with him.

"Where is Ms. Imperial Princess?”

“She’s with Hubert,” Dimitri answered as Ingrid hissed at him to stop it.  "They left the house before I was done getting ready…“

"All, tall dark and Snape-y.”  Sylvain snickered, earning another hit in the gut - only this time from an arriving Felix.

“Would you stop acting like an idiot?”  The shorter boy snarled while crossing his arms, “You’re embarrassing!”

Sylvain gave his friend an extra toothy grin, “Says the boy dressed up like Leonardo.”

“I’m a NINJA!  Not a ninja turtle!!”

The boys sniped at each other while they left Dimitri’s house and joined the many costumed kids filing around outside.  The sun was still out, so a lot of the younger kids were walking with parents or in large groups - much like their own.  It was going to be crowded like this for a while considering they were one of the better neighborhoods.  

Three words.  King sized bars.

“Is Dedue going to trick or treat with us?”  

Dimtri smiled at Ingrid, “Y-Yes.  He’s got to do something first, but he said he’d meet up with us soon.”

“I’m surprised he’s coming at all,” Sylvain shrugged as they came to the second house.  "Trick or treating might be too childish for him.“

"Says the eldest of the group,” Felix sniffed disapprovingly while Sylvain looked affronted.

“Hey!  I’m just trying to enjoy my last Halloween!”  The vampire grinned and flipped his hair, “I’m getting older after all - and I can’t spend next year looking for candy.  Not unless there’s a girl involved.”

Felix and Ingrid looked disgusted and made fun of the red head as they continued down the line of houses, bags growing heavy with treats and the occasional peppermint.  Decorations both cute and scary greeted them at each house - along with the occasional dad who thought he was scary enough to frighten some kids.  They didn’t mind if it, not if it meant more candy if they played along.

It was an hour later when the sun was already halfway past the horizon, most of the younger kids already going home for the night or visiting their last few houses.  Now the streets were littered with kids thier age and preteens like Sylvain, clinging to their last night of childhood before they focused on things like sports and awkward dating.

Dimitri didnt’ look forward to that, not when his mind was already reeling with nervousness.

Not when they were nearing the house.

“Whoa, look at this place!”  Sylvain pointed, “I think it’s the creepy place behind your house, Dimitri!”

“S-Shush!”  The blond whispered urgently, wide eyes staring at the old manor with panic.  "You’re being rude!“

But Sylvain continued to talk loudly, noting that the place was probably the oldest manor in the neighborhood.  With run down shingles, shabby siding, dirty panels and creaky steps that could wake the dead.  The windows were dirty, or foggy, Dimitri wasn’t sure.  The front yard was slightly overrun with weeds, boxwood bushes that looked like lumpy meatballs and a driveway full of cracks that were need of serious repair.

Felix gave the shabby home the side eye.  "Does anyone even live there?”

“Y-Yes,” Dimitri replied with a soft voice, his gaze looking around for something or someone.

“Whoa, really!?”  Sylvain’s smile grew, “Do you think it’s haunted?  Is the guy living there creepy?  Does he stare at you from his windows?”

“N-No!”  His head whipped around on his friend, affronted.  "The family that lives here is very polite-“

But Sylvain ignored him, already walking towards the creepy home.  Even the sight of other kids avoiding it wasn’t enough to deter him - which only made Dimitri begin to panic.

"W-Wait!”  The Prince grabbed his friend’s arm, but he was looking around wildly.  "We can’t!“

"Huh?  Why not?”

Dimitri blushed, suddenly nervous as everyone began to stare, “B-Because…  Because-!”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” A new voice piped in and they all turned.

“Dedue!”

Oh thank the Goddess!

Dimitr couldn’t help but feel relief at seeing his loyal friend who was…dressed as a cowboy?  The group eyed his button up shirt, jeans with carpet sewn on the sides, leather boots and  spurs, and brown leather hat placed neatly on his head.  Sylvain would have laughed at how serious Dedue looked in his not-so-serious costume if he didn’t already know the boy could knock him into next week.  The fact that the dark skinned boy acted like nothing was wrong was enough to make Dimitri feel better about his own costume.

“Took you long enough,” Felix scowled with a point of his plastic sword.  "You missed half the houses already.“

"Apologies.  The bakery was busy and my family needed the extra help.”

Felix huffed, accepting the explanation while Sylvain gestured towards the run down house with his thumb.  "All right, let’s go, let’s go!  I wanna see what kind of candy this place has!“

"If they have any at all,” Felix muttered as he walked with the vampire, Ingrid following after them.

Dedue and Dimitri stood still, the blond’s body fidgeting with nervous energy while the tall cowboy looked down at him, silent.

“Did…Is it done?”

His face felt scorching hot when Dedue nodded, pulling a wrapped bundle from inside his pocket.  "Yes.  It set before I had to leave.“

Dimitri let out a breath of relief, wanting to open the foil and look at his personal creation, but was also too afraid to see it.

"T-Thank you,” he smiled while taking the item, cradling it in his hands like it were precious.  "I really appreciate your help with this…I wasn’t sure…“

Dedue placed his hand on the blond’s shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze and tiny smile.  No words were said, but the look that passed between them was enough.

Gathering up his courage, the Prince gave his friend a nod before they walked up to the house where Sylvain was repeatedly ringing the doorbell.

"Hmmm, maybe no one’s home?”  

Ingrid glared and smacked his hand away from the button, just in time as the front door to open and an adult greet them with a gruff hello.  All but Dedue paled at the sight of the messy haired man, eyes blearly from what could only be from a heavy sleep.  No one said anything as he ran a hand through his honey brown hair while looking down at them.

“Trick or treat?”  Sylvain smiled, bag out hesitantly.

The man blinked, clearly confused as he looked at the boy before he cursed under his breath, hand rubbing his chin.

“Shit.  Is it Halloween?”

Sylvain lowered his bag while the others showed varying degrees of disappointment on their faces.  The man mumbled out an apology, tired eyes watching as the kids talked about the next house as they turned to leave.  Then his gaze stopped on Dimitri and Dedue, waiting for them to also leave.

…

“Uh…”  The man rubbed the back of his neck, “Sorry.  I don’t really have any candy.”

Dimitri swallowed, staring up at his very familiar neighbor.  Though he’d never seen the man up close, he recognized by his hair and the way he stood, that this was the same person who spent many hours of the day working outside.  Each day was either spent on the roof, windows, or yard; hammering away at loose nails, pulling weeds, or painting anything that wasn’t dry rotted.

It was no surprise that he was so tired and Dimitri almost felt bad for bothering him but…

“Oh, Byleth…”

The young boy stiffened, eyes wide as he saw a bit of movement behind the man’s legs.  A girl, his other neighbor, peeking out at them.  

Suddenly his throat felt dry and words escaped him when their eyes met.  Mint meeting blue, curious vs panicked.  The familiar girl stepped out in the door way, getting a better look at the two trick or treaters.  He blushed the longer she stared, suddenly wishing that pretty gaze wasn’t looking at him at this moment.  Oh goddess, his hands were so sweaty; so hot and sweaty that Dimitri feared he’d melt the treat between his palms.

“T-Trick or treat!”  He stuttered at her, holding out his gift to the girl he’d been watching from the small gap of flowers and fence that separated their yards.

Amusement flashed between the man’s eyes as he looked down at Dimitri.  "I’m pretty sure we’re the ones who have to give you a treat, kid.“

Dimitri blushed, shaky arms still held out towards the blank girl.  Hopeful.  Desperate.

Her father nudged her shoulder.  She looked up at him for silent confirmation and earned a nod before she took the gift.  The Prince swallowed when their fingers touched then quickly pulled away the moment she had the bundle.  Dedue gave him a look of encouragement as the girl unwrapped the chocolate in the shape of a flower.

Dimitri spent many hours with Dedue the day before in his family’s bakery, learning to make chocolate from his friend specifically for this reason.  It had been embarrassing to ask, but Dedue had been understanding and patient as he showed him the steps and how to decorate.

"It’s a Forget-Me-Not.”  Dimitri blabbed, eyes wide as if under a spotlight.  "I-I tried to make a rose, but they’re a little hard and…“

He shut up, feeling stupid for doing all this in the first place.  

This pretty girl was probably already in MIDDLE SCHOOL and what was he?  Some dumb little kid with a dumb little crush.

She turned the candy in her hands, staring blankly at the simple shapes before nodding at Dimitri.  He exhaled through his nose in response, only to snort.  The Prince covered the lower half of his face, mortified.

"Byleth?  You got something to say?”

The girl looked up at her father then back to Dimitri who still had his face covered.

“Thank you.”

Red began to spread up his neck, cheeks, and even to the tips of his ears as he let out a garbled you’re welcome.  After another awkward second of staring, Dedue came to his rescue by bidding the two farewell then dragged his friend away before he could make a bigger fool of himself.

“You did well.”  Dedue whispered, making Dimitri want to groan.

“Please don’t tell anyone…”

“Of course.”

The rest of their night was uneventful as they collected more candy then they could ever eat and went back home, bellies full and aching.  Dimitri didn’t touch any of his, too busy groaning into his pillow and wondering what had come over him.

Perhaps he could convince his father to move?  Surely it was doable.  

Luckily the boy didn’t feel the need to.  Not when he found a small bag of Hershey kisses on his side of the garden, right next to his flower gap where he’d sit and stare.

He wasn’t sure if he should look deeper into the meaning, but the gift made his heart soar all the same.

[platypan]

「Part One」 「My other Teen Wolf stuff on AO3 」 For Shaycora22, may your day improve!

The deputy slowed well before they approached the motel.  Derek wasn’t in any particular hurry to get there--he knew Laura was taking a twentieth or thirtieth shower, trying to wash the greasy ash residue from her hair and nostrils.  Still, he wanted to be curled in the cheap, scratchy blankets hearing her bitch about the quality of the free shampoo much more than he wanted to be anywhere else, too far away to hear her thumping around and her heart beating through the bathroom door.  “Sheriff said to make sure you got something in your stomach,” the man grinned, wandering down side streets to a small diner.��

Derek blinked, trying to remember when he’d eaten last.  As the deputy pushed him into a booth, something thudded heavily against the side of the building.  The deputy shoved Derek back into his seat, rolling his eyes.  “Sit down, I need to make some phone calls.”  He slid out of the booth and stalked out to the phone booth on the street corner, and Derek was left with the cheery server asking him what he wanted from a seemingly endless list of beverages.

“Chocolate milkshake,” said a small, wheezy voice from the booth behind him, and he flinched.  

“Strawberry milkshake,” he told her, ignoring the whispered “Boooo,” behind him.  Once she was gone, he frowned at the menu.  “...what’d you do, ride your bike?” he whispered back.  “You smell gross.  Why are you following me?”

“He knows,” the little voice whispered back, panting. 

Derek’s milkshake thumped down on the table in front of him, and the server turned to lean down into the next booth.  “What are you doing down there, St--”

“Sorry!” the kid’s limbs flailed against the padded seat, but also thonked against the table and table leg, and Derek grimaced in sympathy.  “I sure am hungry like a wolf, can I get some curly fries?”

The menu crumpled in Derek’s hands, and he quickly flattened it as Deputy Brûlébois came back in and dropped in the seat across from him.  

“Take your time.”  

Derek nodded, wondering how it was to not be able to hear hearts racing.  His felt like it was about to explode.  

“Just trying to sniff out something to wolf down!” the boy behind him stage-whispered to the server, who laughed.  “What’s smoking hot today, uh, Velma?  Just burning with potential?”

She snorted, leaning in to talk him through the specials, and Derek registered the deputy’s voice like it was coming from the other end of the train tunnel instead of across the table.  

“Kid,” the man sounded annoyed.  

“Y-yeah,” Derek refocused on the menu.

“Who’re you winking at,” Velma cackled at the terrifying ten-year-old behind him.  “I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”  

“Sister, definitely,” the kid thumped his elbow against their adjoining seat cushion.  “Just a sister.”

Derek felt his throat closing again, choking on a huge breath as he registered the Deputy’s hands on his, smacking his arm.  

“Order a fu--why don’t you just order a burger?” Brûlébois slammed his fist into the table.

“A burning hot sister,” the kid repeated, and Velma smacked him with the menu, cackling, and spun over to face Derek and the deputy.  

“Hey, you guys ready to--you okay, honey?”

Derek kept his lips pressed between his teeth, eyes lowered, wondering whether he would regenerate if he wolfed out, terrifying the deputy and the waitstaff, and got shot in the head.  He gave a belated nod, feeling across his nails with his thumb before pointing at something on the menu.  Velma paused, and he realized he’d selected the Little Princess Rainbow Sprinkle Strawberry Stuffed Sparkle Waffles, but she wrote it down without comment, and turned to smile at the deputy.

“Gimme whatever you’ve got on tap, it’s gonna be a long day,” he leaned back, eyes narrowed at Derek.

“Tip your milkshake,” the little voice behind Derek whispered.  “He’ll have to go clean up.”

When Derek froze, staring down at the table, the back of the booth thumped him again.  “Come on, dude, it’s just strawberry.”

Derek turned, knocking it with his elbow, and Deputy Brûlébois swore as it dumped across the table into his lap.  He slammed his fist into the seat, teeth bared at Derek, then yanked himself out of the booth and stomped off to the restroom.  The kid scrabbled out of his booth and hauled at Derek’s shoulder.  

“Okay, dude, come on, we gotta go--”

Moments later, Derek found himself shoved into the phone booth.  “Call her!  Call your sister, I heard them, they were staking her or something.”

His shaking fingers misdialed once, but she picked up on the second try.  “Laura.  Something’s--I don’t know what--”

“Derek!” she gasped back.  “Are you okay?  There’s a--there’re a bunch of--”

The kid grabbed the phone.  “Get out of there, go to--” he rattled off an address, as Derek tried to get his claws to retract.  “Scott’s dad’s an FBI agent.  You can get in from their roof.  I don’t even know what the hell, but they said they were gonna stake you guys or something and they had real guns--”

“Is Derek okay!?” Derek could hear her scrambling around in the hotel room.

“I’ve got him, we’ll meet you there,” the kid said, standing straighter, and Derek reached for the phone just as she hung up.  The next thing Derek knew he was manhandled onto a shiny purple bicycle, the kid clambering on behind and grabbing at his jacket.  “Go go go!  Summon your bats!”

“What?!” Derek pedalled, feeling somewhat relieved--since this had to be a dream, maybe some of the last week had been.  “What are you talking about.”

“They were all eating garlic!” the kid yelled over the air rushing by, slinging an arm around Derek’s shoulder so he could flail directions.  Derek swung the bike around the corner so fast the tires screeched.  “They had crossbows!  They called you monsters--”

Derek focused on pedalling, knees nearly to his ears, following the flailed pointing fingers out of the corners of his eyes.  Behind them, the deputy’s siren started in the diner parking lot.  

“Shit, here, turn--” Stiles yelled in his ear, directing him down a driveway and a yard, and they crashed through a three-foot high pile of sword ferns to get to tree cover.  It was clearer under the massive California pines, and Derek focused on avoiding ivy.

“So are they just all crazy?” the kid asked, once Derek slowed enough to stay on a winding trail.  “They said you could transform.  They had to get Laura before she transformed.”

“...with you standing there?” Derek was glad the hunters were idiots, but it seemed convenient.  

The kid scoffed.  “I was in a locker.  I was trying to steal more handcuffs.”

“...more handcuffs,” Derek repeated, nearly crashing them as he tried to frown over his shoulder.  

“And I want a crossbow,” he whispered in Derek’s ear, and Derek was forced to consider the possibility that if werewolves were real, so, possibly, were goblins.

“Are you a vampire or not,” the kid smacked his shoulder, and Derek couldn’t help snickering.

“Not.  Vampires aren’t real.  Neither’s Santa.”

“I know that!  They weren’t hunting Santa!”

“So you’re useless.”

Yeah, Derek thought, pretty much. “I’m good at riding bikes,” he powered up a hill, and heard the kid going “Oooooo.”

The house was deserted when they pulled up, and Derek tossed the kid up to the roof over the porch before jumping after him.  “Hey,” Laura’s voice came from the window.

“He says you guys aren’t even vampires,” Stiles sighed, clambering through the window and landing mostly on his head.  

“...he’s right,” Laura bit her lips, then grabbed Derek as he climbed through the window, hugging him tightly.  “Are you okay?!”

“I didn’t get my sparkle princess waffles,” Derek admitted, and she laughed into his shoulder, her voice rough.

“Who’re you?” she asked the kid.

“Some goblin,” Derek ducked away from the kid’s flung pillow.  “He kidnapped me from the diner.”

“Well,” Laura dropped to sit on the stranger’s bed.  “Thanks.”

“I should call my dad--” the goblin began, and she shook her head, holding her hand out.  

“Thank you very much.  But we’ll go now.  I’ve got a full gas tank.  We’ll be okay.”

“Oh,” the goblin deflated, shaking her hand.  “...kinda sucks you aren’t actually vampires.”

“It would be convenient,” she nodded.  “Except during the day.  Thank you, goblin.”

“I’m not--!  What--!” the kid stomped.  “I saved you!  I gave up my curly fries for this!”

“Yes you did,” she leaned to pull him into a hug with Derek, but they both frantically wriggled free, sharing a wide-eyed look.  

“G’bye, non-Draculas, I guess,” the kid waved, then folded his arms, and Laura snorted, dragging Derek to the window.  

“Bye, Goblin.”

He flipped them off, grinning, and Derek ducked after his sister through the window, back across the roof, and jumped to the ground next to the small bicycle.  He’d pedalled so hard those first few miles he could smell the tires.

“G’bye, stupid humans,” the kid stage-whispered from the window, and Derek turned and waved, before Laura drug him into the car.

“What was that,” she laughed.  “What was he, like seven?”

“No idea.  He heard them talking about crossbows, and killing you before you transformed,” he took a shaky breath.  “He was hiding in a locker, trying to steal handcuffs.”

“...maybe he was a goblin,” she blinked at the road, and smacking the map into his hands.  “Welp.  Goodbye forever, Beacon Hills,” she yelled out the sunroof.

Derek grinned.  “Goodbye, Goblin!” he joined in, yanking his sweatshirt from the back and inhaling.  It still smelled like home, and he swallowed, making a mental note to put it in a plastic bag.  He cleared his throat.  “Let’s stop for milkshakes.”

She nodded, snorting a laugh, and wiped her eyes.

「My other Teen Wolf stuff on AO3 」

[romionesecretsanta]

Woes On Christmas Eve

For @herostairss

It was happening again.

This time, in the shower.

Hermione had gone from having a delightful shower in her nice and comfortable Head Girl dorm’s bathroom to reliving one of the worst moments of her life.

It was Christmas Eve, and all was supposed to be well.

Especially since the ministry had finally located her parents, set their memories right. So right, in fact, that they had even picked up immediately where they left off, heading out on the vacation they had already planned over a year prior, sans their daughter But most importantly, Ron had came to visit for the holidays.

However, despite all of the wonderful things that took place after the fall of the Dark Lord, Hermione couldn’t seem to stop the frequent nightmares and flashbacks from happening. Even in death, Bellatrix Lestrange still plagued her life.

It had been her shampoo bottle slipping from her hand, smacking hard against the stone bottom, that had triggered it. The harsh snap of the thick plastic ricocheted from wall to wall, sounding eerily like the hard heel of Bellatrix’s shoes that she had worn that day in Malfoy Manor.

The warmth of the water disappeared, and in it’s place was the dreadfully chill memory of the unforgiving marble floor of the drawing room. Before she knew it, Hermione had been thrusted back, as if she had never left. Once again, she could hear Greyback’s menacing and lust-filled growl, and feel the heated eyes of the Death Eaters staring at her, wicked sneers and malicious scowls etched into their faces.

And then, her voice. Icy and maniacal, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now my Mudblood dear, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Tell me, where did you get that sword?”

Hermione started panting. She looked around quickly, trying to take in the fact that she was not in the manor. She was not in any danger.

Her voice croaked out, pleading, as if she was back in front of Bellatrix. “I….I don’t know, I swear!” she sobbed.

She closed her eyes. Big mistake.

Bellatrix stood over her, the insane witch aiming her wand down at her, screaming the spell that caused her the worst pain she had ever felt in her entire life. Her skin had felt as if it had burst into flames as her blood boiled, her nerves screaming in agony.

No, wait— it was her.

She was screaming and she couldn’t stop. She was begging Bellatrix to stop.

She lied. She had said it was just a copy. That it was merely a fake.

But Bellatrix hadn’t believed her.

Tears were streaming down her face, mixing with the shower that was indeed starting to run cold. She felt as if the shower walls were closing in on her, and her breathing became more panicked by the second. Bellatrix was closing in on her. Greyback was closing in on her. They were getting closer and closer and—

“Hermione!!”

It was as if an angel had called out her name. It sounded faint, like the tinkling of a bell, then, as she heard her name being called again, it sounded a bit closer.

Then she felt warmth. Unbelievable warmth as arms surrounded her and a large hand slipped over her small one, squeezing it tight.

“Hermione,” whispered the voice of her savior. “You’re not there anymore. It’s okay. You’re at school. You’re in your room. You’re with me.”

Hermione looked up and into the sapphire eyes of her comfort zone. Ron looked down at her, worry etched all over his face. This wasn’t the first time he had found her like this. Lying on the floor, in the fetal position, crying out like she was trapped inside of her nightmares. And he knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But to happen to her at a time where she should feel nothing but happiness? It only proved that evil never slept and never left good people alone.

Hermione latched onto Ron, soaking the front of his jumper. Suddenly, the images were gone. The cold that she had felt was replaced by Ron’s body heat. She realized that she wasn’t in the manor anymore.

She was home.

Ron snatched the towel hanging on a nearby rod and held it up for Hermione to wrap around herself. A crooked smile tugged at the sides of his lips as the blood rushed to her cheeks, turning them a twinge of pink.

“A fine time to be bashful, don’t you think?” he joked lovingly.

Hermione smirked as she stood up, wrapping the towel tightly around her, “I hadn’t envisioned your first time seeing me in the nude would be while I’m making a fool of myself in the shower,” she whispered as a feeling of vulnerability washed over her. She hated feeling that way, especially in front of him.

Ron gently rubbed her cheek, “You weren’t making a fool of yourself, don’t say things like that.”

“Then why do I feel so foolish?” asked Hermione, as they made their way back to her room. “You found me cowering in the floor, as if I were a child.”

“You have every right to do that,” said Ron. “All the shit you went through? You were hit by the bloody cruciatus curse for crying out loud.”

Hermione blushed. When Ron would speak on the fact that she had endured and gotten through her torture, it always made her feel like she was giving her more credit than she deserved. She had yet to tell him that the only reason she had survived the ordeal was because she heard him call out her name over and over, and that the sound of his voice kept her from slipping out of reality.

“Why didn’t you stay at the Burrow for the holidays?” asked Hermione, changing the subject as she pulled out her pajamas to sleep in. “I’m sure Mrs. Weasley would have wanted you all home for Christmas.”

“Mum understands that I want to be here,” blushed Ron as Hermione stepped behind her partition to get dressed. “I could say the same about your folks as well actually.”

“I couldn’t very well leave the students unattended during the holidays, could I?” said Hermione in her matter-of-fact voice. “What kind of Head Girl would I be if I had left?”

“The kind of Head Girl that didn’t want to be stuck in school babysitting ickle firsties when she could be having fun elsewhere,” said Ron. “Although, I need to remind myself who I’m talking to.”

Hermione threw her damp towel at Ron’s face as she stepped out from behind her partition. Ron swiftly caught it in his hand with a satisfied smirk etched onto his face.

“I see your keeper skills haven’t faltered,” said Hermione.

“I see you throwing things at me for the rest of my life,” laughed Ron. “I’ll need to keep these arms limber.”

Hermione smiled as she sat down in front of her vanity. She looked at the magnitude of hair that covered her head. The life that had been almost drained out of it during the hunt had been revitalized, finally, and it was now back into the mass of curls that Hermione had at last grown to appreciate.

“Let me,” he said as he walked up behind her, picking up a brush and a hair tie off her vanity and began to tenderly brush her hair. He smiled as he took in the scent of Hermione’s shampoo, reminding him of the honeysuckle bushes that grew in the spring in his mother’s garden.

“Thank you,” said Hermione as she closed her eyes. She loved it when Ron would brush and play with her hair. He was the only one (besides her own mother) that she allowed to let touch it. She loved the feeling of Ron’s fingers making their way through her ringlets. She was fascinated by the fact that it seemed his fingers would never end up trapped, unlike her own. Perhaps her hair liked to be tamed by him, as if it had a mind of it’s own.

Or perhaps her hair knew that his hands were safe. That his hands provided comfort that only Ron could give her. This was not the first time that a simple touch from Ron had made her feel as if she had nothing to fear. If she had to be honest with herself, any moment where Ron had his hands on her made her feel like she was protected.

“I’m glad you’re here Ron,” said Hermione as she watched Ron brush her hair into a surprisingly neat ponytail. “I really don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t came and gotten me off the floor.”

“You doubt yourself too much, Mione.” frowned Ron. He hated when she talked like that.

“I’m not trying to doubt myself!” huffed Hermione, starting to get annoyed. “I’m simply trying to pay you a compliment.”

“Yeah, by making yourself sound like some weak little girl that needs me to come to her rescue. That’s not you.”

“I’m not trying to say that, Ronald.”

“Well then what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, you git. I’m just trying to thank you!!”

“Well don’t!! I don’t need it, especially when it comes at the expense of you looking venerable.”

“Well maybe I am venerable Ron, have you ever thought of that?!” snapped Hermione. She jumped out of her seat, turning to Ron, her brown eyes blazing with anger.

“Maybe I do feel weak, okay? Maybe I do feel like I could lose it at any given moment. I’m not always as strong as you have made yourself believe, Ron.”

“And neither am I,” said Ron in a low voice. “You make it seem like I have it all together and that I’m like your knight in shining armor, not afraid of anything. I’m still scared, Hermione. I still get anxious when you and Harry aren’t around. I still feel helpless like I did when you were being tortured and all I did was scream your name like a bloody idiot.”

Hermione and Ron gazed at each other, each one trying to catch their breath from their outbursts. Then, they laughed.

"Of course we would argue over the two of us trying to be considerate to one another,” said Hermione as she smiled up at Ron, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“We wouldn’t be us if we didn’t have a row over something, yeah?"chuckled Ron as he reached his hand out for Hermione to take.

He pulled her into his warm embrace, her half done ponytail tickling his neck. Hermione buried her face into Ron’s jumper, taking in the scents of fresh linen and apple pie, as Mrs. Weasley had packed small pastries along with the jumper, instructing that they should be eaten immediately.

"I guess we’re both a couple of messed up sods, aren’t we?” murmured Ron into Hermione’s thick mane.

“Language, Ronald,” said Hermione. “But yes, I guess neither one has it as together as we seem to. And you know what? I rather like that we both feel the same way.”

“I like that too.”

The tiny owl in Hermione’s cookoo clock that Hagrid had made her popped out and started to hoot softly, indicating midnight. Hermione smiled as she looked up at Ron’s face, his callused yet surprisingly soft hands cupping her cheeks. He moved his head down to hers, and their lips met with a tender kiss.

They both sighed against each other’s lips. To them, each kiss felt just as special as the first timid one that they had shared with each other back in the end of sixth year, when they didn’t exactly known what they were.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

“Happy Christmas, Ron.”

[onlymorelove]

Fic: The Boy I Used to Know (1/1)

Title: The Boy I Used to Know (1/1) Fandom: Timeless Characters: Wyatt Logan, Garcia Flynn, Iris Flynn Rating: PG-13 or T Notes: Written in response to the following prompt from @timeless-fanfic-prompts :  How to save the world in five simple steps. Summary:   It’s two years today that the police found Jessica’s body, and Wyatt’s chest aches and his stomach tightens. (AU without time travel)

If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcomed.

Read below the cut, @ FF.net, or on AO3. Rating: T Tagging @extasiswings.

"You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics." -Charles Bukowski

"Grandpa Sherwin, how do you save the world? Jack Riley told me you gotta have a sword to do that, and Mama said we don't have enough money to buy one. How'm I gonna save the world without a sword?"

"Well now, Wyatt, that's a great question. Come sit here." The old man patted the empty spot beside him on the threadbare brown sofa. When Wyatt clambered up and raised questioning eyes to him, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and sighed. "Son, you don't need a sword to save the world. I'll tell you how to save the world in five simple steps. Are you listening?"

The boy nodded vigorously.

"Show me your listening ears so I know I have all your attention." 

Wyatt set both hands to his ears and pushed them forward.

His grandfather smiled. "Step 1," he said, holding up his thumb, "make a difference in one person's life." Next he raised his index finger. "Step 2: Make a difference in one person's life." His middle finger came up. "Step 3: Make a difference in one person's life." A fourth finger was added. "Step 4: Make a difference in one person's life." Finally, he held up his pinky; five fingers total were raised. "And last, but not least, Step 5: Make a difference in one person's life."

Wyatt's forehead wrinkled. "But Grandpa, all the steps you said are the same."

"I know they are, son. That makes them easier to remember." Smiling fondly, he wrapped an arm around his grandson's shoulder. "You'll remember them, won't you, Wyatt?"

The boy's expression smoothed out, and he nodded. "Yes, sir. I promise I will."

"That's my boy."

It's two years today that the police found Jessica's body, and Wyatt's chest aches and his stomach tightens. He wants nothing more than to be alone in the middle of Zola's Coffee and think about Jess—not about himself and all the ways he fucked up; not about what an asshole he was the night she died; not about his last words to her: You make me sick. No. He wants to remember her and how she liked to bake when she felt stressed. How her feet were always, always freezing at night and she used to press them against his bare skin to warm them up. How her arms felt like home.

Rain taps fingers against the window next to him in a steady beat that lulls Wyatt into a state of well, not exactly peace, but near-stillness, so he sighs and shuts his paperback, John Le Carre's The Spy Who Came in From the Cold . He drops the book on the scarred wooden table in front of him, next to the coffee that he can smell every time he inhales, but he hasn't sipped yet, and the strawberry cake pop—Jess' favorite flavor— still dressed in a plastic wrapper and cheery red ribbon. With his eyes closed and arms folded loosely over his chest, he stretches his legs out under the table, one boot propped on the other, and readies himself to fall into the memories.

A voice cuts through the haze. "...I understand there aren't more in your display case. But could you check again? I don't know— Aren't there more in your refrigerator? Or maybe under the counter?"

There's an edge to the stranger's voice, of desperation or something close to it, that Wyatt recognizes. That resonates inside him. He opens his eyes. A man, a tall one, stands in front of the register. A black umbrella dangles from one of his hands, dripping onto the floor and puddling at his feet. His other hand is entwined with a little girl's. They stand with their backs to Wyatt, so he can't see their faces.

"I'm sorry, sir," the guy behind the counter says, tugging at his name tag. "We're all sold out of the strawberry cake pops. But we still have mint, cookie dough, and chocolate, and they're all really—"

The umbrella drops, and the customer smacks his hand on the counter, making the shop employee jump. "My daughter wants the strawberry one. Nothing else!" His voice rings out through the coffee shop, ushering in a sudden hush. As if he's just noticed the attention he's attracting, he says, much more quietly: "My daughter, she just lost her mother. A week ago." The hand he cards through his dark hair trembles until he tightens it into a fist at his side. "Please," he adds, the word sounding half-strangled.

If Wyatt hadn't already made his decision, the please would have done him in. The shaky atmosphere is palpable, though, so reluctant to interrupt, he waits for the exchange to end.

"Sir, I'm so very sorry, but we don't have any strawberry cake pops left. Would you like to order anything else?"

The man and his daughter stand with their backs to Wyatt, so he can't see their faces, but he easily deciphers the message written on the checkout guy's face: pity and discomfort. With a silent shake of his head, the man picks up his umbrella and turns away, his shoulders hunched.

For the first time, Wyatt sees both their faces. He and Jess never got around to having kids when they still could, and now it's too late, so Wyatt hasn't spent much time around young children. Even to his inexperienced eyes, though, it's obvious the girl can't be more than four or five-years-old. He'd be sympathetic even if she threw a tantrum, given the intel he picked up while eavesdropping, but she remains quiet as tears slide down her cheeks.

Her father stops walking and stoops until he's at her eye level. "I'm sorry, Iris," he says, and his voice, whisky-rough and kissed with an accent he can't identify, holds such tenderness that Wyatt almost looks away, his chest heavy and aching with feelings he doesn't want to feel. But Wyatt doesn't look away; he can't. Instead, he sits, frozen in place in his chair, and watches as the other man's hands slip over the girl's tear-stained cheeks and tuck her short, blonde hair behind her ears.

"It's OK, Papa," she answers in a voice as small as she is, and pats her father's shoulder. The man catches his daughter's free hand and brings it to his lips, head bowed for several heartbeats. 

Wyatt shouldn't interrupt; he knows what he's seeing is a private moment playing out in a public place, but there's a dull pain in his chest and his throat is tight and dry and he can't hold it all in any longer so he stops thinking and starts moving.

He shoves his chair back from the table and stands. It takes him four strides to reach the tiny family. Four strides until he's tapping the other man's broad, white-shirted shoulder. "Excuse me," he says. His face flushes hot at how unsure he sounds, and he clears his throat.

The stranger gets to his feet so quickly that Wyatt takes a step back.

Wyatt angles his chin and takes in the other man's features. At first glance, his face is remote; angular, and time, grief, or perhaps both, have sketched deep lines around his mouth and into his forehead. Thick, dark brows and a hawkish nose render his expression stern and forbidding, but Wyatt hasn't forgotten the gentleness he heard in the man's softly-accented voice scant minutes ago, and there's a certain hollow look to his green eyes that Wyatt recognizes from the times when he can't avoid viewing his own face in the mirror.

"Yes?"

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop on you, but I did." He scratches the back of his neck. "I hear this young lady wants a strawberry cake pop. Is that true, ma'am?" he asks, bending until he is closer to the girl's level.

The girl, Iris, glances at her father first. When he gives a nearly imperceptible nod, she turns to Wyatt and nods as well, her face entirely too solemn for someone her age.

"Well, it just so happens that I have one, and I'd like you to have it. But only if it's OK with your dad." Wyatt and Iris both turn to look at the other man, who sighs and twists the gold band on his left hand.

"Are you sure?" he finally asks.

"Absolutely," Wyatt replies.

"All right then," he says, ruffling his daughter's hair, "you can have it."

Iris bounces on her feet, her face finally showing a hint of something besides sadness. In response, Wyatt feels his mouth stretch into a wide grin, but he can't stop it, even though he knows he probably looks like a first-class idiot. He unties the ribbon bow and holds out the cake pop; their fingers brush when she takes it from him.

"What do you say?" her father asks.

"Thank you," she answers before removing the wrapper and biting into the pop.

"You're welcome." Wyatt keeps smiling, even though something in his chest cracks at the realization that with her blue eyes and blonde hair, Iris could have been Jessica's child. Their child.

The other man reaches for his wallet, then pulls out a few bills. "Here," he says, holding the money out toward Wyatt.

Wyatt shakes his head and waves the money away. "No. Not necessary."

"Take it," he says, and there's an insistent note in his voice that catches and buzzes around in Wyatt's ear.

"No. Seriously. I don't want your money." He takes a step back and lifts his hands. "Just let your daughter enjoy the treat."

"Fine," the man replies, his tone still a bit too huffy for Wyatt's liking. Then: "Thanks." He switches the umbrella to his left hand, then holds his right hand out to Wyatt. "I'm Garcia." This time his voice harbors only politeness and a hint of fatigue.

He eyes the outstretched hand for only a second before he leans in and clasps it firmly, holding Garcia's gaze all the while. "Nice to meet you, Garcia. I'm Wyatt," he says, injecting a touch of extra warmth into his voice.

A/N: Title is borrowed from Dean Lewis’ Waves. 

[shipsbcshesdiabetic]

Chapter 34

Wednesday, June Seventh, Two Thousand Seventeen, 9:00am- Sunshine Foods

It’s amazing how fast shit gets fucked up. In all actuality, it happens slowly, sneakily building and building until the unnoticeable traces of it suddenly explode around you, and in that moment, you finally realize that you never actually sensed any of it until you’re in that one singularity. In one moment, you’re on cloud 9, and in the next, you have no money, no fallback, and all you can feel is the sense of dread that comes with watching your friend roll a stolen turkey across a busy road to you.

Wide eyed with hunger and fear, Kirsten carefully rolls the frozen bird over the edge of the sidewalk, giving it one last good shove so it’ll have a greater shot of making it across the three lanes of busy traffic. I stand at the other side, waiting and ready to catch it. A white truck passes the lane closest to Kirsten, but it doesn’t matter because the turkey is rolling through the middle lane. This must be what football is like for people who care about football. Right as it reaches the right lane, it just… stops.

I lock eyes with Kirsten. I dart out into the road to get it, but just before I can wrap my arms around the freezing, slippery packaging, a huge truck screams as the driver applies the brakes. I spring backwards by instinct, panicking, thrown by my own stupidity. The 18 wheeler jolts very slightly into the air and speeds up. The driver slams his hand down on the horn as he leaves the scene. After the frenzy clears itself from my mind, I spot the turkey, which is now pressed flat into the road. Red spires of shock move up from it and into me.

Once it seems safe to do so, Kirsten helps me peel the mess of meat and plastic off the road. It comes up with a sickening smack. Grimacing, she drapes the pancake over an arm. The juices drip onto the grass. I get into the truck and look out the front window with my eyebrows raised, not even having enough sense to close my door. I’m still processing it all. Seizing her opportunity, Kirsten dumps the flattened bird into my arms. I hug it close, crossing my arms over it. Kirsten struggles to shut the door as she drives away.

 Welcome to North Dakota

The Peace Garden State

 After unbuckling my seatbelt to get in a better position, I hold the turkey at the edges as Kirsten draws circles on the underside of it with her lighter. The strangest sensation of needing to eat while needing to vomit in disgust twists my throat. My arms grow heavier and heavier. It’s dense like a rock, and the stone grows into my body.

“We need to steal something else. This is shit,” Kirsten says, turning the flame off.

I toss the warm, raw meat onto the dash so it has at least the slightest bit of a chance to cook. It might give us food poisoning if we try to eat it later, but at this point, that’ll be the icing on the cake. I’ve thrown up and seen throw up so much that it’s just another regular process.

“Thank god for our lipstick collection, am I right?” I comment, picking up a pink one with golden packaging. I uncap it and stare at it, trying to convince myself to not bite into it.

“I don’t know where we’d be without it.”

I bite into it, my tongue immediately rejecting it. I hang my head out the window and let it fall out of my mouth. I’m an idiot. I watch it slowly crawl away in the grass as Kirsten pulls back onto the road. I don’t understand why I’m so hungry when we ate yesterday. It’s probably because I’m used to eating three solid meals every day, and I’ve never gone without anything like this before.

Even now that we’re in a condition as stupid and poor as this one, my subconscious belongs to her. Over a thousand miles away, billions of synapses away, and she’s still living in my heart. My love does last. I cannot bear it.

“Should we take a bag of dog food?” Kirsten asks, slapping her hand onto the biggest one.

I suddenly find myself standing in the pet aisle of a very large, well-lit farm supply store. I blink several times to adjust to the light. “Sure. Why though?”

“I hate stealing,” Kirsten admits. What she doesn’t say is that we only deserve to eat animal food, and that’s why she picked this place. I think I agree.

“Me too.”

We stand awkwardly still, staring at each other with self-pity in our eyes, waiting for the other one to pick a bag. Kirsten frowns and her eyes widen.

“Fine,” I say. I randomly pick one. “This one helps your pets keep their coats shiny. Whatever the fuck that means.” I throw my hands out to the sides and spin around.

She sighs and looks up. “Should we get cat food? I think it has more nutrients in it. It’s also easier to carry because it comes in a smaller container.”

I walk over, focusing on the bag she pointed out so I don’t have to look at all the dogs and cats on all the packages staring at us judgingly. “It has taurine,” I say, trying to find something positive about any of this.

“What does that do?”

“…I don’t know. Let’s stick to the dog section.”

We eventually settle on a thirty-five pounder with natural and artificial beef flavoring. Ten dollars, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Kirsten bends over in an L shape and puts her half on top of her back, gripping it tightly at the sides. I lift up my end and put it on my shoulders. We look like we’re in one of those weird two-person horse costumes. We slip out of the employee exit, struggling to keep ourselves in one piece. Kirsten unlocks the door, dropping the bag in the process. Rubbing her back, she helps me heave it in the space in between our seats. Once the bag settles itself in, we notice that we each only have half of our original seat space. We shrug and get in.

“I want to eat something else,” I complain fruitlessly.

“I hope you like eating dirt, then,” Kirsten says, ripping open the bag at the image of the golden retriever’s snout. She selects one pebble and eats it. “You know… it’s not horrible.”

I pick up a handful and look at it for a while. It falls from my fingers back into the bag. I’m suddenly not so hungry anymore. A different emptiness violates me. She’s not here. But, in a deeper way, she is. It’s powerful, like I could see her again if I’d just turn around. If I could just gain the courage to say her name out loud.

I never could have guessed that what we had was so flimsy. It didn’t make any sense until yesterday. It still doesn’t make much sense at all. It was like a secret that felt as solid and as final as a law, as unmovable as the fixed stars that live on the firmament. It’s so expansive that life itself does not understand, yet it was born of consciousness. The air we breathed was supplied by an entity greater than any calculable thing. It gave every discordant force in our sphere an ultimatum- kill us, or let us fester alone. It’s a wonder that something so quiet and tender could cause such a pain- a pain that inspires its keepers to lay down their life and the lives of others for just one more butterfly. It was like I’d end if it ever stopped. And yet, no one approved. Love her, or die. Love, and die. It has all the workings of a tragic Shakespeare play, except instead of dying a romantic death, Romeo’s in North Dakota eating dog food.

Swords drawn bring forth my bleeding heart and expose it to the morning light. I’m in an ancient Verona fighting for a deadened love without armor and without skin, yelling at enemies that don’t exist in a drizzle of illuminated rain. I’m slashing at the air, desperate to sever the lines dividing me from her. In turn, deep lines appear in my flesh. I don’t bleed because I shouldn’t. I live and fight because I don’t want to do anything else, and I don’t know how to do anything else. This resolve cauterizes my lifeblood. The silver of my sword briefly sends righteous light into my eyes. My muscles taut with anticipation, insufficiencies rip up what lies within my ribcage, sending pure, red guilt simmering with the heat of my instability. I walk the streets proudly, waiting for anyone who might dare to take her away from me for good. My veins dare my enemies to slash at them again and again. The rain lightens up. I focus on a random raindrop. To me, it’s the past, present, future, unseen forces, things that were, and the things that will never be. It hits the tip of my sword, covering me in dry blood.

She isn’t going to make my day ever again. She’s not going to show up with a bouquet of flowers, another $1000, and a portable oven for our turkey disk. It would be great if she’d do that, though. But she won’t. I have to accept it and move the hell on. I promised myself that I would never return. Nonetheless, my stream of consciousness keeps diverting to that channel. The phone call changed the wiring of my brain. She changed me. Again. In a matter of moments. The scale in mind keeps tilting back and forth from being aware of my surroundings and being aware of a past I should forget about. The chalices weigh heavily, taking the place of my brain. They are filled with lead and poisoned honey, each cup fighting for the honor of being the most burdensome. Both are thick and dark and equally vile, but one tastes better. I want to beat my head against a fucking wall.

I scoop a handful of dog food out of the bag and start tossing the kibble, one by one, into my mouth. I cry in Beatrice’s arms while we smoke weed in the bathroom. Kirsten yells at me for spilling my handful of dog food. Beatrice gives me a present covered in golden wrapping paper for my birthday. I pick the dog food up off the floorboard. Beatrice shows up to pick me up in the middle of the night for the billionth time. I eat the spilled dog food. Beatrice and I walk into the ballroom. Dog food, and I’m stupid. I hold Beatrice’s hand while she talks about getting rejected from her dream college. Dog food. Beatrice and I look at the stars. Dog food.

I start to feel worse and worse about myself as the memories collect together. Why can’t I let it down the drain? Why must I let myself suffer? Why can’t I kill the affection trapped in my arms and chest? The screen I unwillingly watch keeps dividing, splitting into two memories, then four, then eight, then sixteen, and so on. All the feelings flood out of me. My throat closes up and I clench the contents in my fist. Within the pixels, a bittersweet image shows up- the underlying, the ultimate. I stop eating and rest my head back. The pixels shine in the quiet like candles in a chapel.

 Part I

I stare blankly at a blank gray wall in my room, thinking about what I’m about to do. Dancing on the paint, the light from my window buzzes in my eyes. I know what I’m doing, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I stop sitting in my bed and pace around, badly hunched over. I finished writing a letter to her recently. I’ve been spending all of today preparing myself for what’s next. I know it isn’t going to go well, but I have to try anyway. I don’t think I’d ever be able to forgive myself if I didn’t.

           I had no idea of what to say until very recently. What I had wasn’t a letter so much as a random mess of pain, anger, citations from papers, disrespect, tidbits from blogs, and general stupidity. I was planning a war with the world. Post-it notes were all over my room. It had the energy of a conspiracy theorist trying to prove that George Washington killed JFK and did 9/11. It was so caustic. So I tore it all down. And I wrote a different letter with no notes. No plan. No structure. I started writing it yesterday at 2am, and I didn’t stop until 7am.

She’s a vector of truth. Something fundamentally calming and simple resides within her. When I stepped back and thought about her, the writer’s block unfurled. It was like nothing and everything made sense at the same time. And that’s what I needed. Returning to reality, I find myself standing with my back pressed against a wall. I open my eyes wide and breathe in because I had forgotten to. It falters in the middle of the intake. My reflection looks at me.

And with that, I pick up the piece of paper and walk out my door, down the hall, out the front door, and along the road.

              Once Kirsten pulls up to a laundromat adjacent to an RV park, we dig through our crap to find all our unwashed clothes. I lift up the base of my shirt. It smells like a sweating, rotting thing. I take my dress into the laundromat with me and change into it in the bathroom because it smells the “best”. It has a giant scorch mark on the front, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m only going to wear it for an hour. We really should have washed our clothes ages ago.

           Kirsten emerges from her stall wearing her off-white wife beater and baggy jeans. No leather jacket. A woman gives us a dollar after watching us scour the floor for loose change. We thank her. I hold the bill in my hand, feeling feathery, but that subsides once I remember everything. Now it feels less like being on the receiving end of an act of kindness and more like I sucked money from someone who needed it too. Kirsten puts the bill in a washer and lumps all our clothes into it. It moves slightly from side to side, clanking against the dryer underneath it.

           Kirsten and I look at each other. We remain silent. We agreed earlier that we shouldn’t talk at all today unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s too hot to talk. There’s also nothing to say.

           My hands and feet feel heavy and enlarged with the excess heat in the building. There isn’t an AC or even a fan. Just vents at the top. I sit on a brown chair with stuffing coming out of the seat, letting my forehead rest against the tan-yellow wall. It probably has all the germs in the world. My muscles shift against my will as if I’ve been swimming for hours.

I’m not sure if I miss money or if I miss when I brushed my hair and cared about others. I’m mentally drained. My forehead wrinkles against the marginally colder wall. I put my legs forward slightly so I can balance myself well enough to fall asleep. A vent from another room gently whispers into me. I wilt. I breathe slowly in and out, focusing only on the hot hair blowing on my legs.

  Part II

           I stand in the bushes near the road’s intersection, trying to figure out how I’m going to cross the highway. The road I was on is perpendicular to it, so I might just stand behind the traffic light and run with the cars. Being able to drive would have made this process a lot easier, but since I failed my driver’s test a few weeks ago, that simply isn’t possible. I couldn’t parallel park, and I have to go back once I think I can safely do so.

           I dart out into the road once it seems safe and stand between two cars waiting for the green light. Something in me tells me to quit, but I shove it aside and wrestle it to the ground. This fear is disgustingly human, and I am doing this for a reason greater than most others. A driver yells at me. I turn around and flip the bird.

           Enamored with my own determination, I passively watch the cars race through the main thoroughfare with a big, dumb smile on my face. Revelations about existence spill around me as the smell of diesel and the vibe of impatient cars fills in every edge of me. Complete lack of safety can feel like the safest thing ever. The realization that I am not her other half rushes in. There was never any room for me. I am one of two dyadic wholes. That’s why I’m capable of this. I don’t die with her. Her philosophy returns. People are so scared of existing. People are so scared of talking. People are so scared of thinking. Maybe she’s projecting.

A spring breeze injects my edges with a delirious sense of hope; it’s as if I’m levitating ever so slightly off the ground. It’s a shock of purity that arrives after not feeling that kind of air for a year, for a lifetime. Endless particles with endless variables ricochet off each other, building invisible connective structures. Dominos fall and rise. Anything is possible. The awesome feeling ends. I’m just me.

The light turns green, and I run.

  “Fucking machine,” Kirsten grunts, beating on the glass door of the washer. She pulls up her sagging shorts.

I stand immediately, recoiling upon sensing the crick in my neck. My back doesn’t feel great either. I watch her slam on the washer’s door until something pops. The sound hits something in my ears, making me feel funny. She opens it. Right after she scoops out wet clothes, the door falls off by the hinges and spins like a quarter until it lies still on the dirty floor.

“We’re leaving now.”

We drape the clothes out over our other stuff in the back. It looks like we’re trying and failing to conceal something weird.

Kirsten finds herself pulling into a gas station. We don’t have the money for gas anymore, no matter how desperately we might need it. After a few ear-ringing moments of silence, Kirsten runs out and slams the door. She’s probably going off somewhere to cry.

It’s too hot to stay in the truck, even with the shade from the gas station. I climb out and sit on a bench next to a ten-year-old boy with a half-eaten orange pop. I stare at the spots of flattened, darkened gum on the white asphalt. My mind travels again.

“I hate women,” I sigh.

He just stares at me, his eyes turning into pools of wonder in his pudgy, tanned face. He goes back to biting into the pop.

“They’re too damn confusing. And it’s not even their fault. There’s something about the sheer beauty of a pretty girl that screws with your mind. You end up believing whatever you want to believe, but you also don’t dare to believe. There’s something so incredible about the touch of a woman. It’s easy to see why a lot of songs are about romance and youth… art is the only outlet for such complex things. Don’t you agree?”

He belches.

I’m too impassioned to see straight. The parked cars turn into dizzy lines. “My girl… well, she isn’t my girl anymore. Not really. And that’s the problem, I guess. I think about her all the time. I want to return to her and make everything okay again, but I feel as though trying to do so would be a deep betrayal of the opportunities I have been given.” I stand and pace, wringing out my hand. “No choice is a good one. No matter what side the coin lands on, the other side is still dark. It’s like… do you listen to your heart despite its logical fallacies, or do you listen to your head despite the fact that it has its own set of fallacies?” I gesture through my monologue.

Kirsten carrying a used straw from the trash comes into my view. She blows through it, sending thick strings and droplets of leftover milkshake onto her pants and the parking lot. My stomach cringes. She makes eye contact with a mother filling her car with gas. Unperturbed by the audience, she walks over and sticks the straw into the tank and sips in a bit of it. My jaw drops. The woman swears and tries to slap her away. Kirsten runs over to our truck, accidentally letting the fluid in the straw drip back into her mouth. She makes a sick face and spits it out all over the white concrete. The woman is still yelling.

           “It was nice talking to you,” I say without looking at him. I roll up onto my feet and start walking toward the truck to leave.

Not many interesting things have happened today. I spotted a Prius with truck nuts on the drive over. That was cool, I guess. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that I don’t really want to have anything to do with interesting things. I’m all mellowed out and drained. I’ve retired. In fact, anything completely out of the ordinary would throw me. Today’s me would hate yesterday’s me. In all honesty, I could probably come up with a few good ideas if I really wanted to. Right now, I just want to make sure that I can still successfully exist.

 Part III

I breathe in and out slowly, trying to maintain my cool. I carefully put my finger on the worn doorbell and press it in. I’m definitely doing the right thing.

I don’t care about the bad consequences that could stem from this. There’s a big difference between a good Bad Consequence and a bad Bad Consequence. A bad Bad Consequence is dying from doing something excessively stupid. A good Bad Consequence of this is that I might live too much. I have no self-doubts in this glorious moment. I look at the paper in my hand.

I hear her footsteps storm toward the door. I can tell it’s her. Something strange creeps up in me. She opens the door.

What the shit what the fuck what in the goddamn fuck what sorry shit God I fucking wish things were simple still but fuck me God fucking damn it fuck goodnight. I’m a fucking idiot loser shit pile.

Barbed wires become me. A “what is wrong with you” expression dances on her crestfallen face, as if she opened some long-awaited package and found severed limbs. My eyes widen with the realization of how stupid this actually is. My emotions go haywire when I realize that I don’t know how I feel about her now or even who she is. Her label is a balancing act between The Girl Who Hurt Me and The Girl I Love. It screws with me. Hot and cold waves wrack my body as I stare deeper into her eyes. It’s hard to feel safe when there are walls within her pupils waiting to shut me out again. Her image flips back and forth between being heavenly and devilish.

It’s then when I realize that she’s just a girl. Just a person.

And I’m just a moron. In fact,

I am a crazy bitch.

Maybe I need to write it on a piece of paper and staple it to my forehead for me to learn.

“Are you going to speak?”

“Maybe eventually,” I squeak. I wish I could have been cooler with that.

  I watch the gas as Kirsten continues to drive toward Canada. I can’t believe it, but we might actually get there all in one piece. Rolling hills, marshes, and trees come into view.

Turtle Mountain Scenic Byway

We decide to stop outside of a hotel to see if there’s any complementary coffee. It seems upscale. As soon as we enter, a lady at the front desk tells Kirsten to cover her shoulders more if she wants to be in here. We look at each other. Kirsten goes out to the truck and comes back with the giant yellow sweater we bought at the mall. It’s like a giant sheet of tinsel that swallows her neck and goes down a foot past her knees. She smiles sarcastically at the lady and drinks the coffee. Crinkling the empty cup in her hand, she travels to the trash can by the staircase, observing it for a concerning amount of time. I slowly walk up to her.

“I want to cook the turkey,” Kirsten states.

“So do I, but that’s just not happening. It’s not possible.”

She turns around with a bad idea trapped in her brain. “Well, if I set it on fire, it would cook, right?” Her hands are on her hips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her arms rigidly at her sides.

“Well…”

“We’re setting this bitch on fire,” she decides.

I guess the punishment fits the crime.

We take the hotel’s trash can without saying anything, leaving the bag. It’s a giant dark gray one that is as tall as me minus my head. We could cook a dead, flattened cow in here. We toss it in the back and find another river to set our literal dumpster fire beside. A muddy one with a quick current comes into view. Kirsten sets the can next to the bank and fetches the turkey. Holding it over the opening, she puts her lighter up to it, praying for it to light. A sizable chunk falls into the base of it. Kirsten rips up a fistful of grass and tries that. I go to the truck, get our sunglasses, and hand her a pair.

“For protection,” I say.

She shrugs and takes it. I peek over and watch as the flames consume the grass. A turkey disk flies past my left ear and clunks against the bottom. It finally catches. We stand back at a safe distance and wait for our food. Soon enough, as expected, something decides to go horrifically wrong. The fire begins to react badly to the plastic. Thick smoke billows out of the top as it crackles madly. Flames shoot out from the top, illuminating every single fiber of tinsel on Kirsten’s golden sweater. The fire reaches several feet above the rim. I recoil before braving kicking it into the river. At least we were smart enough to anticipate needing to do that.

After the fire dies and the can gets swept away in the current, Kirsten and I look at each other, horrified. We plunge into the murky water, scrambling to get the turkey back. Thick mud sucks the bottoms of my flip flops with every step. I lift my legs with twice as much force as I normally would, which gives the impression that I have a really bad wedgie. Kirsten is no more graceful. We slog our way to where the trash can caught itself on a branch in a slower, shallower section. Kirsten flings the floating trashcan toward her, only to find nothing inside. She panics and starts raking the bottom of the river with her hands. I do the same, trying to squint through it. It’s exactly like trying to see the bottom of a glass of chocolate milk. I’m covered to my waist in a film of mud and leaf particles.

My hand grips a chunk of turkey. Thrilled, I tear off the tire-marked plastic and chisel away at the charred part. It’s soaked through. It apparently has a burnt layer, a thin cooked layer, and a raw layer. I do the best I can to get the good parts out of it before tossing it way out into the other side of the river. Kirsten finds a piece of her own and eats it like a dog.

Something fleshy hits the back of my hand. I eagerly grab it and bring it up to me. The image hits my brain, and something within me shuts down. It’s sickly pink. And veiny, and cylindrical, and flaccid, and weirdly tapered off at the ends. As it regurgitates more lake liquid out, it droops even further, causing it to curl and stick around my hand. My eyes cross as I notice all the angry flies and other insects buzzing over the surface.

Oh no.

Kirsten looks at me, pauses and stands still, and drops the desecrated leg and lets everything she was chewing out of her mouth. I examine it from different angles, not daring to believe. I don’t know why I’m waiting so long to toss it back into the abyss.

Kirsten stutters. “I think it’s… um. I think it’s a part of the turkey. The neck part.”

I stare at it. “Are we certain of this?”

I toss it back anyway. Even though I’m 90% sure that it’s just a neck, I’m not taking any chances. My hands sift through the murky water in search of more burnt turkey, shivers going through my spine. I find another piece and tear away the bad sections. I carefully bite into the soggy cooked part, careful to not let my mouth touch the remaining raw portion. Out of nowhere, Kirsten kicks a wave of brown onto my back. I’m sure she just did that to start some shit. Hopeless and angry, I swipe water toward her, soaking her front. Mud, water, and flies obscure my vision. The foul water violates my mouth as I toss more fistfuls of crap. The sound of rocky mud hitting the side of my face echoes in my ears.

  Part IV

           My legs stiffen as I fully realize that I’m standing in the doorway of her bedroom, saying nothing. I look at the piece of paper in my hand. “I’ve written you a letter,” I say, stating the obvious.

           Beatrice doesn’t respond. She just keeps sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for me to explain, leave, or die where I stand. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She mostly just looks blank. She finally raises her eyebrows as if I’m an embarrassment to myself.

I look down at the print and think about what it says. My heart is empty of all of it. This was all stupid. Watching her act all dejected tears everything out of me. “This is… weird. I’ve come this far, so… um… so… I,” I pause. “I think I should just say what I was going to say. I’m sorry if this turns out to be weirder than it already is,” I apologize exasperatedly. A breath shudders into my floppy lungs.

It’s currently two in the morning, and I’m sitting on my floor writing this letter to you because I’ve finally made a decision. In situations like these, it seems as though there are no good solutions or ways to move forward. Letting you go is probably the right thing to do, but it also seems like the worst thing I could possibly do. You’ve grown to mean a lot to me, and I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I didn’t try to show you what you’ve shown me. I hope you like the letter, and I hope that I do too, because I have no idea of what I’m going to say yet.

I can’t get it out of my head that we were meant to be. The force that made God surely made that. The fact that the girl who taught me to love without fear fears the way she loves is nothing short of a tragedy. Religion is meant to be a solace from pain and a tool for self-improvement and salvation- not something that destroys the soul. To “fear God” is not to praise a force that loves conditionally and is ready to beat you into submission at a moment’s notice. We were not made to cower and wrap ourselves tightly in a box in order to avoid eternal damnation from a disapproving force that doesn’t understand. To fear God is to be in awe of God. To fear God is to marvel at how such an infinite love could possibly exist, a love beyond what the human mind could possibly comprehend. To fear God is to never fear anything again. I am not afraid of you. I do not fear your fears.

The wrong kind of fear breeds actions that are against the core of religion. This form of strict adherence causes parents to kick out their children and makes those children kill themselves. It is fruitless. Religion becomes a checklist rather than a source of salvation. But where are the people who demand women to sacrifice two doves at the end of each menstrual cycle? I do not know. Very few, if any, people avoid picking and choosing what in the Bible they should follow, and because of this, we are saved. Kill nonbelievers. Stone young girls if they cannot prove their virginity. Women cannot speak in church. Sacrifice God’s creatures to atone for your sins. Women are property. It’s okay to whip your slaves. The writers of the word of God could not help but be influenced by the surrounding truths in the culture they were brought up in. These injustices were truths as old and as solid as the knowledge that the sun would rise in the morning. Women are dogs, animals burn, and the sky is blue. Today, in this millennium, the sky is blue, and I’m not ever giving up.

What is destroyed by religion can be mended with religion. The Bible seemed to show that slavery is natural, but those in bondage read other lines and let their faith carry them and their descendants into a more just world. Countless wars started in the name of God, but those who walk with God walk in peace. Even thousands of years ago, the rigidity of the powerful religious stripped people of their personhood for so much as picking food on the Sabbath. Jesus ate grains and forgave. God takes care of the forgotten, the unpopular, the powerless, always. Faith embraces all who have it.

Others may not accept us, but all of them pale in comparison to God. There is no male or female in His eyes. He cannot see anything other than our connected souls. In His hands, no one can tell us that we are abominations. No one can make you hate who you are. We are not freaks. Was God wrong for making you this way? It is no test; God is not a trickster. Repressing your feelings will not make you closer to Him. Not being you destroys you. You were meant to let yourself breathe. We have a place here. Kids don’t have families, and we can help them. The idea of you in pain over this hurts me as if you were a part of me. It breaks my heart. I will shield you and dry your tears if you’ll let me. I’ll tell you over and over that God wants you to feel safe. I want to help you feel safe.

To sin is to be without God, and by extension, without meaning. Vices provide temporary relief, but they will die with our bodies, and we will be dragged down along with those simple, empty pleasures we used as a crutch. Sin destroys us. It lies. It suppresses the light of God, ruins lives, and does the opposite of what we want it to do. Lust and gluttony satisfy the flesh, but never the soul. You can consume and consume and consume and find yourself lost in emptiness. It doesn’t stay. It never satisfies. Greed, wrath, and envy burn their host to the ground and stave away any hope of redemption. Pride’s keepers believe themselves to be too good for improvement, for openness. Pride is the treasure of the insecure.

I do not believe that what we have is infested with sin. This happiness feels whole, not empty or temporary. The truth blazes within you; it is not hideous and riddled with the deceit of evil. This feeling is not a lie. The way my heart is stitched to yours is not a lie. I’d have to be a fool to feel cursed. Tear out my brain, rip me limb for limb, kill desire, defeat pride, leave only my soul- and it still wants you. Even so, perhaps we really are abominations for some profoundly strange, arbitrary reason. This is something we cannot know. But this is what I do know. My feelings for you last beyond me. Beyond time itself. Heaven comes down to Earth when I’m with you. You expand my heart and mind beyond the brink. This truth overturns every stone and opens every door. Here I am, with you, in your hands, learning. Everything is complex and ceaselessly pours in. And yet, everything is simple. In this, I am made perfect. I am clean.

“Agape” is the unconditional love that God has for us. It wants nothing; it just is. It flows endlessly without question. Agape is what I have for everything that exists, for I am lucky enough to live here in the constant Now. These subtle forces that allow us to be here and breathe are surely a divine gift. This world is a reflection of God, my consciousness a reflection of His love. I see virtue in even the saddest and strangest of places. You, my dear, are a prism; God’s light refracts through you and ignites everything that can be perceived. You are the opposite of suppression. How can you be a vice if you bring me closer to the light? I’m ceaselessly inspired to love the world with all of me. This pours from me and begs me to do good rather than evil, or worst of all, nothing. This love is ancient and forever. Every place I go is a place I hold dear to me. It’s all heavenly. There are no vice-like pitfalls anywhere, and meaning is infused into all I do. I want to love, to share, to mend, to speak endlessly. I love you with this intensity. Agape.

There’s a character in To Kill a Mockingbird who believes that flowers and those who look at them are damned to hell because they’re pretty and distract from the glory of God. She reasons that beauty is a vice and that no one should enjoy it. That vision dictates that the purpose of humanity is to shun all the good things in life and to stay in a rigid line. If that is so, lock me in a box where I can never see another flower, never touch your face, never breathe. If that is what I am to be, I will stand there forever, beating on the walls, begging to be let into a fear-infused paradise where there is nothing but more lists of rules on a wall.

I believe that God is in the flowers. He is in them, and He is in my adoration of you. Too many people pray to the rules, not praying for love, not understanding that God prays for them to love. God prays to be understood. Flowers are not a refuge from the light; the light is in them. God is not some unreachable thing locked away in the heavens, separate from the world and its people. He is not some white dude sitting on a cloud waiting to smite you for eating pork. His love seeps from everything our senses can perceive.

I see God in the clouds. I see God in pain and in resilience and healing. I hear God during funerals. I feel God in my grandmother’s small church on Christmas Eve when everyone holds candles. I hear God in the old cars in our town when they struggle to start. I see God in homeless people and quiet streets. I feel God when we play music from The Cars in your car at night when no one else is there. I hear God in the streetlights that dance on your face. I see God in the kids that recklessly chase each other in the park. I see God when I talk to kind strangers. I see God in you.

You brighten all of these things. There are bits of you in all I experience. The elements on the periodic table don’t have shit on you. You unearth dimensions that you alone can access, dimensions where existence itself is its own grand purpose- depth within depth. I have been changed beyond comprehension. Even though you’re this brave force of perseverance that fears nothing and can make anyone smile, you’re also meek, gentle, and pure. You can do anything and make me believe in anything. You’re the crown of this world that you beautify.

Despite this, you don’t seem to know who you are. At all. When I look deeper into you, I see someone who is unwittingly full of contradictions- a hypocrite with a heart of gold. I see someone who loves everyone deeply and abhors herself with the same passion. You’re torn between letting yourself out or hiding away forever. You don’t know if you can afford to stop hating yourself. You don’t know if you’re brave enough to try. You’re selfless, yet you give yourself nothing. You are wise beyond your years, but you are unsure if your logic is a delusion. You exude peace, but your mind, heart, and soul take part in a daily bloodbath. You want to be good. You don’t know if you should stop caring or care too much. You’re always in pieces, and you’re always fighting those fragments that make you who you are. These things build up.  They build up until you’re lost in the frenzy of a whirlwind. You’re stretched thin across a continuum of uncertainty, false hope, and second-guesses. In those times, you don’t seem to be any one figure. You can’t make up your mind about who you are supposed to be. I think it’s because you’re everything, infinitely.

“I can see you clearly now,” I say into the light.

Her eyes are wide and dewy. I smile at her because I feel the same as I had when it all began. My heart has been restored. I have her again. Her angelic presence renews me. Our souls separate from our flesh and refract into a singular heavenly globe with us in the middle. The golden light warms as I slowly reach my hand out towards hers. The heavens above open for us. No longer star crossed, the warring and bleeding constellations uncross and file back into their order, further blending our lines together. Old grudges, hatreds, and ways within us and outside us melt away with our enlightened love. No one can ever take this away from us again. Everything that seeks to deaden and choke us out has no power over this anymore. We’re immovable. She grabs my hand after I extend it all the way. The saintly outpour of emotion solidifies as our fingers interlock into an unchangeable bond.

I want to keep you close to me. I want us to keep being there for each other during our lives on Earth and beyond as we rest in death among the stars. I want you to be the one part of my life that doesn’t move. If I had to pick and choose one part of the Bible to follow blindly, it wouldn’t be verse banning tattoos, the one that hates shrimp, or even the one that vilifies clothes made from several different types of string. There’s a part in Corinthians that I happen to like the most out of everything I’ve read so far. It says that signs of worship do not mean anything without love. Giving the world everything is an empty act if you do not have it. Love is the foundation of religion, and in its absence, religion is a farce- almost a sin in and of itself. Love never falters; it is the only true constant. As the world keeps going through the spiraling path of the future, all of these things that we hold dear will pass away. Our bodies will rot, and civilizations will crumble as if they were nothing. Science will grow and diminish, songs will be deleted from the canals of history, and the concept of music itself will cease. Fleeting hateful thoughts will fade out into nonexistence. Inventions and human glory will die. New religions with new books and new rules will rise and sink back into the dirt, and the people of the future and their cultures will forever remain in a state of change. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

  A quiet epiphany overtakes me as I come to and watch myself stew in this low point. In the silence, I feel the four tires moving under me and blank again. I barely smell the stale cough of the air conditioner. I barely feel the caking layer of mud that saturates me from my feet to just below my lips. I barely know that I’m being dumb by letting this truck take me farther and farther from her. This quiet state of wonder, this beautiful space between pain and redemption consumes me in a bath of enlightenment. I have not been blessed with true consciousness until now. I was plopped into existence only moments ago to find myself inhabiting a teenage girl who is running away with a bad friend. A grand possibility that I never could have dreamt of until now puts my sparks back in me. I look down at myself and around the interior of the vehicle as if I am seeing the world for the first time. Peace dulls my senses. I close my eyes and inhale sharply. Everything is so easy. In this nothing, I am overcome with great emotion- more than I’ve ever felt before.

“I want to go home,” I say quietly, earnestly.

“What a shame.”

“I’m not kidding. I mean it, Kirsten. I want to go home, right now.”

She sighs and puts her other palm on the wheel. “Why the fuck would you want to go back, especially now since we’re so close to what we’ve been moving toward? The answer is no. I am not turning around on a stupid whim.”

“I have to see Beatrice.”

She gives me a quick, incredulous look. “Why do you have to see Beatrice?”

“I need to talk to her. I think I can fix things,” I say, my breath heavy with my thickening resolve.

“She doesn’t like you. She probably never really did. That’s why she ditched you. You need to get the fuck over it. You were the one that begged me to go on this stupid fucking trip anyway.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love before?”

Her face hardens.

“I bet you haven’t. I’ve known you for a while. You can’t even pretend to love anything. You don’t understand anything about it because you’ve never felt it.” Vitriol fires me up and flies out with every word.

“I damn well understand enough to know when it is and isn’t there. You didn’t even know how to talk to her. And all the better too, because when I saw you two together, it was her talking endlessly and ignoring you and you saying nothing at all. She never shuts the fuck up. And you don’t know how the fuck to breathe. And both of you are real piles of shit for it. You’re like the Shit King.”

“The Shit King,” I repeat.

“She made you her bitch. You were her pet that she’d drag around to do illegal shit with. She controlled your every damn move. Sometimes, you’re so pathetic that it makes me cry. Did you love slinging weed at parties with her? You used to flinch whenever I’d mention so much as smoking cigarettes. And then she didn’t ever even have sex with you… because why? It’s especially funny because I remember that she’d open her legs for just about anything freshman year.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” I mouth.

“Do you really want to do all that again?” she taunts, ignoring me. “Live that fake-ass life? Be an accessory?”

“You don’t know one fucking thing about her and me. You never saw us alone. You never read what we wrote for each other. You never felt the way she looked at me. You’re a miserable person to be around. I don’t like being your friend. I only started talking to you because I felt bad for you because you’re horrible and barely have anyone. And would you like to know who inspired me to do that? Beatrice. Fucking Beatrice. I saw how beautiful her fearlessness was and I decided that I needed her and everything else in my life. She’s why I feel comfortable in this world. There’s nothing ‘fake’ about us. It’s not like you’d even know. You can’t get into an actual functioning relationship of any kind to save your life.” I take in a shuddering breath. “Your sister is fucking dead, and you may as well be too at this point. You’re a useless goddamned bastard. You don’t have a reason to live. I do.”

She looks dumbfounded. Her pupils retract into some unreachable asylum. I feel satisfied for the first time in a while. All I know is that I need to do whatever I can to go back to her. I’ll make it all okay again like I did a few months ago. I’ll do it in a thousand different ways with a thousand different letters, each one better than the last.

I gather my thoughts while she dissolves the blow. “I love Beatrice. I don’t love any of this. Take me fucking home,” I say gently.

I suggest that she should pull up a map on her phone so she can find the fastest route. She retrieves it and types in the password. She bites her lip and points to the “no signal” icon with a single shaky finger.

           “Maybe there will be a signal at the top of the hill over there,” I suggest. I try to keep a much softer tone so I don’t hurt her more than I had to.

           Kirsten squints through the trees, or at least pretends to. She nods and turns the truck on, still not looking at me. Sunlight dances on the road as we reach the base of the hill. She pulls off the road and floors the gas, sending us up it. It mainly has medium-length grass as well as a few shrubs. She turns a little to the left after a minute so we don’t fall off. I look behind at the little dots of trees in the forest beyond the jagged edge. The bottoms of my feet writhe.

           Kirsten lamely exits the vehicle, her phone tightly wrapped in her hand. We walk until we reach the very top. I start panting in the unfiltered heat. She squints at her phone and hits the side of it. She lifts it in the air and checks it a few times.

“My data provider never anticipated anything like this.” Her voice sounds weak. More impatient anger billows up inside me.

She reaches her hand higher and higher into the sky.

I groan. “Maybe if-”

A metallic creak reaches our ears. Kirsten drops her phone. Pangs of fear and disbelief stream through the skin of my neck as I watch the truck begin to slowly roll backwards. Kirsten runs out in front of me before I gain the sense to run. The truck picks up speed, rumbling and jumping in the slanted grassy hill. We stop chasing after it once it gets to the edge because it’s no use. The remaining front wheel jolts upwards as it rolls over the lip of the cliff as if it were raising its hand in a desperate “save me” motion. I reach out my own hand as if I could. It falls and claps against my leg in despair.

“Did you put the parking brake on?” I ask.

Her silence answers me.

I gulp in nothing. The wind ripples around my disgusting rag of a dress. We stand for a while in mourning, our bodies turning into wood. My brain slowly processes our situation. I am too dead to be shocked. I am too shocked to be mad. I am merely an observer of the presence of nothing. Chills wrack my body, but I’m too stiff to shiver.

 (this is supposed to be separated with a line but the format is weird)

Kirsten and Lily stand a car’s length apart from each other as they take in the awe of their own destruction. Their faded emotions knock on the doors of their hearts, begging to be let in, begging to be felt, but they do not bend to them. If even one broke in, they would break. They stand stiffly still in the intermittent wind, scared to move, scared to see.

The camera pans up and down slowly like what one might do to capture the image of a world-class playboy model. Blood spurts and streams down from Kirsten’s nostrils to her chin without inhibition. Her busted lip marks her graying face with a pop of color. Her eyes twitch as the picture moves all the way down the length of her yellow tinsel sweater matted with dried dirt. Her scene cuts. Lily’s mouth is agape. The mud that overtakes the front of her body takes center stage as she absentmindedly tries not to let any of it in. Her matted hair moves awkwardly in the wind. Her faded dress recoils harder every second that it has to touch the river’s excrement. The gigantic, gaping burn in the center is a second mouth. Hairy legs peek out from the brown. Just before her scene goes black, the camera zooms in on her arm tattoo.

Deadpan humor permeates the air. It’s all so hilarious in the same way that ironic deaths and terrible jokes that fall flat are hilarious. Everything is funny, and everything has happened. The girls are plagued with dog food branded into their mouths and stained with badly drawn dicks and thoughts of death and strife, but it’s alright. The cold is a form of heat once the nerves go numb. And though it is not yet even noon, the sun sets, leaving them in darkness.

[thiscomickills]

CHAPTER 1 She squirms in the chair, trying to loosen the ropes, tears streaming down her terrified face. I just laugh. “I was a Boy Scout, babe. You’re in a Siberian Hitch-Transom Knot combo.” I turn on my best German accent. “Your resistance is futile.” She sobs harder. “You’re right. The German thing was hacky.” “Are you gonna rape me?” She gasps for a phlegmy breath. “What? Don’t flatter yourself, sweetie. Rape you? Sheesh. You see all this plastic all over the place? You think I cum that much? You’ve never watched Dexter? Rape you. Pfft. Hell no. I’m going to kill you.” I stretch, tear and fix some duct tape over her mouth before she can scream. Fuck. I’m low on duct tape again. “What’s your name again?” I fish her wallet out from her purse. “McKenzie. Of course it is. Fucking Millennial.” I grab the garden shears and squeeze the handles a couple of times for effect. You just can’t beat that metal-on-metal sound.  If you have just the right amount of torque on the springs, you can conjure the sound a sword makes when it’s slowly pulled from its sheath. That metallic ring. Now I can’t get the Game of Thrones theme out of my head. #ADD. She moans through her duct-taped mouth, her curly brown hair matted to her face with tears and sweat. “Now, you know I don’t want to do this. But, I have to. I told you to be good. But you weren’t, were you? I mean, look at this! See?“ I lift my sleeve and show her the claw marks she gave me when the back of her head smacked off the bathroom sink (I may have been holding her throat at the time). “I can’t have the cops find my DNA under your pretty nails, sweetie. And, I’m a comedian - not a surgeon. What that means is I don’t have the skill-set to remove just the nails, so I’m gonna have to take off your fingers.” She convulses, letting out a muted, duct-tape softened screech. I grab her index finger between the blades. “I mean, I could do this after you’re dead, but where’s the fun in that? Now then…Where is pointy, where is pointy?” SNIP! Her finger, once so adept at pointing, comes off cleanly in my gloved hand, spurting blood everywhere. “Here I am! Here I am!” I dance the finger about in front of her scarlet, glassy eyes. She is so fucking loud even with the duct tape. I never get that. It’s like scream-humming. I turn up the music on the motel’s cheap alarm clock.  MakeDamnSure by Taking Back Sunday. Nice. I was seriously thinking about some GOT pay-per-view when I got back to my hotel, but these tunes have my head back in the game. I hold her bloody finger in front of my pursed lips. “Shhh! Hahaha! Come on, McKenzie! I don’t usually do prop comedy, so consider yourself lucky. I mean, I can’t have you ‘finger’ me for this!” She hangs her head in defeat. I hate it when they don’t go down swinging. I almost feel bad for them. Takes the fun right the fuck out of it. McKenzie. This girl’s a joy vampire. Maybe a proper mind fuck will make it interesting again. “Do you want to know why you’re here?” She nods weakly, possibly thinking I’m some storybook villain, stalling with a sad tale that might elongate her life. I’m not. I’m a comedian. All about the short game here. “You sat in the front row of my show. You didn’t laugh once. You fucking Facebooked and Tindered the entire fucking time because the Comedy Caravan in backward-ass Louisville doesn’t take peoples’ damned phones, so some of this is on them, but do you know what that does to me? It makes me insecure. I’m giving myself to you. You’re a fucking stranger. I’m trying to relate. I’m trying to make you happy! To make you laugh! To connect, to reveal some human truths in a funny way, and you’re swiping left, with that little manicured index finger of yours, on pictures of douchebags like you’re some beauty queen who can judge people in a second. Fuck you! Oh,” – as if just noticing her index finger in my hand – “and fuck your little finger too! And on top of that, you sat so close to my stage, I was able to see you left less than a ten percent tip for your server, and that makes you a cunt, and cunts gotta go! Do you understand?” Her whole body trembles. I pretend to feel bad.  Have to keep the acting chops fresh. One can never really give up on that Hollywood career. “Hey, hey…c’mon. Don’t do that,” I say in my softest sympathetic tough guy voice – channeling some daytime soap I must have squirrelled away in my brain at some point. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I, I am. Look, do you feel like you maybe learned a valuable lesson today?” She raises her head, her eyes hopeful. Nods slowly. “If I let you go, do you promise you won’t say anything?” She nods like she’s got epilepsy. “Swear?” She’s a bobble head. “Okay. After all, you did agree to get a drink with me after the show. Fine. I’ll cut you loose. Let me get my scissors.” I look around; make a spectacle of myself (my specialty, if you must know). Lift up the alarm clock. Hmm. Not there. Check my pockets. Take off my left shoe, not in there either. Inside this bible? Zilch. She just hangs her head again, finally realizing that I was fucking with her. “Oh, but…look what I found.” A Louisville Slugger I stashed under the bed. “Not much to do in Ken-fucking-tucky. So, I toured the ol’ bat factory today. It was that or a bourbon tasting, and I had to keep my shit together for the show tonight. Just think. You’ll be one of my Greatest Hits.” I get into my stance. “Here’s the pitch!” I bring it around with everything I’ve got. The wood connects with her temple, and the fat part of that sturdy, all-American bat breaks off a good, satisfying, chunk of skull. “Foul ball!” In My Defense: I haven’t always been a killer. Obviously. I mean, at one point, I was shitting in my diaper, so wielding knives wasn’t exactly a thing I could do. That’s like saying “I don’t know how we lost, the game was so close at one point”. Of course it was, you idiot. Games start out at zero for both teams. Hang on, I need my notebook… Joke about how sports fans say they don’t get it when they lost cause it was so close at one point. Also, get more duct tape. Where was I? Oh yeah. Killing. Just saying it gets me all worked up. It’s like when you see a hot girl laying by the pool at your apartment complex and you have to go watch porn and wax the dolphin so you can focus. Anyway, I don’t think I’m a bad person. I don’t. I’m not. There’s just a monster inside me. And he’s the bad one. Mr. Hyde, my alter ego, my Id, Night Me, Murder Voltron, whatever he/it is, it’s there. I don’t know why, or how it got there, running the front office, but it’s alive and well, and I’ve just about given up trying to keep it down. Yeah, I’m part monster, but I’m also part human, so I have to rationalize all parts of me. I’ve thought about why I am this way. First off, I suffered a preponderance of head injuries at the hands of my older brother when I was a kid who unwisely demanded the top bunk. He’d start laughing at something, I’d hang my head down from the top to see what had him in stitches, he’d grab me by the scruff of my neck, yank me over the edge and I’d land on my head. I was such a sucker. I fell for it every time. Me crying in the kitchen in my PJ’s with an icepack on my forehead was a common sight. Knowing what we know with these suicidal NFL players, my self-diagnosis is that it must have knocked something (or possibly everything) loose. Second, I’m based out of L.A. Everyone there pretends everything’s going great. They always have some project, on the verge of “making it”, but if you ask me, they’re all self-made orphans chasing an impossible dream, leapfrogging from one lily pad of a project to the next, and just one SIG alert away from homicide themselves. But I think the biggest thing that shaped me was the decade I spent in the service industry before I finally started paying the bills with jokes. The service industry does a lot of damage to a person. Outwardly, it makes you subservient: opening doors, serving plates, clearing plates, taking orders, custom tailoring those orders, fulfilling needs, wants, letting people cut in front of you, being patient, smiling, cleaning puke, sending food back cause it wasn’t warm enough, enduring insults, pretending you don’t hear them talking about you and how short you are and you tell yourself that you’re not a duck in a shooting gallery, listening to them chew, and breathe and gulp and belch and pretending you like them; just basically getting psychically butt-fucked by these garbage human consumer strangers because they might give you a tip for eight plus hours a day, five nights a week. To this day, if a guy is washing his hands next to me I’ll hurry to dry my hands first so I can get some paper towels into his wet hands. That is real shit. I hate myself for it. I have conditioned myself to “be in service to”. To be second. To not Receive. That’s what happens to you on the outside. Fuck, I can taste the bile rising right now. I should really try that Kabbalah shit. But the red string. People would know… Inwardly, the industry makes you hate people. Restaurant workers; they’re not the only ones. Anyone dealing with the public in large enough quantities will eventually hate people if they have a brain in their heads. Why do you think cops rough people up, or flat out shoot them? Nurses and doctors abuse their patients? It’s no mystery. The general public sucks out loud. They come in and buy shit. They demand shit- unhappy with this/that; they make you dance like an organ grinder’s monkey. They’re not at work. They’re leisurely drinking. They have better clothes than you. You hear about their job, their vacation in Hawaii, how they’re closing on the second home, can they have some water, you hear the dumb shit guys say to hot girls, and even though it’s so mundane, you watch them leave together, and you’re stuck behind this literal and metaphorical bar, waiting till these people you’ve turned into retarded infants stumble home so you can clean up after all of them, count what little money they deemed you worthy of and go home yourself. All the while knowing some Neanderthal bro bore is balls-deep in some sugar walled beef sleeve. You find yourself secretly wishing you pass a drunk-driving accident on the way home that you hopefully contributed to, so there’s a few less of them. A culling of the cheap zombie-minded assholes who haunt your sleep. I never know if I’m making myself clear. Let me make sure. They are fucking awful gross rude meat skeletons stumbling around naked under their brand names trying to fuck and be fucked, but need to be drunk in order to connect and leave a swath of social destruction in their paths in the process. So, yeah, a decade builds up. I went from being a party-going extrovert to a self-isolating Hobbit (yes, that’s a short joke) forever cursed to quietly traffic in this jaded human taxonomy. I could only tolerate relating to people with the protection of some sort of barrier. First a bar. Now a stage. And I think the last thing you should know about me is that I try to only kill people who really should be killed. I really do. There’s a lot of two-legged colostomy bags out there, and I think the fact that society believes that we’re all supposed to tolerate them is a bigger crime than me taking out the proverbial trash. End of Disclaimer. I’m now buck-naked and rock hard as I wind butcher paper around her plastic-wrapped arms, and pack them into my empty suitcases. The layers of plastic and paper keep the Samsonites from leaking - and they look like cuts from the butcher shop in the X-Ray as long as you cut off at the joints, then in between the limbs. Sectioning each arm and leg into four wings and drumsticks suffices, and you have to split the hands and feet at least in half the long way. If you have the time, cleaving them into three is ideal. You never know if there’s a former hall monitor who’s still a virgin watching those screens. Oh, and I personally like to treat myself after a kill. After all that labor-intensive bone sawing, I save the breasts and ass for the end. It find it super enjoyable to carve ‘steaks’ out of those. I like to play around with them; try to really mimic the cuts I see at the grocery store. Obviously, I start with top rounds, move to sirloin, then to filets, rib eyes and I’m currently perfecting my New York Strip. It’s weird, because I’ve never considered myself artistic. Before I discovered an aptitude for carving human flesh into imitation beef steaks, I’d only really experimented with creating temporary art in a way only I could personally appreciate. I mean that literally. I started doing it when I was young, and I’m a little ashamed to admit I continue to do it to this day. Whenever a man urinates, it creates bubbles in the toilet water, and conversely, that stream in turn bursts those bubbles. I discovered if I whipped my bubble making pee shooter to and fro fast enough, I could use the shitter’s round shape as a globe and form my piss bubbles to create a bubbly map of North and South America. As I got better, I was able to use the rest of my pee stream to cut across the Atlantic and get going on the Iberian Peninsula. As my geographical knowledge and alcohol abuse escalated, I tackled Africa and the Sub Asian region. And, I’ll be even more honest. Once I learned men could do Kegels, I created a regimen and set upon my still-unrealized goal of mastering Southeast Asia. Between natural disasters, political power dynamics and the sheer urethral discipline it requires, I wonder if this endeavor is a folly of my yawning stupidity, or my personal Golden Fleece (intended) I will someday attain. I honestly don’t know. Once you break the seal and let the pee stream out, it’s so hard to squeeze it off to dot the toilet water’s ocean with a Sri Lanka. I do have self-awareness. I fully admit it’s a juvenile, yet fluid art form. Crickets, huh? Sometimes jokes are a numbers game. And there goes the shin. This girl got her calcium for sure. I always travel with empty luggage. Obviously, the Monster needs the space. No, I don’t keep the meaty bones as trophies. I’m not that sick. We’ll get there, just give me a minute. It comes down to the ‘evidence problem’. It’s an easy fix since I’m pretty basic with my fashion choices. The shitty towns we perform in usually have bargain basement stores and Wal-Marts, and it’s just safer to buy twenty dollar jeans and eight dollar shirts that I’m going to throw away anyway after the Monster has his way with me.  If fashion choices dictate fate, it really explains why I’m here. I give the room a quick sweep with a black light on luminol to see if I missed anything.  How do I have luminol? It’s amazing what you can get from drunken LA cops when you tell them you’re a writer working on a crime movie and offer them the promise of a consulting credit and fee when principal photography commences. Her head fucking spurted all over the ceiling. Thank God I lined that with sheeting. I fucking despise this part. The cleaning. Serial Killers get caught cause they’re sloppy, or if they don’t mix it up. You gotta keep it fresh. The MO, the victimology. It’s just like comedy. Look at Ron White. It’s the same set. Every time. “I got thrown out of a bar…” You gotta come up with new material to stay ahead of the game. We’ve all said it when it comes to dating: “So and so’s not my type.” It only proves that people do have a type, and because of that, serial killing and dating have a lot in common. Have you seen Reggie Bush’s girlfriends since Kim Kardashian? Three Words. Single Armenian Female. Scary, right?  The Yorkshire Ripper: always sex workers, always a hammer, knife and screwdriver. John Bunting: gays or pedophiles, always beating, toe crushing and strangulation. Herb Baumeister: gays and drowning. Ted Bundy: bludgeoning, strangling and necrophilia, and he went for cute girls. That one friend you have who only dates Asian chicks. Actually, once, I dated an Asian chick. We’d have sex but I’d be horny twenty minutes later. Hey Now! I could go on, but you get the point. They look for patterns. The key is to not have one. This is why I don’t worry. I’m pretty sure the FBI doesn’t have a profile for a murderer of the “People Who Fucking Suck” demographic. And, I’m not “the Husband” or the “Ex” or the “Co-Worker”.  I’m not “The Quiet Guy Next Door”. I’m a comic who performs on stage. In different cities. Good Christ, I open for Riley Rock, who, if it weren’t for a few movie and TV credits and his own short-lived TV show forever ago he’d be just as invisible as me. Riley Rock is the guy you see at the club and think, “Hey, isn’t that the guy from that show where he works with the dad sometimes?” Fuck him. Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. Cleaning. I wish I was the “Neat Monster” Dexter was, but that’s a work of fiction. I’m way too lazy. My apartment looks like a 10 year old with a job lives there. I have that crippling brand of OCD where everything’s a mess and I have trouble venturing outside. So, I prepare up front. Plastic, plastic, plastic! I can’t stress it enough. Saves so much time at the end. You just saw, wrap and go. This would be the greatest infomercial ever. Saw, Wrap and Go with the new…nah, that’s a shit premise. I work the saw rhythmically above the left knee. Fuck this bitch has some quads. Must be one of those cross-fit cunts. One more reason to have offed her.  My ass crack is sweaty. Keep on a-workin’. Eff you, I’m in the South. Lemme indulge.