#murdock/murderplier

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 5: Submerged

(Disclaimer: one of the characters in this story belongs to me. For more information on Parker, go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys work for, go here.)

(As usual, I got tons of help with developing the main character of this story from the amazing @sammys-magical-au ! Please go check out their blog and stories!)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, implied murder/death, implied drowning, implied violence, water/the ocean, descriptions of illegal business, descriptions of decay, aquatic insects, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 6 Day 7

___

Parker rolled his shoulders, still not quite adjusted to the straps that connected the tank to his back. They were good and secure…which, of course, was code for pinching and scratching against his skin. 

He’d been swimming ever since childhood; he was more than strong enough to free-dive if he chose. (In fact, if that wasn’t the case, then he’d probably have a few more questions about reality than he already did.) 

Even so, personal skill did nothing to change how the reef he was swimming towards—he could never remember its actual name, so he always just called it Ocean’s Nine-And-A-Half—grew about a hundred feet below the waves.

Fortunately enough, that also meant the reef was outside of almost every legal jurisdiction. In a technical sense, at least.

As often as he visited those sea-caves clustered by one side of the local beach, he typically never swam deep enough to need professional gear like this.

Hell, he usually made sure to keep his head above the water…unless he was out on a job and happened to see unfamiliar figures in the dark.

Unless he had to duck under and hide, peering up at the surface and feeling the breath he had to hold writhe around in his lungs until he was sure any potential witness had moved on.

Yeah, the salt stung the eyes like a bitch, so sometimes he’d take a mask on his exploits (kinda funny, considering the carmine-colored facemask he always wore on land)—but then, that was a simple type. One that wasn’t designed with inner mechanisms that whirred and hissed in time with his breathing. 

The stretchy, rubbery material of each flipper clung around his ankles, almost as though they’d been suctioned to his skin. (And that was the reason he was so grateful that a dive like this didn’t technically require an entire wetsuit rather than just his bleach-dyed swim trunks.) 

Parker shook his head, reminding himself to focus on the water. 

The water was cold. Not the freezing type that forced its way into your bones—not to him, at least. To him, it just felt perfectly cool. Maybe just a few degrees cooler than the water inside sensory deprivation chambers.

(Fine, there was a layer of goosebumps prickling along his skin. But he still adjusted quickly, and the collection of colorful tattoos he’d gathered on his arms through the years helped to sort of cover them, so shut up.) 

The water was dark. Not a gaping, pitch-black abyss that most thlasssophobia-havers probably had intrusive thoughts about whenever they went to a public pool—not to him, at least. More like a deep sapphire. Plus, even as the sun was actively setting, plenty of its rays still filtered down through the surface.

The way it swirled all around his arms, his legs, his torso…it almost reminded him of musical notes. The way music could feel almost tangible if you were feeling angry enough to burrow into the sound.

Sometimes the only way to calm down was to wait and listen and play until you could physically feel each of those notes crawling through your brain. 

It took a moment or two for Parker to actually enter Ocean’s Nine-And-A-Half, but that didn’t mean he stopped swimming. He maneuvered himself around an organ pipe coral and kicked off further, careful to avoid scraping against algae-covered rock formations.

Anemones clung to stone at higher angles, their long, vivid green polyps slowly swaying to and fro.

A small octopus with bulging, pale eyes that honestly made it look like a C- Arts & Crafts project clambered along the sand, staring up at him as he passed by.

A pair of mandarin fish fled from the ripples he sent through the water. 

A banded krait slithered out of a crevice, its sinuous body waving like a ribbon as it slowly-but-surely made its way for the surface.

(Parker made a mental note to bring that up with Azalea the next time he saw her. She’d mentioned her work-collection running a bit low on certain snake venoms during The Pentas Family’s latest meeting.)

He’s gotta be somewhere close, he thought. We were just a few miles away from the city’s buoys when we stopped to drop him…

Although, as he turned a corner in the reef, he was caught in a nearly neck-snapping doubletake when he spotted a cluster of small, sock-shaped creatures clinging to a rock on that very corner.

Sea squirts were basic filter-feeding invertebrates; sure, they came in a variety of colors and shapes, but that was pretty much it. 

These ones, however, seemed to be more on the overachieving side.

They each boasted a strange stripe pattern underneath their translucent skin. Aforementioned pattern was white, save for a trio of little black dots on the part where a face might have been. This might not have sounded like much at first, but when you realized how the stripes really did resemble a tiny spine flanked by tiny ribs that raced up toward a tiny skull with tiny sharp teeth. . .

Parker found himself unable to help but pause—without the regulator connected to the oxygen tank, his mouth probably would’ve fallen open.

Despite all the things he’d done in his career so far, somewhere deep inside him was a tiny kernel of something that demanded an occasional dose of whimsy.

And it’d been a hot minute since he'd gotten some whimsy, and there was some fresh whimsy right-fucking-here. 

So, he had to take a moment to circle around these creepy-yet-cute, strangely skeletal-looking sea squirts.

In fact, aforementioned sea squirts ended up being the key to his little conundrum. 

Because on his third time circling then, he caught something else out of the corner of his eye: a very odd shape that sat about ten-or-so feet away. 

…Well, sat wasn’t the right word. Hovered would be more accurate, considering how a thick, sturdy rope was coiled around the end of it, connecting it to a cinder block that was partially sunken into the sand. 

Adrenaline reaching a boiling point, Parker surged toward the shape. Even with the supply of oxygen literally strapped to his face, his heart and lungs felt as though they were crystallizing from the inside-out.

As he grew closer and closer, he realized that the shape didn’t appear dark or blurry due to the water; no, that honor went to all the creatures that were currently pushing and shoving to nip at it. A few dozen schools of tiny fish all gathered around the mass, truly seeming to move as one, their little scales glinting in the dim light. 

Thin, misty veils of something drifted out from between all of them, slowly-but-surely drifting upward, only to fade into the water before they had a chance to reach the surface. 

Of course, once Parker got within potential touching distance, the tiny fish all darted away before he could even blink. Almost like a magic trick. 

A generous amount of crabs stayed, either not noticing their sudden watcher or not caring about his opinions on their dietary choices. They clambered along what was left of the shape’s clothing—even that thick jacket he’d been wearing those three days ago had already been reduced to a pile of shredded rags. 

Parker tilted his head, feeling an unhinged smile etch its way across his features. 

He knew from experience that decomposition typically took longer underwater than it did on land, but there simply wasn’t much left of his latest target. 

His rotting flesh was an awful combination of loose and taut, desperately clinging to the bones underneath. Not a single square-inch of tissue was unmarked by jagged wounds that were oh-so-clearly strange little bitemarks. His mouth hung open as if in a silent scream, revealing that his tongue was gone and probably not coming back anytime soon. 

Both of his cloudy eyes (such a departure from the dark brown shade they’d been before. They’d been so dark that Parker had barely even seen the way his pupils had constricted as he thrashed and howled through the water) still remained in their sockets, but they’d taken on a definite sag.

Even with his disturbing satisfaction, an icy chill dripped down Parker’s spine as he watched a sealouse scuttle up the target’s neck and along his withering jawline before squirming its way through the space between the right eye and its papery-looking lid. 

Just like before, Parker swam a few circles around the corpse. Only this time, his movements were more relaxed, maybe even a bit lazy, calm. A cacophony from the past tapped its rhythm through his eardrums. 

Screams laced with threats and profanities that eventually bled into gagging and wretching and pleading, which themselves had bled into unintelligible gurgles after a few long, hard-fought moments… 

With that, Parker finally looked up and began wading toward the surface. Toward that dark, rectangular shape that gently bobbed against the water, waiting patiently for him (he wasn’t sure the same could be said for its owner, though).

While he didn’t look back down, part of his couldn’t shake the feeling that the corpse was somehow staring after him as he swam further and further away. 

Another part of him hoped that the corpse was watching him, because it would only cement the fact (if Caliban was here, he would’ve gotten a kick out of that) that the dead fucker wasn’t going anywhere. He would have to sit at the bottom of that reef and think about what he’d done, about how he’d fucked around with Parker and his peers one too many times. 

As always, the surface looked like wobbling glass right before Parker’s head broke through it. The cool air practically slapped him in the face, but that didn’t stop him. He paddled his way around to the bow of the houseboat, hissing through clenched teeth as one of his knees collided with the ladder that hung in the water.

Parker hefted himself onto the deck, shrugging off the oxygen tank right after pulling the eye-mask and regulator away from his face. He then sat back on his haunches, leaning against a nearby lower beam. The burning, aching sensation that slithered through him almost made the muscles in his arms and legs seem to be vibrating. 

Even so, it wasn’t a bad kind of ache. That was just how you knew you’d had a good, effective swim-time. 

Footsteps thudded from down the very short corridor that led into the main reason why this structure was called a houseboat. By the time he looked over in their direction, a purple blur came flying over to crash-land directly into his face. Considering how soft, fuzzy, and obviously harmless this blur turned out to be, Parker didn’t immediately fly into a defensive rage. 

Instead, he simply yelped and fumbled with the towel, pulling it down to see Murdock leaning against the nearby threshold with a patented smirk on his face. 

“Well?” The hitman asked, his deep baritone oozing up from his lungs and into the air. “How’s that buddy of ours doing?” 

“Oh, good,” Parker answered, voice dripping with sarcastic humor. “Totally good. He’s made a bunch of new friends down there.” 

He raised the towel over his head, quickly drying his hair; it wasn’t quite as long as Murdock’s, but it seemed an even darker shade of black in the right light. 

Murdock nodded, chuckling. “And do you think there’ll be anything left of him later in the week?”

“Probably. But even if someone comes across him, they won't be able to recognize him. Let alone find any fingerprints.” 

Deciding that his face was now dry enough, Parker pulled himself onto the very bench he’d been leaning against. He pushed the towel aside in favor of rummaging through the duffel bag he’d brought onboard an hour ago. 

Sooner or later, he found his prized facemask, the straps of which soon returned to their place behind his ears, hiding everything below his eyes from the world. 

“Well, alright then!” Murdock proclaimed, the beautiful mixture of orange and pink and violent on the horizon reflecting in his black-tinted shades. “Job’s officially done.”

He shifted in place, making to turn on his heel and head back to the control-room positioned right beside his bedroom…only to pause, his eyes lingering on his fellow contract-killer. 

Parker raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” Murdock offered a coy shrug. “Just thinking about how you’d drowned that idiot in one of the sea caves before you’d dragged him through the water and onto the same spot you’re sitting now.”

Parker snorted, smirking. “That’s what we call efficiency, isn’t it? I couldn’t have just left him to float over by the docks; someone would’ve found him in the next hour.” 

“Oh, I’m not doubting that,” Murdock reassured. Another bout of quiet snickers seeped through his lips as he traipsed down the hall. 

In just a moment, the houseboat’s engine roared to life. 

Parker instinctually held onto one of the nearby support bars, admiring the way the sunlight glimmered against the water. It almost felt like the scene was so pretty because the elements themselves were actively trying to hide what he and his accomplice had done. 

And as the houseboat began to turn in the water, its bow now pointing toward all those glowing buildings that loomed near the Cove Port Inlet’s beach, Parked began humming to himself.

He would be dropped off back home in an hour; he wondered if he’d have enough time to sneak over to the studio and polish up that song he’d been struggling with lately…

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @th3w00ds @flaming-dolph16 @nwtbobsessedemo

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Ayo @sammys-magical-au remember that cute bird post that I said could give off potential Murdock vibes because he's a bird lover in my story-lore?

WELL LOOK AT THIS—

Aww yiss

(via)

[rebar2042]

day job

[moucat-owo]

A murder of crows.

[groven4]

just gonna leave this here-

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

I mean. . . 😂😈

He’d probably say the “erotica” part in a joking/sarcastic way, kinda like how irl Matt would. But yeah, pretty much.

To add to this: you just know Murdock would be laughing his ass off at the sound of that (which would obviously lead to Caliban being very smug, since Murdock typically refuses to laugh at his jokes and puns).

Meanwhile, Sam would just be standing there with a vaguely conflicted look on their face, perhaps wondering, Do I appreciate the dark humor, or do I question my life choices for the millionth time. . ?

horror and erotica are the same thing. flesh and meat and intensity. do you get it.

[seraph-draws-stuff]

What a charming and not dangerous man

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 2: Operation

(Disclaimer: only three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about K.O. here. For more information about Caliban and R.D.—who are only mentioned, but still deserve some credit—go here and here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(There's a little something-something included at the end of this story; a sneak-peek for the events of Day 6 and Day 7. Originally, there were going to be three bonus snippets at the end of three specific stories, all leading up to a separate story as a Halloween Special. But I was on a time-crunch, and plans had to change. Just figured I'd give some extra context.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, disembowelment, knives/blades, descriptions of illegal business, implied violence, implied murder/death, mentions of cannibalism, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7

___

A slick, bubbling sigh crept up into the air as Murdock raked his dagger down the target’s chest. 

The crimson line left in his wake slowly grew wider and wider, oozing out to unveil the remaining layer of muscle tissue that stretched about the sternum. Having that stuff be touched by cool, relatively fresh air for the first (and last) time must’ve been something else. 

The edges of flesh seemed to pucker, almost resembling a frayed seam in clothing. 

Even if he typically didn’t do much harvesting himself, he’d still stuck around to chat and watch one of his many accomplices harvest from plenty of targets in the past. He still knew most of the basics.

Through the years, Murdock and Caliban had bonded over quite a few things—knives being one of them. Sure, the cannibal’s pun-addiction never failed to be infuriating, but he (and, by extension, his sister) was still a damn good colleague to have. 

Someone who was not only a reliable body-disposal resource, but also knew how to make collective millions on the Black Market, as well as help play some thrilling games with the mob’s targets?

That was someone who you’d have to be an absolute dumbass to not want in your corner for this type of business. 

And business was typically good when knives were involved. Yeah-yeah, other weapons had their merits, other weapons were more suited for certain situations, take your pick. 

(OR just finally own up and admit that blades are the best when it comes to dramatics. Not only because they make the work nice and messy, but they also require you to actually practice and learn so you can eviscerate the idiots who decided to talk behind your back with even more skill and flair than the average JoCat-inspired comeback.)

Knives were one of the things to have awoken his passion for mayhem years ago. 

Knives brought blood, and blood brought profit and suggestion and energy…

A soft, strangled groan seeped out through the target’s teeth. Murdock paused, turning his head to peer down at the other man’s eyes. 

It seemed that most of the lights were out—save for one that was still trying to flicker out of pure desperation—but someone was still home. He wouldn’t be for much longer, of course, if the lack of motion and the glaze in his eyes and the unnatural angle of his neck and the space between each shallow, wheezing, barely-audible breath was any indication. 

Murdock chewed his lip before shrugging to himself, returning his focus to the incision. 

It could be hard to apply the right amount of force (since people were infamous for being shockingly durable and shockingly fragile at the same damn time). But then, there was always a plethora of potential buyers wanting organs for a plethora of increasingly specific and increasingly fucked-up reasons. Even the ones with a little damage could still make money.

As Murdock set his blade off to the side and took hold of the sections he’d just sliced, pulling them even further apart and tearing a few strands of formerly internal tissue, he caught a metallic glint out of the corner of his eye. 

There, resting right above where he’d just started cutting, was a tiny pendant crafted in the shape of a butterfly. Squinting at it, Murdock realized that the charm’s bright yellow material looked oddly pure. Moreso than the brass of his own necklace. Not only that, but there was a total of four little gems adorned it, one attached to each wing, all cut in a Marquise style.

…Gold, a voice in his head hissed. GOLD.

The color, the way it shone in the light; there was no way this thing wasn’t genuine! Hell, if his guesstimate was right, then it had to be fourteen karats! Which, in turn, meant even at its size—just big enough to balance on his thumbnail—it would still be worth a little over five-hundred dollars. 

Even more than that if those stones were authentic diamonds and not just Swarvoski…

Sure, when it came to stuff outside a target’s body, a price like that wasn’t much compared to the prices of the stuff inside a target’s body. 

But that was just it: patrons of the Black Market were often there simply because they’d grown bored of normal luxuries (and true luxury never came without the suffering of others, did it?). 

If they weren’t looking for organs or skin or bones, then they’d be looking for trinkets that seemed casual at first, only to come with sinister stories. 

Such as, for example, a little jeweled trophy snatched away from the poor victim of a hitman while they lay dying a slow, painful death. 

Bloodstains could dress up the sale even more, but then, most of those elite customers got all pouty and extra annoying if they couldn’t flaunt what they bought. With that in mind, Murdock decided to put the butterfly charm off to the side until he was done with the harvesting. 

The thin chain snapped like a reed as he pulled, pinching the butterfly’s sides between his index-finger and thumb.

And then, all the jokes Caliban had made about butterfingers were ringing in his ears as the pendant was suddenly airborn…

___

Of all the things K.O. had imagined when he’d first been offered a place in The Pentas Family, petsitting was not one of them.

Not that this was really a problem, mind you—he’d gotten the other things he’d expected and then some. (A better fighting schedule, a much more profitable hidden-in-plain-sight arena, opponents to beat to a pulp, paid assignments on top of the money he raked in each time he won a match…)

Besides, while he was a definite dog-person, he still had a soft spot for animals in general.  

Even the one that might just be attempting sabotage at the moment. 

“I know what you’re trying to do, Snare,” K.O. called, not looking away from the cutting board and the various leafy things he’d been systematically chopping up for the past few minutes. 

Snare’s only response was to keep weaving around the fighter’s ankles, regularly pausing to reach up and paw at his knees. 

A half-smile on his face, K.O. continued, “Look, even if I did end up getting one of my own fingers by accident, I still wouldn’t give it to you. I already gave you one from Cal’s freezer, and the instructions say you can only get two per week. That’s just the rules, and the only time I can really break any rules is when I’m in the ring.”

He paused, thinking. “And even then, I save that for when the other guy decides to fuck around and find out.”

Snare tilted his head, craning his neck to look up at him, his dark amber eyes eerily thoughtful as always. Even if Caliban was the only person who could really read the leucistic hare’s body language, K.O. just knew when he was being judged (whether it was in a playful manner or not).

“...Yeah, I’m not sure why I told you all that, either,” K.O. replied with a shrug. 

Sooner or later, everything was ready. 

K.O. reached over to set the knife down in the sink, then carefully lifted up the cutting board and strode out of the kitchen. Snare followed along, only to bury his nose in his bowl, nibbling at the mix of dark green the fighter dropped off.

K.O. carried on, soon marching up a narrow staircase that stood just across the hall from Caliban’s bedroom. 

This house’s second floor only had two rooms to offer: a tidy guest suite, and a surprisingly spacious office. K.O. entered the latter, setting the board of goodies down on a desk in one corner before surveying the cage that loomed in another. 

Where Snare’s hutch was wide enough to nearly take up half of Caliban’s living room, the enclosure that R.D. had set up for her rats was tall—topping four feet of wire-mesh, the metal framing of its sides hidden by smooth gray wood. Hell, K.O. would put money on this thing being intended for creatures like ferrets or chinchillas…but then, even the smallest animals needed way more space than what they were usually given in the pet stores. 

The cage’s interior was organized into five levels, all connected by little ramps. Judging by the little nametags that were attached to the corners of the tiers (HERBERT on the first tier, SURRIDGE on the second, MOREAU on the third, FORSYTHIA on the fourth, and PHIBES on the fifth at the very top), each one acted as a sort of bedroom for each of the rodents. 

“Hey, guys. I figured you’d like some snacks to start off the week,” K.O. greeted, leaning down and smiling as he peered through the mesh. Through all the bedding and tiny blankets and even tinier toys, several pairs of beady eyes peered back, each with a little pink nose that twitched curiously.

K.O. hovered by the desk, flipping through the notes that had been left for him. Once he got to a page labeled FEEDING, he took a moment to re-read: 

There’s a big bag of nutri-pellets in the cabinet by the cage; just one tablespoon in each bowl is enough per day. (Make sure to refill their water-bottles every morning.) Still, rats are big omnivores, so it’s best to give them a little extra variety 1–3 times per week.

Phibes likes apple slices (PEELED AND WITHOUT THE SEEDS)

Moreau likes thinly-chopped carrots (again, PEELED)

Surridge likes small cuts of pear and mango (if you didn’t already guess that they should be PEELED AND HAVE ANY SEEDS/PITS REMOVED…well, I’m not TOO disappointed, but still. You’re an adult, you should be able to see a pattern by now) 

Forsythia likes kale and spinach, judging by how many times he’s tried to sneak leaves out of Snare’s bowl (I know I was specific before, but please, PLEASE tell me that you won’t try to peel stuff like leaves)

Herbert likes cauliflower and broccoli (look, I’ll be very grateful if you follow my instructions, because that means you care about keeping my little guys healthy and happy…but if you seriously try to peel tiny trees, then I’ll have no choice but to tell Cal to keep an eye on you for a while)

Rats really only need protein on occasion. Too much in one sitting will just make them sick. So, if you think that they deserve a meatier treat, then it has to be something LEAN. There’s a container full of roast chicken in the fridge; these guys all love a thin slice of the breast or skin. (If you really want to go the extra mile, carve the bones out of the wings and break them in half. They’re perfect for gnawing habits, plus the marrow is a great source of vitamins and minerals.)

DO NOT FEED THEM ANY HUMAN FLESH. SNARE CAN ONLY PULL IT OFF BECAUSE HARES ARE NATURAL OPPORTUNISTS; THEY’RE BUILT TO SCAVENGE OFF OF LARGER PREDATORS WHEN THEY NEED TO. YES, WILD RATS CAN HANDLE THAT TYPE OF DIET, BUT THE DOMESTIC ONES JUST CAN’T.

Good luck, and thanks again for taking the time to look after everything! See you soon!

— R.D. & Cal

K.O. snorted; the letter was dripping with sarcasm, but he respected people who were so meticulous with their pets. It just meant that they cared.

Plus, it felt nice that he was trusted to help out with something like this; after all, it wasn’t like Caliban could afford to just drop Snare off at a boarding kennel, considering the hare’s special diet…

Each tier on the rat-cage had its own little door, which made it easier for him to drop off the right snacks into the right bowls. None of the rodents tried to scurry out or climb on this new person's arms, though they did approach to cautiously sniff at his hands. 

(Well, all but Moreau. He just squinted at K.O. with near-palpable suspicion. But then, Moreau only had three limbs—there was a stump where his right hind-leg should’ve been. So, it seemed he had every damn right to be a little withdrawn.)

Before he could try to pet any of them, however, a faraway noise caught his attention…

“...Murdock?” K.O. called, remembering exactly what he’d been up to before all this.

Murdock didn’t call back, either because he hadn’t heard his accomplice or was just intentionally ignoring him. 

K.O. chewed his lip, then closed the rat’s cage back up and headed back down the staircase.

All the while, that noise got somewhat louder and clearer, muffled yet echoing in a way that could only be caused by old concrete walls.

Once he’d returned to the first floor, he couldn’t help but smirk upon recognizing a string of very frustrated, very colorful words set in that familiar baritone. 

___

Blood was a fickle thing. 

On most occasions, Murdock enjoyed that fickleness. 

There were so many different ways that deep crimson juice could seep out of someone just depending on the angle of a laceration. 

Sometimes you had to make it all rush out and splatter all over the walls in a manner of minutes, other times you got a chance to stretch the bleeding out and watch a pool form on the floor, growing wider and deeper and darker. In any case, you never missed out on feeling the weight of your blade as it sank into flesh.

This current occasion, however, was not one of them. 

“Where is it?!” Murdock hissed to himself through clenched teeth, looming over the fresh cavity.

Despite his leather gloves, it was pretty damn obvious that his knuckles were turning white. He gripped the surgical tweezer he’d found in Caliban’s toolcase, jabbing it back-and-forth, side-to-side in the crevices of the target’s intestines. 

Crimson droplets came spraying out, though the stains they left weren't really noticeable, considering the deep shade of currant that colored his favorite turtleneck. On the other hand, the specks that landed on his black-tinted shades stuck out in a very sinister way.

“Where is it, where is it, where in the flying FUCK—”

“Where’s what?” A familiar voice interjected, accompanied by a hollow chorus of footsteps that were growing closer and closer. 

Murdock paused, straightening his back and glancing over his shoulder just in time to see K.O.’s thin-yet-muscular form descending the hidden staircase (or, one of many hidden staircases, to be precise. Almost every one of his peers had a den like this). 

The Pentas Family’s resident illegal-fighting champion wandered over to stand by his side, glancing down at the mess on the block kitchen island that, thanks to Caliban, doubled as a human-disassembly station. 

Murdock heaved a sigh, finally loosening his grasp on the tweezers. It was a bit surprising that he hadn’t broken them just yet.

 “...I found some jewelry on this guy last-minute,” he explained, nodding to the target’s face (which was, interestingly enough, still twitching and twisting in agony. The strangled sobs had multiplied and even gotten a little louder). “I was just taking it off to put in its own jar or whatever for selling later on—”

“But you dropped it and can’t find it now?” K.O. finished, not bothering to hide the mirth that started to flicker in his blue eyes.  

“I know where it is!” Murdock snapped. He then pointed at the target’s guts, speaking quickly before his friend could remind him of the aggravated mantra he’d been spitting out just a few seconds ago, “I saw where it landed! But when I tried to grab it, it somehow slipped again and sank in deeper.”

K.O. sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, brow furrowing with sympathy. He moved to stand on the other side of the island, opposite of Murdock, before squinting down at the body cavity. “Well, what does this jewelry look like?”

“A butterfly. A really small, golden charm with diamonds studded on the wings,” Murdock answered, nearly bumping heads with the fighter as he leaned over again, pushing the tweezers back down into the tangle of bloody, organic tubes. 

“...Huh. So this guy technically has a physical butterfly in his stomach,” K.O. announced, chuckling as he fidgeted with the pockets of his amaranth-dyed jeans. “Cal would’ve loved this.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Murdock warned, trying his damnedest not to imagine all the puns Caliban would use if he’d been present to see the incident at hand.

(Even if he and the cannibal in question had agreed on plenty other examples of taunting terminology from the criminal underground.)

The cage-lights that adorned the tunnels’ old walls every twenty-or-so feet were dim and flickering. But their near-ancient glow still glinted off of blades quite nicely. 

Both Murdock’s dagger and Caliban’s cleaver had seemed to sear through the air as they took turns slashing at their victim, circling around him not unlike a pair of sharks. 

The intruder had collapsed against the old, rusty railing, crying out in pain and probably regretting every choice he’d made that led to sneaking down here.

Murdock tsk-tsked, kneeling down to snatch a handful of the intruder’s hair, forcing him to face him. “Hey, that’s what attempted sabatoge gets you. Especially when you think you can just break into our dens.” 

He’d traced the very tip of his dagger along the intruder’s cheek, drinking up some more fear before he pressed it into skin. He only used enough force to bring out a little bead of dark red; this show of restraint really didn’t mean much, considering the mess of blood and bruises that he and his accomplice had already inflicted on his head, his neck, his arms…

The bead in question soon turned into yet another thin line that ran down the man’s face, eventually merging with the gore that oozed from his busted lip.

“Wait!” Caliban had suddenly exclaimed, moving to kneel by the intruder’s side. “Wait-wait-wait, hold on!”

“The first couple ‘waits’ didn’t tip me off,” Murdock had snarked, though he did pause his movements. “Why? What’s the matter?”

Caliban grabbed hold of the intruder now bloodstained shirt-collar, partially lifting him up. He then gestured to all the fresh cuts marring flesh. “All these wounds are hungry, ‘Doc! Can’t you see that?” The mask of faux-concern slipped, sadistic glee worming its way back into his expression. “We’ve gotta feed them some SALT!”

The intruder squirmed, wretching and gibbering and shaking his head as he tried to escape. But it was no use; pretty much all the air had been knocked right out of him. And even if it hadn’t been, the collective pain from all those bleeding gashes would’ve slowed him down.

“Oh...Oh!” Murdock crowed, nodding as realization came along. He reached over to clap his accomplice on the shoulder. “Good point, Cal! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!” 

Caliban smiled cheekily. “That’s why we have these little collabs, isn’t it?” 

Murdock got to his feet, pacing along the old platform to peer at the intentionally-place graffiti on the walls. “We shouldn’t be too far from your den—” He then stooped back down, trapping one of the intruder’s arms in a vice-like grip. “C’mon, let’s get to it!” 

“Right!” Caliban cackled, taking the intruder’s other arm as he stood. 

With that, the duo had started dragging their victim along to his fate, eager to test out yet another interrogation tactic. 

“You really think you’ll have enough salt for this?” Murdock wondered aloud, glancing back at the struggling mess of a man who decided to fuck around and was now finding out. 

“I mean, I should,” Caliban replied. His brow furrowed as he stared at the floor, probably going through a silent checklist. 

A few seconds later, he simply shrugged, a sharp, toothy grin etching its way across his features as he looked back at Murdock. “But even if I don’t…I did put a gallon-jug of vinegar under the sink just yesterday.”

“Ooh,” Murdock hummed, offering an unhinged smirk of his own. “Yeah, that’d do the trick for sure!”

Caliban nodded. “Plus, it won’t make much of a dent in the skin’s price, as long as I wash it during the harvest…” 

Murdock’s free hand moved to tug at the edges, trying to give the tweezers in his other hand a bit more leeway. Blood pooled up and out due to the pressure. 

K.O., meanwhile, fidgeted in place, watching and thinking. “...Remember, skin goes for ten bucks per square-inch. So, if some sections need to be cut smaller because they’re too stretched—”

“I’M AWARE,” Murdock replied, raising his voice to be heard over the truly sickening (one might even say gut-wrenching) song of squelches caused by all the friction. 

The target made a feeble attempt to raise his voice, but that didn't change the fact that he was well past forming coherent sentences anymore. 

K.O. raised an eyebrow at this, shock beginning to ripple in his eyes.. “Hang on—is he still alive?”

Murdock, taking another quick, angry little break, shrugged. “In a way.”

“But—but I broke his neck not even an hour ago!” K.O. protested, moving to gape at the target’s twisting face. “He fell like a soggy trash-bag! Like a ragdoll! He hasn’t moved at all since before we even got here!”

“Broken necks aren’t always fatal,” Murdock mentioned, digging through the fleshy maze yet again. “Sometimes it just damages the spinal nerves enough to cause paralysis. Maybe you just didn’t twist it enough.”

K.O. hummed at this, surprise warping into morbid fascination. For whatever reason, he didn’t reach around the target’s neck to finish the job just yet. Instead, he went back to glancing in mild, semi-snarky awe at the sheer force of Murdock’s pissed-off snarl and forehead-creases. 

Murdock was too focused to see how the fighter sidled around the island to stand just behind him.

That changed with a quickness as he felt a weight materialize on both of his shoulders. 

“Here, you look stressed—”

“What makes you say THAT?” Murdock growled, refusing to look away from his work. 

“—let me give you a shoulder-rub,” K.O. continued, his tone of voice just singing about the shit-eating grin that was growing on his face. 

“I don’t want one,” Murdock argued, rolling his shoulders with much more force than strictly necessary. “Do not touch me, do not touch me, do not touch me, do nOT TOUCH ME!”

“Alright, alright,” K.O. relented…but only for a few seconds. “I can still help—what if I just put my arms under yours?” 

 “YOU FUCKING GET THOSE OUT FROM UNDER ME!” Murdock snapped, shifting in place to fend off his accomplice's arms before they could brush against his sides. 

K.O. snickered, finally holding his hands up in defeat. He moved into Murdock's field of view again, coming to stand by the target’s head. 

For the next moment or two, there was somewhat blissful silence. 

“What if you just left it like this?” K.O. piped up again. “It might give some extra edge to the sale. Kinda like one of those raffle games.”

“Raffle games?” Murdock echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah! Y’know, the whole ‘Guess How Many Beads Are In This Jar! The closest number gets a price!’ thing.”  K.O. spread his hands in a lame gesture. “Maybe you could squish these intestines into a jar with the butterfly still inside, then just tell potential buyers about it! No way there won’t be at least one person desperate enough for gold that they’ll dig through cold guts.”

Although that idea did sound pretty funny, Murdock still shook his head, snorting. “The average set of intestines are about sixteen feet long when they’re stretched out. Good luck finding a jar big enough to hold all that and keep it sealed without cracking.”

With another forceful sigh, Murdock threw the tweezers down. He took a second to tug at his gloves, then flexed his fingers…and plunged his hands into the target’s intestines. 

Full. 

Submersion.

While he didn’t gag or retch or react in the way any normal person would, Murdock still couldn’t help but cringe a little. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually handled entrails like this—he’d forgotten just how thick and dense they were. 

The hitman set his jaw and kept at it, glaring at nothing in particular as his fingers became lost in the maze of gore. Even with his gloves on, he’d still be able to feel the sharp, carefully-sculpted edges of that stupid godddamn butterfly charm…once his hands actually came across it, that is. 

More wheezing, unintelligible sobs came leaking out through the target’s teeth. 

“Calm, cool, collected…” K.O. taunted, drumming his fingers on the target’s forehead. “…I’m gonna frame you for tax-fraud…”

Murdock didn’t pause, didn’t look over at the fighter…but he just could stop himself from sputtering a small, low, flabbergasted chuckle at such a random comment. 

He didn’t see the way K.O.’s lips curled into a tiny, genuine smile. 

Whether or not the target was still in the headspace to be worrying about a threat to his taxes (or the current state of his organs), he still kept on wailing, kept on choking.

Kept on being an annoyance. (A much more macabre annoyance than average, but an annoyance all the same.) 

“This FUCKING GUY won’t shut THE FUCK UP,” Murdock seethed.

He finally looked back up from his work, locking eyes with K.O. as he used one very messy hand to toss his thumb over his shoulder. “Get a towel—get some paper-towels, get some water. We’re gonna FUCKING waterboard this guy.”

Now it was K.O.’s turn to sputter with disbelieving giggles. But he certainly didn’t hesitate. He raced over to the utility sink in the corner, returning seconds later with a wad of dripping paper-towels. 

“Next time you TALK—” K.O. started to warn…only for the target to let out another choked scream. The fighter pursed his lips and slammed the soaked towels down onto the target’s face.

…It actually ended up muffling the ensuing cries even more than expected. 

And that got a genuine belly-laugh out of Murdock. Maybe not enough to stave off an impending migraine, but something was better than nothing. 

“You’ll be sleeping with the fishes!” K.O. chortled, pressing his handed on top of the mess to keep everything in place. “You’ll be sleeping with the goddamn FISHES!”

More time passed by; now that all those distracting screams had been taken down a notch, things seemed to move a bit faster.

The metallic stench of still-warm blood hung heavy around the duo. Had the air been any hotter down here, it might’ve grown thick enough for them to almost taste the plasma as they breathed

“Let’s be honest here,” K.O. said, shifting in place and lifting his hands away from the target’s face (somehow, the paper-towel-gag didn’t slide off to plop down on the floor). “Can you actually get that butterfly out?” 

 “I am so close—I just felt it, I almost had it out, but it just clipped the edge of the—” Murdock took a deep breath, turning his head to crack his neck a few times, relieving some of the tension that had gathered there. “I swear to God, I can get this!”

“Alright, alright! If that’s the case, then it might not be as deep as it was before!” K.O. moved closer, leaning down toward the cavity. He reached over to pluck up the tweezers, then started gingerly probing at the entrails. 

Murdock’s own hands pulled back, soon coming to rest on his temples in a noble attempt to keep his brain from eroding through his skull. He barely even noticed how the blood smeared against his skin.

A hollow, aggravated, exhausted groan poured out of his lungs. For a few seconds, he simply took a turn to watch. 

Evidently, the powder-keg of K.O.’s patience had an even shorter fuse than Murdock’s. 

In one swift, fluid movement, he tossed the tweezers away, one hand curling in a fist that plummeted against the surface of the guts with a wet, smacking thump! 

And then…THEN…

Time seemed to slow down. 

Whatever primordial entity that potentially ruled over this cruel universe finally decided to say, “Why not?” 

Because as the intestines quivered from the strike, a tiny, glinting projectile suddenly erupted out from the very center of the mess, arching in the air before landing just a few inches away from the cavity with an anticlimactic plink!

The two mobsters both froze in place, their mouths dropping in near-perfect unison. 

The next moment almost felt like a whole hour as they stared down at the golden, diamond-encrusted, butterfly-shaped trophy. 

K.O. was the first to break the stunned silence, throwing his head back and practically screaming with laughter. Murdock followed suite, his own guffaw starting out with a wheeze that built up in volume over the course of a few seconds. 

“Did you see that?!” Murdock just barely managed to ask, still wracked with breathless cackles. 

“How did that just happen?!” K.O. asked, getting a rare pass for answering a question with another question.

___

[You actually read this far? Wow, that’s dedication! And as a thank you…here’s a little hint at what’s to come, featuring a couple more fanmade characters: my second-ever CrankEgo, and my first ever SepticEgo! To learn more about them, go here. I just feel like the ever-obscure EldritchPlier needs another rival besides my own LeviathanPat. And why shouldn’t that new rival come with his own semi-cultist companion like Cruz?]

The Oozing Crown hadn’t even been closed for a minute. 

Outside, the electric sign at the top of the building hadn’t even been turned off yet. 

It still glowed with an eerie light that somehow still managed to be welcoming. Its neon wires all worked together to portray a grinning, emerald-green skull with hot-pink liquid fountaining out of a jagged hole in its parietal. 

One Moses Norbert had just barely finished cleaning the main floor, securing the rows upon rows of bottles behind the counter. Just as he reached to lock up the shelves for the night, a very distorted, very familiar voice came pouring into his mind like molten lead.

“𝗕⃥𝘖̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘝̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸ 𝘊̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘐̸𝗫⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘈̸𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗦⃥𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘠̸.⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗡⃥𝘈̸ 𝘉̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘕̸𝗜⃥𝘎̸𝗛⃥𝘛̸.⃥”

All the time Moses had spent running the surface-level of this business granted him the power to find the coveted bottle of Suntory Toki just by muscle-memory. He moved into the kitchen, grabbing a can of Coca-Cola Vanilla from the fridge before setting a pan atop the stove.

 “Oh, yeah? Praytell why? Cosmic seasonal depression beyond my comprehension?” Moses asked, chuckling to try and hide the way he stiffened. 

It wasn’t at all uncommon for the creature he’d learned to call Septic to ask for some special drinks once the brewery-and-distillery-combo was devoid of all mortal witnesses. 

Hell, jokes connecting his drinking habits to the fact that his otherworldly tone was somehow laced with an honest-to-God Irish accent had been a big part of his and Moses’ bonding in the past. 

But this was…different. 

It wasn’t like Moses was a stranger to adding all sorts of distinctly un-kosher things to soda or alcohol by now, but being asked to boil beverages was never the best omen.

“𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗟⃥𝘐̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥,” Septic snickered, though his pitch was still obviously weighed down by something else. “𝗡⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥.̸ 𝘛̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗟⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘛̸ 𝘐̸𝗦⃥.̸”

Despite the fact that no-one was actually around to see his expression, Moses raised an incredulous eyebrow (besides, he knew Septic could see far, far beyond the barriers around them).

“October,” he answered. 

“𝗬⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥.̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸ 𝘞̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘚̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸?⃥”

“…Halloween,” Moses continued, occasionally stirring the soda as it started to heat up and bubble.

“𝗖⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗠⃥𝘜̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗢⃥.” A chorus of almost porcelain clicks echoed through Moses’ head; Septic must have been gnashing his multitude of sharp, jagged teeth together in contemplation. “𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗗⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗖⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗞⃥𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘏̸𝗢⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥𝘖̸ 𝘔̸𝗨⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘐̸𝗥⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗥⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸-⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗦⃥𝘐̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸𝗦⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗘⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗬⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘖̸ 𝘉̸𝗬⃥.̸.⃥.̸”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Moses agreed, his brow furrowing at memories of stupid Karens who had ruined one night of trick-or-treating too many when he’d still been just a little kid.

The cola had reached a rolling boil by now, so he turned the burner off and fetched a glass from one of the cabinets. After pouring a little more than a shot’s worth of the whiskey, he carefully upended the steaming pan over it. 

And as the concoction practically mixed itself together, realization came in. “…Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“𝗜⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸,⃥ 𝗔⃥𝘔̸ 𝘐̸?⃥” Septic snorted, an eye-roll evident in his pitch.

Moses crossed the kitchen, rooting through the storage closet tucked into one corner. It took little time for him to find a wooden chest stashed on the highest shelf, well out of view to any strangers who might’ve come in here for whatever reason. He opened it up, fishing out the mask he’d been given years ago, as part of the pact he’d made when he was first brought to the apartment on top of the brewery’s roof. 

The mask was an amalgamation of leather and metal. It almost resembled one of those typical, vintage gas masks…that is, if those pieces of old-fashioned gear were designed with six spindly copper blades attached to the base of the mouth-guard by a set of rivets. It resembled the mandibles of some kind of hellish, overgrown insect. 

And that wasn’t mentioning the mask’s eyes. Yes, it had a primary pair for the wearer to actually, y’know, see through. But it had many, many more, all scattered about the top, having apparently been welded onto the mask’s dome. Right now they were a deep, rich shade of cobalt, though they would sometimes change color depending on what type of ritual he participated in. 

Even though he’d signed a (relatively) mutually-beneficial contract years ago, Moses was still somewhat at risk. 

Trees emitted oxygen, outer abominations emitted surreal terror that could physically manifest in a number of nasty ways. 

(And that included the whole “names have power” schtick. The last part of Septic’s name was the only part that could be spoken by a mortal without causing their vocal cords to explode into tiny, sinewy pillars of thorns from the inside-out. Despite all the adjustment Moses had gone through, the last time he’d dared try to say Septic’s full title, he’d ended up crying bloody slugs for the rest of the night.)

(...Plus, having a special mask for stuff like this gave way for the perfect excuse to make jokes about using protection during rituals. Oh sure, you could say that you wouldn’t jump at an opportunity like that if you found yourself working with a sentient crime against nature…but then your mother would’ve raised a fucking liar.)

Pulling the mask over his head, Moses stepped out of the storage closet and knelt down in the center of the kitchen; the cellar door was well-camoflauged, topped off with a slab of the same material as the floor in here, but he knew how to find the right edges. 

Like some kind of weird, reverse murphy-bed, the door glided up and open, revealing a short steel stair-unit.

With that, Moses grabbed the freshly-brewed beverage and headed down. 

As usual, the basement was dark, but the mask helped Moses’ eyes to adjust quickly. It was also much, much bigger than the brewery’s main floor; his footsteps reverberated as he paced along an industrial catwalk that overlooked all the machinery down here. But then, most of that stuff was attached to the walls, not taking up too much space. 

No, what really needed accommodation were the tanks—a group of seven, to be exact. Six were positioned by the sides, split into two groups of three. They were each about eight feet tall, each painstakingly crafted from silvery metal, each able to brew or distill about a hundred barrels’ worth of product. 

And yet, none of them could really compare to the seventh tank.

It stood before the rest at the very head of the room, looming at fourteen feet. It boasted a shiny copper material…though, you couldn’t really tell whenever Septic was active.

As Moses descended yet another metallic staircase and approached, a bright glow sparked to life inside the seventh tank, casting the room in a dark-yet-vibrant shade of green that silently screamed with toxicity. 

Moses’ shadow stretched along the floor behind him as halted just a few feet away from the radioactive-looking vessel. The source of that glow rose up, floating in the center and not even having to wade closer to rest his hands—or, more precisely, his clutches of talons—against the tank’s foremost inner wall. 

Even though Septic’s outline was blurry, it was still easy to see the several eyes scattered about his torso in arms. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, all glowing and rolling around in their misplaced sockets. A mane of long, dark hair twisted through the liquid, the movement looking similar to trapped, spasming eels.

The tank’s hatch (which nearly scraped against the ceiling) popped open with a pressurized hsssssss. Clouds of discolored steam billowed into the air, along with a smell that was reminiscent of geyser pits…that is, if the natural sulfur came with a trace of sweetness that could only ever be produced by rotting flesh. 

Moses held the glass forward, prompting Septic to reach up. One of his arms gave off a chorus of pops and cracks as it protruded from the hatch, stretching far too long far too quickly.

The bones in his translucent skin shuddered and warped, his translucent skin glistening. Droplets slid off, smoking as they met their end against the concrete floor.

Then, just a millisecond after his claws wrapped around the glass, the limb retracted back into the tank with an echoing splash!

Septic’s outline craned his neck to greedy gulp down the casual elixir. Once the glass was drained, he opened wide, causing the strands of torn flesh along his cheeks to stretch even further.

The liquid inside the tank did nothing to muffle the cacophony of crunching and shattering that would’ve made much more sense echoing up from the depth of a malfunctioning garbage disposal.  

Septic then let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. “𝗔⃥𝘏̸,⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗪⃥𝘕̸ 𝘚̸𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗛⃥.̸ 𝘊̸𝗔⃥𝘓̸𝗠⃥𝘚̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥.̸” He nodded in Moses’ direction, pupil dilating in the eye on the center of his chest. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘚̸.⃥”

“No problem,” Moses replied, nodding back. He started rocking back and forth on his heels. “So, what’s this Halloween ritual about? If you’re already taking the atrocity-equivelent of blood-pressure medicine, then it’s gotta do with something bigger than the usual stuff.” 

Despite his new anxiety, Moses couldn’t help but snicker to himself. The usual stuff he’d just mentioned involved harvesting souls and emotions from the people he could get away with knocking out and dragging down here to meet a very gruesome fate inside any one of the tanks.

(And he didn’t even really have to clean them out afterwards! Thanks to Septic’s power, the mess pretty much always just dissolved out of existence once the task was complete! How lucky was that?!)

“𝗜⃥𝘛̸'⃥𝘚̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ ��⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗟⃥𝘍̸,⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥.̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥'̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘞̸𝗘⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘓̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸ 𝘐̸𝗧⃥.”  Septic clicked an elastic, forked tongue. He slowly spun around in the tank, almost like the stuff inside lava lamps. 

Moses tilted his head to the side, curiosity worming its way into his head. “Wait…this’ll call for more people than just us? For guys like…like you?”

Septic nodded; despite his obvious apprehension, he still bared his fangs in a grin at the inquinsitiveness. “𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗟⃥𝘓̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘖̸𝗕⃥𝘈̸𝗕⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥ 𝗛⃥𝘈̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘈̸𝗞⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸ 𝘍̸𝗘⃥𝘞̸ 𝘗̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗣⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘙̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘔̸𝗔⃥𝘚̸𝗞⃥.̸ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥'̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘠̸ 𝘛̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗙⃥,̸ 𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗜⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘛̸ 𝘋̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗟⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥,̸ 𝘠̸𝗢⃥𝘜̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥𝘛̸𝗬⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘈̸𝗙⃥𝘌̸ 𝘍̸𝗢⃥𝘙̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘔̸𝗢⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗣⃥𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘛̸.”

Moses hummed at this. Yeah, there was still a lot of foreboding that came with the statement…but already had bragging rights for working with a cosmic horror! And soon he’d get to work with even more?! 

There was no way anyone else’s upcoming Halloween plans could compare to his. No. Fucking. Way.

“𝗗⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥'̸𝗧⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗖⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥,” Septic warned, having clearly both seen and felt the rising adrenaline. “𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗘⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘜̸𝗬⃥𝘚̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸ 𝘚̸𝗢⃥𝘔̸𝗘⃥ 𝗢⃥𝘍̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘗̸𝗘⃥𝘛̸𝗧⃥𝘐̸𝗘⃥𝘚̸𝗧⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗡⃥𝘚̸ 𝘖̸𝗙⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥𝘊̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸𝗦⃥ 𝗜⃥'̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗩⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥.”

“...How the hell can I not get excited at a concept like that?!” Moses asked. “If human drama manages to be so weirdly entertaining, then eldritch drama must be even wilder!”

“𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗔⃥𝘊̸𝗧⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,” Septic agreed with a sardonic chuckle. “𝗟⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘒̸,⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗞⃥𝘕̸𝗢⃥𝘞̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗛⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘓̸𝗗⃥ 𝗘⃥𝘟̸𝗣⃥𝘓̸𝗔⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥ 𝗔⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘐̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥𝘌̸,⃥ 𝗕⃥𝘜̸𝗧⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘛̸𝗢⃥ 𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗧⃥ 𝗠⃥𝘖̸𝗩⃥𝘐̸𝗡⃥𝘎̸ 𝘐̸𝗙⃥ 𝗜⃥ 𝗪⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗛⃥𝘌̸ 𝘈̸𝗥⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥𝘌̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘛̸𝗦⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘎̸𝗢⃥ 𝗥⃥𝘐̸𝗚⃥𝘏̸𝗧⃥.̸” 

He paused, diving down for a few seconds before floating closer to the top of the tank. “.⃥.̸.⃥𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘋̸,⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘙̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗞⃥𝘓̸𝗬⃥,̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘏̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘗̸𝗟⃥𝘈̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸ 𝘈̸𝗡⃥𝘠̸𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘕̸𝗚⃥ 𝗜⃥𝘍̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘋̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸'⃥𝘛̸ 𝘞̸𝗔⃥𝘕̸𝗧⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸.⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘕̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗗⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘖̸ 𝘒̸𝗘⃥𝘌̸𝗣⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥𝘙̸ 𝘏̸𝗘⃥𝘈̸𝗗⃥ 𝗨⃥𝘗̸.” 

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Moses chuckled. He then glanced at the catwalk over his shoulder. “How long will you be gone?” 

Where some monsters were bound to follow rules that kept them out of places, Septic was restricted to being kept in a place. Ever since he’d had that chance-meeting with Moses, however, he’d had a counter to that pesky binding.

Granted, he could only stay out of his tank for a short time before being dragged back by whatever force was in there underneath him, but he wasn’t one to look a gift morbid-fascination-prone-human in the mouth. 

“𝗝⃥𝘜̸𝗦⃥𝘛̸ 𝘛̸𝗪⃥𝘖̸ 𝘋̸𝗔⃥𝘠̸𝗦⃥.̸ 𝘐̸ 𝘚̸𝗔⃥𝘝̸𝗘⃥𝘋̸ 𝘜̸𝗣⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗠⃥𝘌̸ 𝘌̸𝗫⃥𝘛̸𝗥⃥𝘈̸ 𝘌̸𝗡⃥𝘌̸𝗥⃥𝘎̸𝗬⃥ 𝗙⃥𝘖̸𝗥⃥ 𝗧⃥𝘏̸𝗜⃥𝘚̸.”

“Gotcha. Well…good luck with that, I guess.” Moses moved closer, soon climbing on the stepladder that was pretty much always propped up against Septic’s tank.

He held the hatch’s brass handle in a vice-like grip, knuckles very quickly turning white. He ever-so-slightly leaned to the side, bracing himself. “Ready when you are!”

The green light grew more vibrant, more poisonous.  

The tank began to rattle, to groan, to shudder in place. The unearthly liquid inside gurgled and churned as Septic’s form all but flooded out. 

Moses’ instincts screamed at him to lower his head and wrench his eyes shut…but everything was over before he even could. 

The glow had vanished, leaving the basement full of shadows, safe for the light that trickled down from the kitchen through that door-in-the-floor. 

The air was clear. 

Septic was gone…though, his voice was stubborn enough to stay for a few more seconds. “𝗦⃥𝘌̸𝗘⃥ 𝗬⃥𝘖̸𝗨⃥ 𝗦⃥𝘖̸𝗢⃥𝘕̸!⃥”

“Likewise!” Moses called back. As he slid down the ladder and started making his way back toward the kitchen, he added, “…And bring me back a toy!”

[To be continued on Day 6...]

___

@sammys-magical-au

[endersketch]

POV you do 4 different icons at 4 different times of the same man.

Thank you @falcatrecon for commissioning me icons for their boys! Im actively making out with google.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

To be honest, I was imagining Cal using the meme as an excuse to pester Sam even more than he already does whenever they cross paths, but perhaps that'd be too expected.

Your idea is dripping with irony and I love it 😂😂😂

In fact. . .

___

Caliban's Experience with Cannibalism Day

[Scene: Caliban's house, specifically the main/normal kitchen. It's early in the morning, and R.D. is already up making herself breakfast. After a few minutes, Caliban enters, dressed and ready for the day.]

Caliban: Good morning!

R.D.: Oh. . ! Morning, Cal. Didn't expect to see you here so soon.

Caliban: *pauses as he looks through the refrigerator* . . .You didn't expect to see me in my own kitchen? In the house that we've been living together in for years now? *chuckles* How well have you been sleeping lately?

R.D.: *rolling her eyes* I just assumed you'd go to your den-kitchen first. Y'know, to get some "bacon or sausages" for your breakfast.

Caliban: *shrugs* Can't blame you for that. But no, one of my feeding days was just yesterday. I'm all good for now.

R.D.: *hums* Sure. I just figured you'd specifically make today one of them.

Caliban: Why?

R.D.: Because it's Cannibalism Day.

Caliban: *freezes in place, blinking for a few long seconds* I'm sorry, w h a t ?

R.D.: Today is Cannibalism Day. Didn't you hear me? *smirks* Have you been getting enough sleep?

Caliban: *starts shaking his head, laughing a little* Ah, so my humor is finally rubbing off on you. Good to know!

R.D.: Who said I was joking?

Caliban: I did, because A. today is literally Cinco de Mayo, and B. there's no way a holiday called "Cannibalism Day" would ever fly anywhere. Emphasis on the Cannibalism part.

R.D.: *shakes her head* It's not impossible for two holidays to fall on the same day. *pulls out her phone and taps at the screen, then shows it to Caliban. Sure enough, the very meme at the top of this post is there*

Caliban: . . .Well, if there was ever an age to celebrate memes, it's the one we're living in.

R.D.: Precisely. And you're the only cannibal I know, so. . .Happy Cannibalism Day, I guess.

Caliban: *chuckles, shaking his head* Thanks for the well wishes. *reaches out to pull R.D. into a hug*

R.D.: *reciprocates the hug, smiling* No problem.

___

[Scene: the abandoned subway tunnels that connect all of The Pentas Family's platform-office-dens. It's about noon now, and Caliban is currently walking and chatting with Murdock]

Caliban: Have any changes been made to today's schedule? Should I tag along for that job you'll be heading to later?

Murdock: *shakes his head* Nope. As far as I know, the others are all making progress with their own assignments. I've been watching this particular target for a couple months now; no matter what happens, I'll still end up having him right where I want him.

Caliban: *nods* Alright, then. So, I guess that just leaves me to bounce between you all? To make sure things are running smoothly?

Murdock: That's what it looks like. For now, at least. I'm sure you'll find a way to get back at us eventually.

Caliban: *raises an eyebrow* Get back at you guys for what, exactly?

Murdock: *raises an eyebrow right back at Caliban* For leaving you out of the fun. I can't even deliver tonight's target to you because the job requires poison; I'm literally on my way to pick said poison up from Aza right now.

Murdock: *starts waving his hands in over-exaggerated gestures, making even more over-exaggerated expressions as he goes* You'll probably want to have the next target while they're still alive, right? Because the amount of planning and work that'll take on both our parts might make up for the slight you've faced today?

Caliban: . . .I mean, don't get me wrong, that does sound appealing. *grins* Sounds like a meal to die for, even.

Murdock: *groans, facepalming and shaking his head*

Caliban: But why do you assume today's a slight for me? What do you take me for? Some twisted, bloody version of Tinkerbell? I can live without playing a part in everything for once.

Murdock: Today's Cannibalism Day, isn't it? *checks his phone before Caliban can respond* Yeah, it is. I thought out of all days for you to want to cook up some huge, elaborate scheme, this would be it.

Caliban: . . .Okay, I know I should be questioning you about that meme, because there's no way in Hell you actually thought I already knew about that. But I think I might just look past that because yOU MADE A PUN FOR ME!!!

Murdock: *freezes; his face shifts through shock and disappointment. He groans again* Ohhh, shit—

[The two of them are near the entrance to K.O.'s den. Just as they're about to pass the platform by, the door opens, and K.O. walks out. He's initially looking at his phone, but glances up just in time to see Murdock and Caliban.]

K.O.: *does a double-take* Oh—oh, hey Cal! Speak of the devil, huh? I was just about to text you!

Caliban: *nods to K.O.* Text me about what? Did something happen with the fights you'll be having tonight?

K.O.: *shakes his head* No, everything's still in place. I just wanted to let you know that The Boss gave me permission to have a death match! And it's way overdue, honestly. The upcoming opponent is a HUGE asshole. Do you want to come get the body yourself once I'm done, or should I take it to your den myself?

Caliban: *blinks; he's grateful and a little confused at the same time* Uh. . .well, either one of those options will work for me, but I guess it'll depend on the time. Thanks! What a lucky coincidence, right?

K.O.: *chuckles* I really don't think there's anything coincidental about it. It's Cannibalism Day, so, we've gotta act accordingly. But yeah, you're welcome!

[K.O. jogs off down the tunnel before Caliban can say anything else. After a few seconds, Caliban and Murdock resume walking.]

Caliban: *side-eyes Murdock* . . .Alright, what's the game here? Did R.D. put you guys up to this?

Murdock: *holds his hands up in a lame gesture* Why the suspicion? Everyone who's anyone knows about Cannibalism Day.

Caliban: *sputters* Well, I didn't!

Murdock: I find that hard to believe. Maybe you just forgot about it this year? We've been pretty busy for the past few months, so I guess I can't blame you if that's the case.

Caliban: Wha—no, I didn't forget about anything! You know why? Because I've never celebrated "Cannibalism Day" because it's just a meme I was only made aware of this morning!

Murdock: *rolls his eyes* Okay, calm down.

Caliban: I AM PERFECTLY CALM!

[The entrance to Azalea's den is further up ahead in the tunnel. Much like K.O., Azalea happens to poke her head out of the door just as Murdock and Caliban are approaching. Azalea quickly picks up on the argument]

Azalea: *clears her throat* Murdock, do you really have to antagonize my brother on today of all days?

Murdock: *points an accusing finger at Caliban* Hey, he started it!

Azalea: *hums sarcastically* A likely story. *Smiles as she turns her attention to Caliban* How are things going? I know you'll probably do your celebrating later tonight, but have you been enjoying yourself so far?

Caliban: *purses his lips; he's still frustrated and confused, but he always tries to stay calm around Azalea* . . .Yeah, I guess so. Can't really complain.

Azalea: *nods* That's great! Okay, so, I've got things to do with Murdock, and I know you'll have to be on the move for most of the day. But before you go, and before I forget—

Azalea: *reaches into one of the pockets in her waist-apron and pulls out a book. Specifically the novel, They Ate The Waitress? by D.N. Schmidt. She holds it out to Caliban* I know this isn't much, but I saw it at a cafe while I was out on last month's job. And, well, I have a feeling that you'll really enjoy it.

[Author's Note: Yes, I'm referencing a real, legit novel, and yes, it would absolutely be right up Caliban's alley. Look it up and you'll see what I mean]

Caliban: *carefully takes the book into his hands, smiling as he examines the cover* That's really thoughtful, Aza. I appreciate it.

Azalea: Of course! Today is basically a second birthday for you, isn't it? *laughs, holding the door open and gesturing for Murdock to come in* Oh, one more thing: I was talking with Johnny and Garret, and it looks like neither of them will have any bodies for you today. But Johnny said he's gonna drop a bottle of Sangiovese off at your place sometime. It's not Chianti or Aramone, but he says it tastes just as good!

Caliban: *nods, taking a subtle deep breath* . . .I guess I'll be owing him a favor for that.

[Murdock and Azalea disappear into Azalea's den. Caliban is left standing on the platform, blinking as he slides the book into one of his jacket's interior pockets.]

[Footsteps echo from somewhere even further up the tunnel. A silhouette in the shadows approaches Caliban, but it only takes a few seconds for him to realize that it's just Parker, who is half-carrying-half-dragging a very full bodybag.]

Parker: *stops short as he notices Caliban* . . .Well, damn it. There goes my surprise.

Caliban: *squints at Parker and the bodybag in turn* What surprise?

Parker: *chuckles* That was the whole point. *sighs and shrugs as he nods to the bodybag* Happy Cannibalism Day, Cal. It's last minute, but I figured you'd like it. And you'd better like it, since I had to pull so many strings to not have to drown this guy in saltwater or a chlorine pool.

Caliban: *numbly nods as he begins walking alongside Parker, slowly but surely escorting him and the body to his den*

Parker: *instantly notices Caliban's demeanor* What? What's that face? Where's the usual barrage of puns?

Caliban: I'm not sure I can afford to elaborate right now. . .

___

[Scene: it's much later in the evening. Caliban is now present at the aftermath of one of his peer's hit-jobs. He and one Sam Ryder (who's been dragged into Pentas shenanigans for the umpteenth time now) are helping the cleanup crew]

Sam: Soooo, how's Cannibalism Day been going for—

Caliban: *does a neck-snapping double-take and points at Sam* NO.

Sam: *takes a step back, holding their hands up in a defensive gesture* Hey, there's no need to bite my head off over a simple question.

Caliban: *eyes twitch; a smile tries to creep onto his face, but he's frustrated enough to squash it down* DON'T TRY THAT. DISTRACTING ME WITH PUNS MAY WORK A QUARTER OF THE TIME, BUT TONIGHT IS NOT PART OF THAT QUARTER, YOU HEAR ME?!

Sam: Dude, chill out! Did something happen earlier? I thought you'd be all excited and smug and taunting about a meme-holiday like this.

Caliban: You'd THINK that, wouldn't you? Well, if I'd actually known about this just a few days earlier, then I would be! I'd be ecstatic! But I can't be today, because it feels like everyone I know is in on something that I somehow never even thought of myself!

Caliban: Do you know how that feels?! To have something that should be so obvious and special hidden right under your nose until the very last minute?! It gives off some actual psychic damage! PSYCHIC. DAMAGE.

Sam: . . .

Caliban: AND ANOTHER THING! Just imagine if I'd had to spend a lot of time in PUBLIC today! If all the members of the family know about this meme, if even you know about this meme, then what's to say everyone in the Inlets doesn't know about it, too?! Can you IMAGINE how nerve-wracking that would be? What are the ODDS that someone could get a wild theory and COMPLETELY BLOW MY COVER WITH A MEME OF ALL THINGS?!

Sam: . . .I'm sure those odds would be pretty damn low.

Caliban: But pretty damn low does NOT EQUAL ZERO!

[A moment of silence passes by, seeing Sam stare at Caliban while he stares at nothing in particular, breathing heavily and almost shaking in place.]

Sam: I mean, I can understand that to an extent. And keep in mind, that extent is a very small one. But. . .well, at least this means you'll be a little more prepared for Cannibalism Day next year, right?

[Caliban throws his hands up in the air and storms over to a sofa in the corner of the room. Coincidentally, some cushions on said sofa are stained with blood. He lays down on one side of the sofa, hugging his knees to his chest and slowly rocking back and forth. Sam watches him, chewing their lip before walking through a door across the room. After a moment or two, Sam returns with a medical organ transportation container.]

Sam: Alright, you're obviously not in the best headspace at the moment. And this might seem like part of some weird joke against you, but I promise it's not. *hesitantly approaches Caliban. They pointedly set the container down near the sofa and back up a few paces*

Caliban: *doesn't budge from his position on the sofa, though he does glance at the container, and then at Sam*

Sam: There's a heart inside. Before all this, I just happened to be in the States when a mission fell into my lap. I don't have time to explain, and even if I did, it'd still be none of your business, but things got messy. And I remembered what you said about the heart being *can't help but grimace*. . .the best part. I know you rarely get a chance to. . .enjoy any hearts for yourself since they're so valuable on the Black Market, so. . .yeah.

Caliban: *eyes widen. He hesitates for a few seconds, then reaches down, grabs the container, and holds it to his chest as he curls back up* . . .Thank you.

Sam: *nods* Don't mention it.

Caliban: *now grinning manically; his frustration is still there, but he's definitely calmed down a bit* You really know how to. . . serve people best.

[If you listen very, very closely a rimshot can be heard somewhere in the distance]

Sam: I SHOULD'VE KNOWN YOU WERE GONNA PULL SOMETHING THAT! GOD DAMN IT, THAT'S WHAT I GET FOR LETTING MY GUARD DOWN—

___

I cannot believe how much time and effort I spent on this.

On a JOKE.

A JOKE that I probably DRAGGED OUT TOO MUCH TO BE FUNNY OR WITTY. 🥲

. . .Oh, well. Happy Cannibalism Day to my scrungly fanmade boi. Hopefully he'll have some more fun with it next year.

Thank you for indulging me, Sammy. 💞😂

happy cannibalism day! 🧠🫀🫁🦴

[mizzuniki]

A little bit obsessed

[rebar2042]

teeth

[kingofmeatballs]

King- don't look at me you know who I am what I'm gonna fuckin-

Murdock, E 10, Cherry Pie

Don't l o o k at me lissen

Looking 👁️👁️ (enjoy the nasty man)

Movin through reqs slow but I'm gettin to em)

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

I usually try to make some quick of sarcastic joke out of the synopsis for my stories. But honestly, I just want to stick to the basics right now:

It's been such a weird, random, and above all, fun journey to have worked on this collab with you, @insane4fandoms . Thank you for all the hard work, detail, and thought/emotion you've put into the comics, and for letting me attach my stories to those comics, and for being so incredibly patient with all the time writing takes on my end.

Thank you for the kind words/reviews you've been giving me with each completed snippet; I really don't get enough feedback for my work in general, so each time a reader is nice enough to leave their thoughts/comments, it feels genuinely amazing.

Although we've both clearly got a lot of WIPs on our respective plates, I do hope that we'll be able to have fun with something like this again in the future.

And to think, this whole thing started out with a simple meme-comic that you just so happened to mention Ness and my special fanmade scrungly in.

As always, I hope you enjoy the story!

___

Terminal Case of the Ol’ Switcheroo [Epilogue]

(Disclaimer: only two of the characters in this snippet belong to me. For more information about Caliban, go here. For more information on The Newcomer, my very own technical Reader!Character, go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe…but if you’d like to see my personal headcanons about him, go here. And if you’d like to learn about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(One more thing: I’ve actually written a full character analysis on the dynamic between Mad and Caliban. If you’re interested, please feel free to check it out here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, knives/blades, implied kidnapping, implied violence, talk of murder/death, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of illegal business, eating/drinking, implied stalking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4

___

Four days later…

Considering they’d been roommates for so long, Ness and Jack had grown accustomed to snide comments about the former keeping his own vehicle. He lived with a cabbie, didn’t he? Why not just enjoy the service? 

Well, first of all: No. That whole idea was just rude on so many levels. 

Second of all: The whole concept of roommates revolved around two or more people actually being able to stand living with one another. And yes, circumstances varied, but constantly begging for rides was a good way to tip that Jenga tower with a quickness. 

Third of all: Yes, Jack was willing to help out those he was close to. Even so, he was a friend, not just some personal chauffeur. 

Fourth of all: As stated before, Ness was an adult who had his own damn car…which had been at the local garage getting some much-needed repairs since the beginning of the week. Hopefully it would be ready to drive again soon. 

It’d been a hot minute since Ness had needed assistance from Jack—well, technically he’d already gotten some help before today. Back when his roommate and Abby had found him and Mike hiding in the storage closet at Sparky’s. 

Maybe that was why this particular evening felt ever-so-slightly surreal as the air was filled with their quiet chatter. 

“…So, how’s Mike been?” Jack asked, the wheel slowly spinning under his hands. 

“Better,” Ness replied, resting his chin on his palm and gazing through the passenger window. “The loopiness lasted longer than I thought it would, but it’s definitely gone by now.”

Part of him said this to reassure his friend.

Another part of him, meanwhile, said it to reassure himself as the image of a needle sinking into Mike’s neck flickered behind his eyes. 

Jack snorted. “Since when is that guy not at least a little loopy?”

Ness raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I mean, from what I’ve heard, he’s still mad at you for letting Abby hold Buckshot.”

The intended retort seemed to die on Jack’s tongue. He glanced at Ness out of the corner of his eye before he started sputtering. “That—that was an accident, I swear! I didn’t even realize I’d set it down; she only picked it up because I was busy helping you carry Mike! She was just trying to help!”

“Hey, I’m not denying all that,” Ness mentioned, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. He paused before folding his arms across his chest. “...But you’re still gonna have to make it up to him.”

Jack heaved a long-suffering sigh, shifting in his seat (which the aforementioned Buckshot was now resting underneath, tucked into that hidden compartment and waiting for another emergency on another day). 

“You can’t say I didn’t show her how to properly handle that stuff earlier,” he murmured. “Better to teach ‘em basic safety when they’re young.” 

Ness nodded, humming in vague agreement.

Afterward, a different type of silence settled into the air. A layer of ice that anyone could walk on, but no-one ever really wanted to be the one to break. 

The two of them spent the next few minutes glancing at one another out of the corners of their eyes, both trying so furiously to look like they were just existing together that they only succeeded in making the obviousness unbearable. 

Jack carefully took one hand away from the wheel, guiding it toward himself. He began fidgeting with the puka shell necklace that Ness had never actually seen him take off. He took the time to gently spin each of the shiny, pale-as-bone-china little shapes between his fingers. The same way he always did when he was thinking. 

Or, to be more precise: when he was nervous. 

He’d already taken these recent rides as opportunities to ask Ness things. To remind Ness about things. 

Was Ness feeling okay? Was he drinking enough water? Why hadn’t Ness told Mike about the stalker-issue when it’d first started out?

If Ness really didn’t want to say anything about what had happened a few nights ago, then that was his business…

But still, if there was anything Ness ever needed to get off his chest, about how things were going in his life, he could trust his roommate to listen. He knew that, right?

Of course, this was all just more evidence supporting how good of a roommate Jack was. He looked out for his buddies. He was willing to make himself content with an explanation as simple (sometimes infuriatingly so) as Hey, it just be like that sometimes.

Ness chewed his lip. 

He had a legitimate reason for keeping secrets right now. He was only doing it to keep his circle safe.  

That didn’t change the fact that it still made him so damn nervous—

THUNK

Just as the cab turned a very familiar street corner, just as it rolled underneath a very familiar tree growing by the sidewalk on said corner, a blurry figure came plummeting down just before the windshield. 

Jack yelped, his car screeching to a halt as he stomped on the brake pedal. 

Ness all but trebuchetted against the back of his seat, letting out a short scream that was much higher-pitched than he’d care to admit.  

The figure shook itself, a bushy tail waving about as it began to cautiously sniff at the metallic embrace of its one-in-a-hundred-chance-random-landing-pad. 

It took exactly five whole seconds of breath-holding and staring before the two of them realized that the culprit was just a clumsy squirrel who’d fallen off a branch somewhere above. 

Naturally, Jack was the first to snap out of it. 

He rolled his window down halfway, then called out, “What’re you doing?”

The squirrel’s only response was to freeze again, tiny nose twitching and beady eyes contemplating. 

“…Don’t walk on my hood!” Jack ordered. He waved a hand at the windshield. “C’mon, shoo! Shoo!”

Once the squirrel had taken the hint to hop off and scurry across the street to climb the trunk of a completely different tree, Jack resumed driving, only to stop yet again a couple minutes later. 

Ness rolled his shoulders as he unbuckled his seatbelt, pushing the passenger door open. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” Jack smiled, nodding as the waiter stepped out into the night. That was another green-flag for the guy: he didn’t often mind when his roommate decided to spend the night somewhere else. “See you tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow!” Ness echoed, hefting the door shut. He took a few seconds to wave as the taxi headed off, ready to start searching for any potential riders.

With that, Ness turned and started walking up the Schmidt driveway. 

He’d been prepared to use the extra key that was hidden somewhere on the porch, but the front door swung open right as he climbed the short concrete steps.  

Abby stood in the threshold, smiling as she reached out to hug him. “Hi, Ness!”

“Bitty!” Ness replied, immediately returning the embrace, his surprise only lasting so long. It was just so good to see her happy, the way kids deserved to be. He’d only ever seen her frightened once, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to again for a long time. 

“Ah—hold on, why are you here?” He asked as the girl tugged him inside by the arm. “What about—?” 

He stopped short, watching as Mike poked his head out of the kitchen and came traipsing over, hands in his pockets. “Hey.”

“...Hey,” Ness greeted, his chest suddenly feeling a bit lighter. “What happened to your shift?” 

Mike shrugged. “The boss brought in some extra help before I got there; turns out her niece wants to learn the trade, so I guess she’s being taught through volunteering. I was told that the schedules would be updated by tomorrow.”

Ness hummed, “Huh. That’s…oddly wholesome.”

“‘Oddly?’” Mike repeated. 

Ness merely raised his eyebrows, and the way Mike offered a half-nod-half-shug indicated that he got the point. 

Sarcasm aside, it was good to know that things were going smoothly with the job Mike had been working ever since he’d lost the gig at Freddy’s. Acting as security for an animal shelter had to be one of the best things for bouncing back. Even if it’d caused near-incessant levels of pestering from Abby (and sometimes Ness) for a puppy or kitten or a kitten and a puppy. 

“Well, what about your shift?” Mike asked. “Everything go okay for you?”

Ness smiled, nodding. “Yeah. Just the same stuff as usual. No bad customers this time, thankfully.”

Abby’s face fell at that, her eyes growing sympathetic. “I wish there were never any bad ones.”

Ness shrugged. “Yeah, me too. But that’s just life. What’re you gonna do?”

Abby thought for a moment before mischief etched its way along her features. “Smack ‘em with a plate! Or, or! If they complain about a drink, just pick it up and dump it on their heads!”

Ness threw his head back, cackling. “Sometimes I really wish I could. But even if my coworkers have my back, I’d still get in trouble.” 

Abby pouted again. “Why don’t the bratty snobs ever seem to get in trouble for pushing you guys around?”

Ness paused, his laughter coming to an abrupt halt. Putting on a somewhat serious face, he knelt down and loudly whispered, “Look, as much as I love the concept of fast-learning and teaching stuff early…I’m not sure you wanna dive into philosophy just yet.”

Abby giggled, playfully rolling her eyes as she headed over to her blanket fort and began making slight adjustments.

“Oh, by the way,” Mike declared as he settled down onto the living room couch. “I’m onto your little scheme.”

Ness froze, the dark blue waist-apron he’d just untied slipping through his fingers and fluttering to the floor. 

No…no, he had to be mistaken. Mike had to be bluffing. 

Three whole days had passed since the incident, and nothing had happened at all. 

Sure, there was still a cold, clammy knot of dread taking up space in his stomach. 

Sure, he hadn’t been able to get much sleep last night, so he’d decided to make use of that time by researching the rumors about a macabre museum states and states away that had just re-opened its doors to the public after months of closure, and he’d been trying to listen to music all the while, but he’d had to keep taking his earbuds out because he thought he’d heard something moving outside. 

Sure, he’d been unable to help but brace himself to feel movement somewhere directly behind him, brace himself for that movement slowly-but-surely creep closer until he could feel hot breath tinged with something metallic on the back of his neck.

…And sure, Ness—and the trick candles he called nerves—had been wrong. Apart from himself, Mike, and Abby, the house had been vacant last night. No intruders. No silhouettes looming in outside, trying to stay away from the beam of the streetlamps on the sidewalks. 

But in the grand scheme of things, life had gone back to normal. (As normal as it could be at Sparky’s and in the Schidmt household, at least.)

“What do you mean by that?” Ness asked, trying desperately to keep his tone of voice playful. He tilted his head to the side, smiling wider to take any focus away from how pale he’d suddenly gotten. 

Mike snorted. Though he didn’t look at Ness, too preoccupied with fishing his water bottle from his work-bag, an eye-roll was evident in his voice. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Ness, unsure what else to do, found himself carefully glancing at his boyfriend’s sister. 

Abby looked just as lost as he was, her little brow furrowed in confusion. Her big, warm doe-eyes, however…if he looked close enough, he could see a tinge of something else. It wasn’t concrete understanding, thank God. 

But still, even if she’d apparently made peace with letting him keep a secret or two, she still had her questions. And even if those questions wouldn’t see the light of day because she cared about Ness’ feelings, they still wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

Ness had kept his word, for everyone’s sake. He’d stayed quiet. It’d been fortunate that everyone had been so focused on Mike in the aftermath, but even though that had only lasted so long…he’d done his part. 

Whenever Jack or Abby tried to ask him about where he’d been or what exactly he knew or where his demented doppelganger had disappeared to, he’d managed to mislead them, to steer the conversation away from all the gory details. 

And, as far as he could tell, his tactfulness had pulled through. 

It just wasn’t possible for Mike to know…

“Trying to get me to open up a disguised glitter bomb, or a paint cannon, or one of those stupid spring-loaded plastic snakes,” Mike continued, a wry, exhausted grin spreading across his face. “All to get back at me for a mistake I made months ago. Don’t deny it; maybe you have other people fooled, but I know how petty you really are.” 

He chuckled, running a hand through the mess of short, frizzy, dark brown curls atop his head. “As if Abbs wasn’t already the reincarnation of Kevin McCallister. Now I’ve gotta deal with your tricks, too.”

…And just like that, an invisible tidal wave crashed over him. A suspsiciously loud sigh of relief was almost knocked out of his chest, but Ness was quick, keeping it trapped where it belonged.

“Whaaaaaaat? No, no-no-no, that’s got nothing to do with you. I mean—well, it’s just—the craft store has been having a ton of great deals lately, so…” Ness stammered, putting on a mask of overexaggerated, poorly-hidden anxiety. 

Ironic how that was helping to keep his true nervousness, as well a suspsiciously loud sigh of relief, trapped in his chest where it belonged.

He then threw his fresh stutter out the window, raising his hands to his face like a cheap imitation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, he turned his attention to Abby. “…He’s figURED IT OUT! WE’RE COMPROMISED!” He rushed forward, snatching a decorative pillow from the armchair and raising it over his head like a grenade. “GET HIM, GET HIM!” 

Abby’s eyes widened, a lovely, excited, mischievous smile manifesting out of nowhere. She stood up, grabbing two more pillows from her blanket-fort and letting out a sound that was equal parts war-cry and laughter as she executed an impressive running-leap to tackle her older brother. 

Mike moved far too slowly, unable to shield his face from the onslaught in time. He fell back onto the couch cushions, laughing and yelping in mock-protest. It was unclear whether he was encouraging Abby’s play-fighting to make her feel strong, or just playing it off like he was holding back to cover up the fact that he was so quickly neutralized by a ten-year-old who wasn’t even half his size.  

Though the pillow-fight only lasted for a couple blissful moments, Ness was still out of breath by the time everyone was holding still again. (Really, though, you couldn’t blame him. The sudden ambush had been absolutely devastating, because Abby was the crown-queen of plushie-weilding assassins, thank you very much.)

Mike heaved a sigh, giving Abby one last noogie before correcting his posture and plucking the remote up from the floor. 

“Seriously, though,” he announced as the TV’s screen sparked to life, “one of your orders was sent here again. I left it on the table.” He nodded over to the dining room’s hollow doorway. 

Ness blinked, leaning against one of the sofa’s armrests. “I haven’t ordered anything lately.” 

“You’re really still going with the joke, huh?” Mike smirked. “Go see for yourself. Not like it’s the first time this has happened. I’ve told you before that I don’t mind.” He paused, pursing his lips. “...But still, a heads-up would be nice.”

Confused as he was, Ness couldn’t really deny that last part. Sometimes the mailroom back at the apartment complex was blocked off or closed for whatever reason. And jumping through all those hoops that were supposedly vital for reclaiming lost stuff at the depot…yeah, he wasn’t sure why archaic forms of torture like that were still legal. 

Besides, Ness had been staying over at this place more and more often, so…

Shrugging to himself, Ness turned on his head and wandered over. He went to the kitchen first, approaching the washing machine and dryer that had been set up in the corner. The freshly-repaired window seemed to give the whole area a little extreme gleam.

(Then again, that gleam would apply to any place that didn’t have shards of broken glass strewn about the floor.)

After chucking his waist-apron into the former and turning its dial to the right setting, he paused to enjoy a handful of trail mix from the pantry. With that, he took a seat at the dining table. 

There was, indeed,  a yellow mailer package waiting patiently for him. 

Squinting, Ness reached over and pulled it closer. He lifted it up, shaking it carefully. Nothing inside seemed to rattle or sway, but there was an obvious weight to it. 

“I found it on the porch this morning,” Mike called from the living room. “Come to think of it, it must’ve been delivered way earlier than the mail usually is.”

Ness tore the folded flaps at the top open, causing a bundle of red tissue paper to slide out. With a quiet, curious hum, Ness took that bundle into his hands and ripped it away by one edge to reveal…the same bundle, only slightly smaller and shrouded by black tissue paper. 

He tore the black covering away to discover another sheet of red.

Once the second red sheet was gone, another black sheet appeared udnerneath. 

Red paper, black paper, red paper, black paper, red-black-red-black-red-black-red-black…

Just as Ness began to worry that this would turn into a multi-hour endeavor, he ripped away the thirteenth red sheet and found a tight wad of bubblewrap. He had to fish out his pocket-knife to cut the tape away, but soon enough, he was peeling away the final layers to reveal the small prize at the center. 

Ness held it between his forefinger and thumb, raising it closer to his face. 

“A frog?” Abby wondered as she trotted into the room, zeroing in on the bubblewrap that was silently demanding to be popped.

Ness nodded, turning the shiny enamel pin to and fro, gazing at the bright yellow material, complimented by splotches of black.  Its back was to the world, legs stretching out at angle that hinted it was trying to climb along something.

“A poison dart frog,” he corrected.

“Ooh! Okay, so, a really, really dangerous one!” Abby mused. She leaned closer to get a better look. “Well, I think it’ll look nice with your other one. Did you get one for Mike? So you guys can keep matching?”

Ness shrugged and smiled, knowing that she meant the pride pin he often wore on his leather jacket (a frying pan adorned by wide stripes of pink, yellow, and sky-blue), as well as the one he’d gifted Mike shortly after they’d started dating (a cassette tape with horizontal lines of pink, violet, and cobalt). 

As nice as the memories were, and as pretty as this dart frog pin was…that did nothing to change the fact that Ness did not remember ordering this. At all. 

Yeah, online shops like Etsy were addictive, and yeah, Ness had a habit of ordering several items at once. But he only did that kind of stuff around holidays or birthdays; he was a waiter, after all.

A small eruption of plinks and dings and chimes came rattling through the air. 

In a different time or a different situation, hearing the abrupt, unmistakable call of a pinball machine in a place that had no such machines installed anywhere might be cause for slight panic. 

However, considering Ness had set such a classic sound as his ringtone in favor of the generic options, this managed to be as casual as it was disruptive. 

Still holding the dart frog pin in one hand, Ness got back to his feet and picked his phone up from the kitchen counter. 

The screen read Unknown, with only a blank profile to offer.

Ness raised an eyebrow. Like many people, he’d gotten used to scam and spam alike; in fact, with a little help from Jack (and, later on, Abby), he’d learned some efficient ways deal with them. Mainly via using the unbridled power of second-hand embarrassment to make whatever desperate thief hang up within ten seconds. 

…But, of course, there was always the chance that the call was legitimate, that a friend’s number had changed for whatever reason, that kind of stuff. 

So, Ness tapped the Accept icon and raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey there, Ness,” a voice greeted.

Ness’ eyes widened. His lips parted with a short, low gasp for air. Something with jagged edges crawled through his guts. 

“...S-sorry, do I know you?” The question came out more on instinct than intention. While doubt did have a reputation for acting up at the wrong times, Ness knew that it had nothing to do with this. 

“I’m sure I’m in your memory somewhere,” the voice replied, his tone an invisible pen that drew a sly grin along his face. “I know trauma does some funny stuff, but you don’t strike me as the type to edit your own memories as part of coping. Don’t try that in the future, by the way. Never ends well for anyone.” 

Though Ness wasn’t sure how to respond to a comment like that, his understanding was immediate.

Because the voice wasn’t exactly familiar…but he still recognized the speaker. 

Hell, he could picture rows of teeth that glinted in dim light, that seemed a tad too sharp the longer you looked at them. He could imagine that voice drifting through those teeth. 

He could remember seeing his very reflection against the silver material of one that clearly hadn’t grown from the speaker’s gums like all the rest. 

Ness blinked, and he was suddenly moving again. Away from the dining table. Past the living room. Down the short, narrow hallway. Into the very bedroom he and Mike had started sharing during his visits. 

He closed the door as softly as he could, though the click of the lock being engaged felt deafening.

“Are there any Sydneys with you right now? Or just in town at the moment? I think I might know I guy who’s been trying to get ahold of one.” A wave of snickering crackled through the microphone. 

Considering his life had temporarily departed onto the path of some weird, amatuer-ish thriller movie days prior, Ness wasn’t sure if he was supposed to start laughing or crying…or just hang up and chuck his phone into the wall and curl up in the fetal position to question everything again. 

That last option definitely wouldn’t prove anything, so he opted to start pacing the floor, approached the window by the side of the bed to shakily close its blinds. “No, I don’t know anyone named Sydney. Is that a joke, or are you trying to sabotage one of your competitors?” 

“Not sure, though I wouldn’t turn down a chance to combine the two.” Caliban giggled again before sighing. “But the question isn’t anything like that. The question is: did you expect to hear from me again?”

Ness hesitated. He certainly hadn’t expected anything like this, but…well, you couldn’t have a stalker for months without having an extra tablespoon of paranoia mixed into your mind. 

“No, I guess. Not exactly,” he finally responded. 

Caliban hummed. “Ah, that’s good. In my line of work, sometimes you can get extra points for unpredictability.” 

“What do you want?” Ness blurted. “Why are you calling me?” 

“I mean, I held onto your phone for so long, I figured I might as well memorize the number. Just for the novelty, y’know?” Caliban explained, chuckling. “Plus…it’s really not often that I get a chance to check in on certain people.”

In spite of his anxiety, Ness raised an eyebrow. “You mean your victims?” 

“Uh, excuse you, I’ve checked in on victims before; it all just depends on the nature of the job,” Caliban scoffed. 

Ness shuddered, wondering about threatening and taunting mind-games this guy might have played with particular targets. 

“Besides, take a good look where you are,” Caliban continued. “You helped me set things right, and I returned the favor. You’re hardly what I’d call a victim.” He paused, then quickly added, “Well, not a victim of mine, anyway.”

Ness’ heart skipped a beat, thrumming in a harsh manner against his sternum. Memories of the packages, of the letters, of Mad’s face, all twisted with hatred in his snarling mouth and a sick type of light in his eyes.

There was no way Caliban didn’t already know who he was thinking about, so Ness simply murmured, “Is he…is he—”

“Dead?” Caliban interjected, his voice turning thoughtful. “Oh, yeah, no. He’s still kicking; I made sure of that.” 

Ness’ jaw hit the floor. “W-What?! But why? I—I though you hated him!”

“I do. And the way I see it, dying would be way, waaaaaaay too good for him. What with all the crap he’s pulled wherever he goes.” Another sharp, unhinged, hungry cackle slithered into Ness’ ears. “But on the other hand: getting caught and mauled over and over and over again? If that’s not karma, then I don’t know what the hell is.” 

Ness sputtered. Caliban’s place, wherever it was, was a few hours away from here…but what if Mad was somewhere out there again? What if he’d hitch-hiked with some poor soul who didn’t know any better? 

“Is he still with you?” Ness asked in a hoarse voice. 

“Getting right down to business, I see.” Caliban hummed approvingly. “Yes and no. Plans are just moving along.”

“Wha—okay, what the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Ness demanded, struggling to keep his voice down. It wouldn’t do to have Mike or Abby hear any of this.

“Take a wild guess,” Caliban replied. “Look, you’re probably about to pull a sign out of Hammer Space that says ‘HERE WE GO AGAIN’ and start waving it like a flag. But before it gets there, listen: you won’t be seeing him anymore. And neither will your friends.”

Ness felt something race up his spine. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it wasn’t a chill. More like a warm spark, actually. 

Caliban took that bewildered silence as the green light to continue. “It took a lot of work, but hey, I enjoy a challenge. Even if the idiot’s still living in Delulu Land, he knows better than to try coming after you.”

Ness lowered his head, starting at the floor. Mad had made it obvious time and time again that he wasn’t one to take things lying down, to learn his lesson, to just. STOP. 

But then, everyone had to at least take a few breaks here and there. 

“What did you do?” Ness asked, both out of fear and genuine curiosity. 

“I did some of the best I can,” Caliban chuckled. “Let’s just say that the face he has now certainly ain’t the one he was born with.”

“...Really? You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” Caliban seemed to be beaming at this point. “Watching one of your own kidneys get removed will do that. Not to mention the sections of skin I took. Gotta be thorough, don’t we?”

“O-oh…” Ness mumbled, a sudden bout of nausea swirling around his head. 

Mad’s voice pounded on his eardrums—all the threats he’d spat out back at Sparky’s. How he’d insisted that Caliban would just take a Two For One deal rather than sparing the same waiter he himself had been after. 

But he’d been wrong. That hadn’t happened at all. 

Somehow, it was obvious that Caliban was nodding. “What can I say? Butcher money where your mouth is.” 

And then he was cackling again, giving Ness ample opportunity to imagine the cannibal’s grin widening, his teeth gnashing the air, his eyes nearly feral as they bulged from their sockets. 

Sooner or later, the laughter slowed to a halt as Caliban took a breath. “So, did you get my little souvenir? What do you think of it?” 

Ness’ brow furrowed in confusion…only for him to nearly slap a hand over his mouth as it gaped open in shock again. Due to the shiny little pin still in his grasp, however, he couldn’t. 

“The dart frog pin?” He wondered, raising the object in question closer to eye-level. “This is from you?”

Caliban hummed affirmative. “And I’ll take that as a yes. The package looked so official, didn’t it? One of my friends is amazing when it comes to forgery.” 

“…Why? Why did you leave it for me? What does it mean?” Despite his relative relief about the state Mad was apparently in, Ness still felt wary. 

“Oh, c’mon, Ness. Think: why do posion dart frogs look the way they do? Why would any animal evolve neon colors instead of camouflage?” 

“To—to show off their toxicity. To wear a warning sign,” Ness replied, part of the animal nerd he’d been in grade-school piping up from the back of his brain. “To warn any predators that they’d better not try eating them, or—” He cut himself off, puzzle-pieces slowly connecting through his mind.  “Or else…they’ll…regret it.”

“Right!” Caliban pronounced. “There wasn’t any time for you to actually see them, but…well, I don’t work alone. Never have, really. Not even when I take on solo-jobs.”

Ness swallowed a lump in his throat. Mad had mentioned Caliban running around with a mob…and Caliban himself had mentioned something about family before, hadn’t he? Was he remembering things right?  

“That pin I sent you isn’t the only one. There’s plenty more out there,” Caliban continued. “We use them as identifiers. To keep track of who our potential allies are. Same goes for enemies: just something to make them think twice before they try screwing around with us by proxy.”

“So…so, this means we’re good?” Ness coughed. 

“Yep,” Caliban responded. This time, his voice was a bit softer than before. “Look, if you’re really worried about it, then just get a tattoo. Ink like that either absolutely RUINS the taste of the skin, or risks denting the price of a section on the market. Trust me: even the smallest tattoos can have that effect.”

“A-alright?” Ness cringed, equal parts grateful and horrified by the information. “And…you don’t want anything from me?”

“Nope. Just try to be smart whenever you feel the need to wear that thing.”

Ness nodded; he didn’t know why, since it wasn’t like Caliban could see the gesture, but there wasn’t much else he could do. After all, it wasn’t every day you were gifted a symbol of protection from a cannibal mobster who’d kidnapped you by accident because you just happen to look a lot like some other serial killer. 

“Sure,” he breathed. He felt…lighter. As if a bunch of invisible strangler-vines had wilted away from his shoulders after growing there for what seemed like months. 

There was a pause. Caliban stayed on the line, though he’d gone just as quiet. Ness couldn’t imagine a scenario where the cannibal felt the same level of awkwardness as him, but anything was possible, right?

Finally, as the background cracked around his voice, Caliban stated, “Take care of yourself, Ness. A lot of people clearly do, so you shouldn’t just put that all on them.”  

In spite of everything that had happened—all the fear, panic, dread—Ness smiled.

Admittedly, it didn’t last long, as Caliban decided to add, through another small fit of snickers, “Your boytoy, too.”

“...Mike is nOT A BOYTOY,” Ness snapped. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault the guy looks like he still has a Myspace,” Caliban argued. 

Ness sputtered, trying desperately to hide how he knew that Mike did, indeed, still have a Myspace. “That—that—that doesn’t mean anything!”

“Sometimes it really does. Not saying Facebook is worth anything either, but still.” Caliban barked another laugh.

 But before Ness could try to retort, a short, high-pitched beep! rang through the phone, silencing the other end.

He pulled the devices away from his ear, staring down at it for a few long seconds before lightly tossing it onto the bed. 

Then, he trudged over to Mike’s closet. The duffelbag he’d gotten in the habit of leaving here waited in the corner. 

Ness knelt down and opened it up, rummaging through all the spare clothes and toiletries until he fished out his cyan leather jacket. Careful not to prick his fingers, Ness attached the dart frog pin a little ways below the garment’s collar. As quick as the process was, he felt the need to hold his breath.  

The enamel glinted in the light as Ness held the jacket up; the little dart frog actually complimented the leather’s shade pretty well. 

Chewing his lip, he returned the jacket to its place and fetched a set of soft pajamas (the bottom half of which was covered in a tiny print-pattern of Mothman). Once he'd exchanged his work uniform for that, he unlocked the bedroom door and strolled down the hallway. 

He wondered if Mike and Abby would be up for watching a movie tonight. 

Movies always seemed to be the best thing when the world finally began slowing back down.

___

Caliban glanced up at the dark sky, breathing in the fresh, cool air. 

Another night, another impending job. 

Another vacant field that was miles away from any nearby cities (including both the Cove Port Inlets and that town surrounding Sparky’s).

He’d lost count of all the times he’d thanked his lucky stars that his cellphone been set up to not have any calls or texts recorded. 

He slipped the device into one of his jacket’s pockets—right across from the one his meat cleaver rested in. Then he circled around the twitching, heaving lump that he’d dropped on the ground only moments ago, cackling to himself all the while. 

Mad’s swollen, bloodshot eyes followed his movements, glazed-over yet still somewhat aware. Still full of pain and anger and bitter defeat. 

He had to keep squeezing them closed every few seconds, probably to try and combat the stinging, burning pain that lingered under the bandaged that Caliban had begrudgingly layered about the incision site in his side. 

After a few seconds of panting and gagging, his busted lips pressed together in a nasty scowl. It was so very obvious how he wanted to spew all sorts of colorful words the cannibal’s way but he’d already screamed his throat raw from the recent harvesting. He wouldn’t be able to say much for at least the rest of the evening. 

In fact, he wouldn’t be able to do anything for the rest of the evening.

Caliban knew that, in spite of the nylon binds wrapped tightly around his wrists, Mad would eventually free himself. But all the exhaustion left in the wake of his frenzied adrenaline would keep him from struggling until sometime the next morning.

“Remember, Mad.” Caliban knelt down to his enemy’s level, one hand lashing out to cup his chin, forcing him to retain eye-contact, fingernails digging into skin. “If I catch word of you so much as looking that waiter again, I’ll take one of your eyes next time. And if you try to set foot in the town he’s from, I’ll saw off one of your legs.”

Though he neither nodded nor shook his head, Mad’s reaction was still easy to read. He squirmed in place, trying to edge away, his eyes bulging from their sockets—not out of mania or glee…but fear. 

There was still hatred, of course (Mad could never truly resist his self-absoprtion), but there was no mistaking the strand of pure, unfiltered fear that mixed with his agony is such a delicious way.

“Not that I’d sell any of those pieces for a higher price than that kidney,” Caliban continued, a vicious smirk on his face as he harshly jabbed at those red-tinged bandages. “After all the crap you insist on getting yourself into…honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t started taking swigs out of your jerry cans just yet.” 

He released his hold, shoving Mad onto his back before standing up again. Never one to turn down giving off the same vibes as a shark or hyena or any other infamous hunter, Caliban resumed his pacing.

“Y’know, even with this always-coming-back thing that you never seem to shut up about,” he pronounced, “I think you’ve already been dead for a long time. The person you used to be died the day you started your so-called ‘career.’”

Out of habit, Caliban fished his cleaver out of his pocket, simply fidgeting with it. The tool was already pretty enough, what with all those wavey streaks naturally set in the damascus steel. But moonlight shining off of the blade made it look even better. Of course, that didn’t always compare to when it was spattered in red, but it was still a nice sight. 

“That’s why you were so obsessed with tormenting him, isn’t it?” Caliban wondered aloud, intentionally making it sound much more like a statement than a question. “Because you just couldn’t stand the fact that he’s not the same rotten shell that you are…”

Caliban gazed at the other killer’s expression. 

Sure enough, his words had struck a nerve. Mad craned his neck to sneer at him, trembling with rage. Though Caliban had only been occasionally dealing with him for a couple years now, he could easily tell that Mad had been the type of student who probably had an identity-crisis every time he couldn’t be the smartest person in the room.

“...But instead of even bothering to actually earn anything like what he has,” Caliban went on, “you just decided to try dragging him down to your level, huh?” 

The cannibal clicked his tongue, shaking his head dismissively. 

“It’s never gonna work, buddy. No matter where you go, what you do, who you kill…you’re never gonna be the better ma—” 

BWAAAAAAANNNN!

The classic blare of a car-horn came roaring out of nowhere, causing Mad to flinch and Caliban to nearly jump out of his skin.

The horn went off a few more times, very intentionally in a pattern:

BWAAA-BWAAA-BWAAA-BWAAA, BWAA-BWAAAN!

As Caliban whipped around to stare at the car that was parked on the side of the road, waiting for him just a couple yards away, there was a second or two of silence.

BWAAN!

…Okay, now there was silence. Caliban rolled his eyes, knowing that the car’s driver could see him nodding despite the relative distance. Slipping the cleaver back into his pocket, he began strolling over to the vehicle. 

“See you around,” he called over his shoulder. He only got a few raspy, unintelligible murmurs in response, but that was better than Mad’s typical, grating voice.

Caliban soon found himself stepping back onto the road, moving around his ride and pulling the passenger-side door open. After buckling his seatbelt, he looked over into the eyes that were currently hidden behind a pair of black-tinted sunglasses.

“Look, I’ll admit that I’ve got no room to talk about monologuing,” Murdock announced, his deep voice rolling into the air as he twisted the key in the ignition. “But we’re still kinda on a time-crunch right now.”

“Fair point.” Caliban offered a combination of nod and shrug. “But still, you could’ve just sent a text if you really wanted me to cut things short.” 

“…I could always just make you walk to the job-site,” Murdock warned, groaning in time with how Caliban laughed at the little pun. 

“Except for the part where you can’t,” Caliban contended, “since we were assigned to take care of this target together.” It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. When they weren’t squabbling over jokes, the two of them made a pretty great team.

“He’s got you there,” a voice that had slowly grown more and more familiar over time piped up from the backseat. 

…Okay, scratch that, the three of them made a good team. At least, that was the case whenever Murdock decided to bring his tagalong—the newest member of The Pentas Family—into the action. They were still being trained in the art of a contract-killer, after all. 

Caliban peered up at the rearview mirror to see Snare bouncing in The Newcomer’s lap, purring in that gravelly ways only hares could pull off as they stroked his back and scratched his ears. Even if they hadn’t removed their gloves, the hare didn’t seem to mind how the scarlet-dyed leather felt against his fur. 

“Traitor,” Caliban jokingly called out to his pet.

The Newcomer smiled and shrugged, only to let out a small yelp as Snare pushed his nose against their ear. 

In truth, Caliban was quite glad that Snare had warmed up to The Newcomer so fast. Especially considering how shy they’d been around him when Murdock had first brought them along to learn basic body-disposal (the kind with dismemberment and disembowelment, at least).

“Yeah, you are needed on the job tonight,” Murdock agreed, glancing Caliban’s way as he maneuvered the car down the road, further and further away from where Mad had been dropped off. “You’re gonna be needed on the next upcoming jobs that we’ve had scheduled for months now. Those same jobs that were almost thrown up in the air when you decided to just suddenly run off without telling any of us.” 

Caliban pursed his lips, shifting in his seat. “Hey, c’mon, I didn’t forget about any of that. I moved as quickly as I could because of that; I was only gone for one night.”

Murdock furrowed his brow, taking one hand from the wheel to aggravatingly adjust the raven hair that tickled his shoulders. “Still doesn’t change the fact that someone vanishing off the face of the Earth is only a good thing when we’re responsible for it.”

“Aza was worried about you,” The Newcomer added, a bit of sadness creeping into their dark gray eyes. “It’s a good thing your wife reached out to explain when she did; The Boss nearly sent out a search-party.” 

Caliban cringed. Okay, yeah, he’d definitely have to find a way to make up for that. Just the idea of his sister being scared made him feel sick, and The Boss had already done so much for him and her…

“Look, I know I probably should’ve handled that whole mess differently,” he admitted, fidgeting with his jacket’s zipper. “But right there in the moment, when I figured out just what kind of mistake I’d made…I panicked.”

He threw his thumb over his shoulder, toward the back window. Though they were now well on their way with no figures still lingering in view outside,  it was obvious who he meant by the gesture. 

“You know who that was.” 

He paused, then added, his tone tapering down a few octaves: “You know that…that he goes after kids.”

Both Murdock and The Newcomer’s faces fell, almost in perfect unison. It was usually difficult to read the former’s expression, thanks to his shades. But right here, right now, it was clear as crystal that he understood. That he felt the same disgust, the same fear as Caliban had. 

The Newcomer swallowed a lump in their throat, lowering their head and holding Snare close to their chest.

The Pentas Family wasn’t made up of saints. Never had been, never would be. But when it came to the rules The Boss had set when the mob was first established, NEVER stooping low enough to harm children was at the very top of the list.

Murdock let out a quiet sigh, nodding solemnly. 

“...Still,” he mentioned. “This is—what, the seventh time you’ve gone after him? How stubborn can he possibly be?” 

“I’m not sure what he’s made of,” Caliban shrugged, staring though the window. “I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wound up chopping his own damn hands off in the future. But he’s gotta call it quits someday.”

He folded his arms across his chest, thinking. “And until then, someone might as well make his life hell every so often. Just to remind him about that.” 

Murdock hummed thoughtfully, spinning the brass chain of his necklace between his fingers. “...Well said.” 

“Thanks.” 

The moments dragged by as a new quiet settled inside the car. 

The moon was hidden behind a swathe of clouds tonight, but its blurry outline still glowed right through them.

The wind howled outside, shaking any trees that dotted the fields around the road. It was a sound that never, never failed to be eerie. As if the breeze was promising anyone who dared have shelter right now that, if the elements couldn’t get them, something (or someone) else certainly would. 

Case in point: tonight’s target, whose hideout was apparently only fifteen minutes away from the forest that grew near the edge of the Cove Port Inlet’s city limits. 

The same forest the Murdock would be driving through, sooner or later. 

“...Did you really stab that guy with a broken broomstick?” Murdock blurted, tilting his head to the side, a curious smirk gracing his features. 

Caliban rolled his shoulders, baring his teeth in a sharp, shiny grin. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Wait, what?” The Newcomer gasped, excited energy flooding back into their eyes. They leaned closer, bracing red-gloved hands against the back of the front seats, glancing back and forth between their mentor and his accomplice. 

“A broomstick can do that kind of damage? Seriously?” They demanded, much more out of astonishment than doubt. 

“Sure!” Caliban insisted. He then nodded to Murdock, asking, “Hasn’t he taught you about improvising by now?”

“Well, yeah, but I guess I just thought about the more obvious things,” The Newcomer explained. "Like…golf-clubs! Since they have so much metal weight on one end, y’know? No doubt getting beaten with one of those would hurt like hell. But…wow. A broomstick as a makeshift spear?”

A rich, oily laugh seeped into the air as Murdock playfully elbowed the cannibal beside him. “Okay, now you’ve gotta tell them everything. Give us the full play-by-play.”

“All the gory details?” Caliban hummed, chortling right along. 

Murdock tried to scoff, but he was still distracted by the way his mentee’s eyes widened in time with an inquisitive smile. 

Caliban couldn’t blame him—it was nice to see a killer-in-training give off the same vibes as an eager student. 

With that, the three of them drove off into the night, the atmosphere around them full of chatting, laughter, and of course, the promise of eventual murder.

___

@sammys-magical-au @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph

It’s here, ITS FINALLY HERE

WHOOHOO @wouldntyou-liketoknow

This silent comic epilogue on my side seems to be a little bittersweet, no real conclusions for the crew for what the hell happened, but everyone is safe (the important ones are at least lmao) Caliban’s hair is different cuz of his tussle with Mad, he looks good tho- @crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus

Mike will be extremely loopy and sleepy, but when wasn’t he like that? lol Abby is just happy that her brother and Ness are safe, and Jack may or may not be a little upset he didn’t get to use his shotgun on somebody.

[moucat-owo]

Murderer man... Ooooo..

Practicing the colouring but got lazy 😔

[moonymoonsiplier]

>:]