#thekingisdeadlonglivetheking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sisyphusrising · 11 years ago

Text

The Stupid Adventures of Troy and Camelot

Pilot Episode: Troy and Camelot Find a Dead Guy (And Dean Koontz Can Suck A Dick)

Here's the story I promised a friend of mine. The two main characters are depictions of us as men: I am the narrator, Troy, and she is Camelot.

Enjoy, Manda. Enjoy.

There comes a time in every sane, decent person’s life when you stand back and look at your choices. Serious choices, like whether you should have broken up with that girlfriend, or majored in Botany, or smoked that jar of weed in your uncle’s shed three months ago. Sometimes we don’t even realize how important these decisions were until years after we’ve made them, and that right there is mankind’s greatest tragedy.

So given that I am neither a sane or decent person, I suppose it makes sense that the only life choice cycling through my head was why the hell I ever became friends with Camelot Adams.

I shifted in my fold-up chair, blinking tiredly at the two-way mirror. I tried to look as meek and non-homicidal as possible. Since I was running on two hours of sleep and half a can of red bull, to anyone looking through the mirror I likely looked two screws short of the uni-bomber. The fluorescent lighting wasn’t helping. Under the glare, I grew conscious of my desperate need for a haircut and a tan.

Swallowing, I glanced over at Cam. The idiot was frowning down at the folded hands in his lap, brows furrowed. He was probably trying to figure out how he still had ten fingers.

“Troy!” he gasped, head snapping up. “We didn’t do anything wrong!”

It took every ounce of control I had to resist punching him in the face.

“You don’t say?” I said through gritted teeth.

He nodded sagely. “I do say.”

Springing out of his chair, Cam rounded the table and planted himself in front of the mirror. He stared at his reflection with weirdly intent concentration and pressed both palms against the glass. Oh, those poor, poor bastards working the graveyard shift. No one should have to deal with idiots like us at 3 am.

I breathed in and out, letting the hot air exit out through my nose. “Cam, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Staring them into submission.”

“They already arrested us. Pretty sure there’s no need for that.”

“It’s all about mind over matter, Troy. A stare and a will goes a long way.”

“Again. They’ve already arrested us. Going all Hannibal Lector on them isn’t going to help. Whipping out your dick would probably do more at this point.”

Cam looked at me like he’d just seen Jesus. I instantly realized my mistake.

“No Cam, dude, please don’t—”

I first met Cam in an art class. Neither of us wanted to be there, but we both needed the credit and all other “fine arts” classes were full. But for whatever ridiculous reason, Cam was already some kind of art prodigy that could have taught the class himself. He didn’t want to be there because he’d be bored shitless. I didn’t want to be there because my art skills were limited to stick figures and coloring inside the lines.

I sat in the back, hoping to avoid any and all contact with the instructor, and if I was lucky, anyone else in the class. The seat next to mine remained wonderfully empty for the first half hour up until a stocky blonde guy burst into the classroom, breathing heavily, with a shoulder bag swinging around his neck. Upon closer inspection, the tail end of a snake-like tattoo trailed up his arm and he’d bleached his eyebrows to match the straw color of his hair.

Needless to say, my first impression was that he was a giant douche.

I hated him a little more once I realized that his art talent sized mine up to that of a retarded monkey, but by the end of the first week I couldn’t help but respect him. The reason for this was because he managed to somehow incorporate a dick into every assignment. The brilliance was in the subtlety. No one else could make a dick appear so naturally in the scenery, and never once did the professor notice. Instead he would commend Cam’s attention to detail and use his sketches in class examples. Cam smiled serenely at the praise while I choked back laughter.

Cam is actually short for Camelot. The only explanation I’ve ever received for this was that his parents were very very drunk at the time and couldn’t be bothered with a “normal-ass suburbia white trash name”. The irony doesn’t escape him, either.

Camelot shoved a hand into his jeans right as the door clicked open, revealing a woman in a navy dress suit. She surveyed us with pursed lips, a scowl threatening to bleed through. Not that I blamed her, what with Cam standing there dick in hand, in place of a thousand stupid souls before him.

She was actually kind of pretty, in that matronly sort of way. Her hair was wrapped up in a neat bun, all shiny and dark brown, and her make-up was sparsely applied. But she had the look of someone who didn’t put up with any shit on a good day. The officer schooled her features into relative disinterest and took a seat at the table, setting down a pile of files. Opening one, she said in a sure, authoritative voice, “Troy Jackson and Camelot Adams, I’m assuming?”

My throat dried up. “Uh, yes mam, I’m Troy.”

Her gaze flicked over to Cam. “Mr. Adams, would you mind taking a seat?” She said it in that way that people don’t actually ask things.

Cam stood there, hand still in his pants, and stared. Groaning inside, I knew he was going to need more coaxing.

I fixed him a hard glare that said Cam, sit your ass down.

He gave me a pained look. But I was about to do the thing—

No, do not do the thing and sit down right fucking now.

A little sullen, Cam withdrew his hand and wiped it on his jeans—that is so gross, Jesus Christ—and settled into the seat beside me. He scratched at his pierced eyebrow and looked up, waiting.

The woman granted us a half-smile and said, “Now then, boys. My name is Officer Todd, and I need to ask you both a few questions regarding the events that occurred earlier this evening. I’m sure neither of you have done anything wrong, but I need to hear exactly what you two experienced tonight. We’re all a little, how should I say, perplexed by the situation at hand.”

Cam and I exchanged puzzled looks. “Hold on,” I offered, “if we haven’t don’t anything wrong, then why were we arrested?”

Officer Todd opened another file. She clicked her tongue and said “At 1:32 am today, the body of Tyler Bergen was found dead in apartment 13B, Littleton Complex. Surface examination revealed that Bergen had sustained a knife wound to the chest and back, three bullet wounds to his stomach, and his skull was partially bashed in due to blunt force trauma.” She paused and closed the file. “Clearly, someone wanted this man dead. And both of you were found in the apartment upon the body’s discovery.”

A moment of silence followed her speech. Officer Todd’s cool gaze rested on us as she waited for our reactions. I swallowed, dread crawling up the back of my neck like a spider.

Cam’s face was etched with confusion. “Who the fuck is Tyler Bergen?”

“Dude, Tyler,” I sighed, rubbing my face. “You know, T-Bag.”

Clarity dawned his features, his eyes lighting up in recognition, but dampening once he realized the circumstances. “Aw man, T-bag. Yeah no, we can explain all of that stuff you said. It’s just, I still can’t believe he’s dead. He was so young, so full of potential.”

I snorted and covered it with a cough. Officer Todd raised her eyebrows.

“We know this looks bad,” I said quickly. “But he’s right, we can explain everything.”

The officer made a flourishing gesture. “Then by all means, proceed.”

I nodded. “It all started with a phone call.”

~~~

It all started with a weird fucking phone call.

Cam and I were sitting in a McDonalds, shoveling french fries into our mouths at the speed of starving college students. I had just gotten my paycheck, and Cam somehow managed to find a twenty in his pocket at the right time. Between bites of grease and salt, we traded theories on the secret history of the fast food restaurant.

Cam insisted that McDonald was a young, Scottish farmer who sailed off to seek his fortune in America, but after years of struggling his way through the poor-paying temporary work he found himself back on another farm in Nebraska, weakened by a life of hard labor and the knowledge that he would never return to his homeland. In his final months of life, he befriended a young farm hand and told him of a dream he had in his younger days, a dream to sell cheap, delicious food to all people in every city of the world. The young farm hand, moved by old McDonald’s dream, set out to make it a reality by opening up the first McDonald’s and selling cheap food to as many people as possible. The rest was history.

I suggested a more sinister tale for the successful food chain. In the blooming empire state of New York, a simple businessman made a decent living selling ordinary household kitchen items. He was content to live as he was with his wife and dog, but things took a turn one day when he started hallucinating the image of a clown. The clown, calling himself Ronald McDonald, simply wouldn’t leave him alone. Ronald berated the businessman constantly, grinning and telling him to leave his wife and start up a restaurant. Eventually, the clown threatened to murder both the businessman and his wife while they slept. Years thereafter would Ronald continue to dictate the businessman’s actions until the fateful day the poor man threw himself off a bridge, ending his torment. The spectral entity of evil, Ronald McDonald, would not let it end there, and it selected another unsuspecting host to expand its chain of soul-devouring restaurants.

The debate ended in the agreement that McDonald fries were fucking amazing.

That’s when Cam paused from shoving a handful of fries into his mouth and fumbled for his phone. “T-Bag! How’s it going?”

I heard some shouting on the end of the line, and Cam frowned. “U-huh. Kay.”

More shouting. I ate a fry and concentrated on folding a napkin.

“Okay, dude,” Cam said, soothing. “Just sit tight. We’ll be there in a few. Yeah no, I’m with Troy. No, white Troy. Yup.”

He clicked the phone off and ate the rest of his fries, looking as pensive as was possible for Cam.

“Uh, Cam?” I offered. “What’s up with T-Bag?” I honestly didn’t give two shits about T-bag. The guy was always a grade A douche bag, high on every mix of drug I could think of at any time of day. His only redeemable quality was that his weed was better than everyone else’s weed, so he received a steady stream of faithful potheads. Where the weed is good, personality is a non-issue. Don’t ask me how that works. Cam, however, seemed to be only person to actually like T-Bag.

Cam shook his head. “Good news. I’m pretty sure T-Bag has more weed.”

“Color me surprised.”

“And, like, a lot of booze.”

“Your point?” I deadpanned.

He hesitated. “Well, he was sayin’ something about his microwave…that his microwave was talking to him. About Teddy Roosevelt. And that Teddy Roosevelt was still alive and living in an underground facility where he watches everything and everyone through a live feed rolling in every house in America.”

“Right. Sounds like a nice trip he’s having.”

I went back to eating, but Cam kinda just kept on giving me the look and I knew what he was trying to do and I just wasn’t going to do it but he just kept on looking at me and it was pissing me off and damnit this wasn’t going to happen nope not tonight—

“You want to go check on him, don’t you?” I said, sighing.

“C’mon, Troy! This could be kinda serious! I mean, I wouldn’t wanna be alone if I was having a crazy trip like that!” His gray eyes blinked at me and my shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Damnit. Fine. But if we don’t at least get a little weed out of this then you owe me more McDonalds.”

Soon after, we piled into Roberta and took off. Roberta, to be clear, is Cam’s car. A car which I am certain runs on the power of hope and Cam’s stupidity. This is to say that only Cam can drive it; the thing won’t start for anyone else. I’ve tried enough times to learn this. Maybe I just don’t hope hard enough.

We pulled up next to the apartment complex with a screech and parked along the sidewalk. The complex was quiet, and the slam of the car doors jarred the air. Hopefully our visit wouldn’t wake any pissed off neighbors, that is, if T-bag hadn’t already beat us to the punch.

Halting in front of the apartment, Cam rapped on the door. T-Bag had invested in a new door mat since we’d last been there. It read “Welcome Bitches”, and I briefly wondered whether there was an actual store for douchebags for all their douchebag needs, and then I realized that this place did indeed exist and it was called Spencers. When no one came to the door, Cam rapped a few more times and we waited.

Still nothing.

“You think maybe he left?” I asked.

Cam frowned. “Nah, his car is here, and I don’t think he could’ve made it that far to begin with.”

Of course it couldn’t have been that simple.

Placing a tentative hand on the door handle, Cam pushed it forward and the door swung in easily. We stepped through the threshold and Cam gently closed the door behind us—

Okay well, that’s not what happened. Cam actually stepped back a few paces, roared “I AM THE GOLIATH!” and then crashed through the door. I’m pretty sure that’s how the door came unhinged, but don’t quote me on that. Anyway, I pulled Cam onto his feet and we turned toward the hallway.

“T-bag?” Cam called out. “Hey T-bag, you there?”

Silence answered him. A low murmur echoed from the next room over, like the whir of a TV. Unease settled in my stomach as we walked down the hall and entered the living room. The TV revealed a couple of bubbly old ladies showcasing a collection of china dolls for the amazing low price of 599.99. Stains spotted the carpet. Clothing and empty beer cans littered the floor and cabinets.

Passed out across an armchair, slack-jawed, was T-bag.

His knotted brown hair splayed over his face, dripping with what I prayed was water. The guy reeked. One of the many reasons I couldn’t stand being around T-bag was that he smelled like a walking garbage can. A garbage can full of dirty socks and alcohol. Cam and I exchanged confused glances. I jabbed a finger into T-bag’s neck. He gargled.

“You see, Cam? He’s fine.” I leaned against the wall, not sparing T-bag a second glance. I yawned. Why couldn’t worthless assholes mess themselves up during the day, like normal assholes?

Cam wrinkled his nose. His concern was almost touching. Really. “I dunno, man. Think we should call someone?”

I shrugged. “Nah. Get him some water or something, first.”

He nodded, and the trudge of his footsteps signaled his leaving the room. Sighing, I made a space for myself behind the couch. As much as I didn’t want to be here, Cam was probably going to have us spend another hour at the apartment making sure T-bag didn’t die, and then another hour going through T-bag’s collection of weed and beer. So all in all, the night wasn’t a total loss.

I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through my contacts list for lack of anything better to do. At least half of them were numbers to people I haven’t spoken to in years. The other half consisted of some family, coworkers, and a certain idiot named Camelot Adams. Frowning, I deleted the useless numbers and vowed that I would make the list look less pathetic in the future.

That’s right about when the nightmare from hell began.

The front door slammed open, a crack resounding throughout the apartment. A few staggering footsteps and short, pained whimpers followed shortly after. Someone hiccupped and thumped against the wall, like the confused blunder of a drunk.

Blinking, I peered around the couch.

Leaning against the door frame, a ghostly girl filled the empty space with choked sobs. Her hair was scraped back away from her thin, pointed face. Tear-tracks and mascara smears adorned her eyes, enlarging them and darkening her overall gaunt appearance. She took deep, sharp lungful’s of air. Squinting against the dim lighting, I saw that her skirt was patterned with penguins.

A second later I noticed the gun she held unsteadily at her side.

I pressed my back to the couch, my heart racing. I didn’t think she could see me from this angle, but it didn’t stop me from freaking the fuck out.

The Penguin Girl started speaking. “You… you bastard!” Her voice cracked, and I was instantly reminded of a crow. A crow that was currently issuing the longest litany of curses I’d ever heard in my life. “You fucking cunt! I hate you. I hate so much. I can’t…you don’t even know anyone from fucking Finland, do you? And that’s cause you’re a fucking douchebag. Yeah, you asshole. You should go fuck yourself. But you can’t. Know why? Cause your dick is so fucking small you can’t even fuck yourself!”

Her cursing went on. And on. Despite the ball of fear nesting in my stomach, the amount of anger her tiny body produced was awe-inspiring. It’s important to note, however, that T-bag caught absolutely none of her verbal abuse. The asshole kept on sleeping like a dead man, limp and drooling, as Penguin Girl’s rage boiled over.

“Christ, you…” the Penguin Girl seethed. “You’re not even fucking listening, are you?!”

Now she gets it.

A tremor singed the air. A bang. The kind I’d normally heard in movies and cop shows. Two more blasts trailed after the first. Penguin girl sucked in one more harsh breathe, said one last reverent “fuck you”, then stumbled out of the apartment, leaving only silence in her wake.

Silence had never felt so eerie.

I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were white, and I had to consciously release their grip on the carpeting. Okay, time to go check on T-bag. Only I couldn’t bring myself to move. Anytime now would be great. My everything was shaking, and there was a sinking sensation in my stomach that grew colder with every second. Penguin Girl had brought in a gun. She fired it. At T-Bag? Maybe. Wait—there’s no maybe about that. Penguin Girl most definitely shot T-Bag.

That’s the moment Cam decided to emerge from the kitchen, holding a gallon of milk and a bottle. “Hey Troy, did you turn up the TV or some shit? That shit was so loud I almost spilled the protein shakes—did you know that T-Bag has those protein shakes that tastethe way Spencers smells? I don’t where he gets them but they’re awesome.”

Seeing Cam and his toothy grin shocked me out of my stupor. I sprang up and immediately sputtered out everything I just saw.

“Cam! A crazy Penguin Girl came in here crying and she was angry and yelling at T-Bag even though he couldn’t hear anything and she was holding a gun and T-bag’s an asshole so he didn’t say anything and then Penguin girl shot him like ten times and then she left and I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything and now I think I just let T-bag get killed—”

“Shhh,” he said, pressing a finger to my lips. He looked far more relaxed than the situation warranted. “First of all, I’m proud that you said so many words. Good for you. Second of all, say all that again, but slower and while drinking this nice protein shake.”

I gaped at him, slapping the bottle away when he nudged it against my face. “Those protein shakes taste like Dean Koontz’s ass.”

“But they’re good for you!”

“Don’t care. Dean Koontz.”

Cam nodded his sympathy.

“We need to call an ambulance,” I said, glancing over at T-Bag. Dark stains matted his chest, obscuring the picture over the shirt that once depicted a naked, heavy-chested woman riding a tank.

“Holy tits fuck!” Cam exclaimed, finally seeing T-Bag. “Why the fuck is T-Bag bleeding?!”

“I—actually can’t answer that question,” I hesitated. Through all that screaming, I never heard a legitimate reason behind why Penguin Girl shot T-Bag. Other than, of course, that T-Bag was an asshole. Which seemed reasonable enough at the time.

Cam blinked. “Bro, why haven’t you called anyone yet? You have a phone!”

“Observant as always.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t answer my question, dumbass.”

“Maybe because while you were in the kitchen playing with your dick, I was in here, pissing myself, because a crazy chick walked in here with a gun and assisted T-bag’s passage into the fucking afterlife. And why the hell do you have milk?!”

“Milk is good for you!”

For the third time that night, the abused front door smashed against the frame, having been kicked in by a monster of a human being in a black overcoat. He hunched over in order to pass through the entrance, and when the light hit his face he leered. Three guys poured in after him, all adorned in the same black and white motif, but what captured my attention were the knives they each drew from their pockets.

Cam and I flattened up against the wall. Cam’s eyes were widening, and I privately hoped that T-Bag’s apartment would spend it’s lasts moments being not shitty by absorbing us in the wall plaster. I can confirm that this did not work.

“Quiénes son estos hijos de puta?” said the bearded member of the fright night patrol.

The guys beside him both shrugged. Monster Man stared us down; well, he was actually staring at Cam, who was retroactively participating in the world’s most ill-advised staring contest.

Thankfully, they didn’t seem entirely too interested in us because their attention quickly slid from us to T-Bag. The guy with the lip piercing examined T-Bag’s body, frowning at his corpse. “Hoy, estehijo de putaya está muerto!” he said. The other two guys stepped forward to look closer at the dead asshole before exchanging mutual expressions of surprise. Their gazes shifted to us again. Fuck.

“Hey white boy,” said the remaining affiliate of the scare brigade. This guy wore a beanie. “Did you two kill this cabrón?

After a beat I realized he was speaking to me. “Uh, I, no. We don’t even know what’s happening anymore.” The words were croaked out, but I was proud that I managed to force them out at all.

Beardy guy smirked. “Eh, they did our job for us!”

“No, really,” I repeated. “We didn’t shoot him.”

“Let’s just get him and get out,” said the beanie guy. “I don’t want cops to show up.”

They all nodded their agreement and lip-piercing guy made to hoist up T-Bag, but Cam felt it was absolutely necessary to open his mouth.

“Hey wait!” Cam cried, summoning courage from the depths of his stupid soul. He stepped away from the wall, alarming the Fear Clan enough to raise their blades, and motioned to T-Bag. “What do you need his body for? He’s dead, isn’t he! Be a little more respectful!”

“Cam, shut the fuck up,” I whispered furiously. Holy shit. We may die tonight.

Beardy guy levelled us with a harsh glare. “You got a death wish, puta? We need the body. You killed this asshole anyway, and now we’re takin’ the body off your hands. Pretty sweet deal, no?”

Cam pressed on. “C’mon, man! It’s not like T-Bag’s going to do anything anymore. The guy deserves a proper send off! Its bad luck to defile a dead guy, you know? Christ—was I the only one that liked T-Bag?”

His question met a room full of blank faces.

“Yes, Cam,” I said through my teeth. My focus was still on the Monster Man, whose stoned-faced expression I worried was a cover for a ticking time bomb. “Now, let these nice, currently non-violent dudes take T-Bag away, and let’s jump in Roberta and get the fuck out.”

Those hopes were short-lived, just like T-Bag. Lip-piercing guy strode up to Cam, invading his personal space. Without warning, he gripped the front of Cam’s shirt, slamming his back up against the wall. All color slowly drained away from Cam’s face as the knife was held up to his throat.

“I’m real tired of listening to you talk, puta,” Lip-piercing guy snarled. “I say we kill these two idiots and take the asshole’s body.”

Oh, fuck.

“Wait,” I said, the thud of my heart so loud it pulsed in my ears. “Sorry about my friend. He has brain problems due to his chronic addiction to porn, so he talks crap all the time. It’s really very sad. He says and does stupid shit all the time, like microwaving metal, reading Dean Koontz books. I’m not sure how he gets up in the morning.”

Beardy guy’s eye began twitching. “And who the fuck is Dean Koontz, huh?”

That wasn’t a question I expected, so I paused mid ramble. By some miracle, Monster Man spoke up. “He’s a popular thriller author.” His voice was deep, suiting his massive, bulked up form. “Many of his works are formulaic and contain poor character-development, but their main selling point is in the high-paced plot devices used to keep the story entertaining. Overall, he’s a realistically good business man, but not the best writer.”

Uh.

“Um, yeah. Thank you, man,” I said, nodding awkwardly in his direction. Judging by the flickers of shock worn by the rest the group, Bigfoot didn’t talk much to them either. A sudden sense of clarity washed over me. None of these guys were criminal masterminds. More like middle-management. Someone told them to get something done and they did it, no questions asked.

Lip-piercing guy released Cam with a sneer. “Whatever, man. Let’s just get out of here.”

Beardy guy resumed in throwing T-Bag’s body over his shoulder as easily as a sack of flour. A blood soaked sack of flour. I silently thanked the gods of booze that it wasn’t my lifeless body being carted off to a mafia meeting. Cam, however, seemed more upset over the whole thing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting rapidly around the room. When his gaze settled on mine, he gave me a clouded look and took a swig of the milk carton, which I’m now convinced contained alcohol.

That’s when once again, the door burst open.

“T-BAG, I’MA KILL YOUR PUNK-ASS AND HANG IT ON MY WALL!”

I cringed upon realizing that I recognized that voice.

Craig Quanta thundered into the living room in the same manner he had charged down the halls during high school. His red, unruly hair and short stature made it appear as though a fireball was zipping past, parting the crowds and pissing off nearly everyone he collided with. I made it a point to avoid Craig. Not because he shrieked every word he said and smelled like clam chowder, but because something felt a little off with Craig. Like there was a loose screw rattling around upstairs.

Looking at him right now, a few more screws were missing than I originally thought.

Craig’s eyes were bloodshot and wild. “HEY YOU MOFOS!”

The T-Bag Taskforce stiffened. Lip-piercing guy looked murderous.

“GIMMEE THAT MOTHERFUCKER SO I CAN THROW HIS ASS OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKING BUILDING!”

I ducked to the floor and rolled behind the couch as soon as the brawling began. It’s true that the only guy who wasn’t armed was Craig, but Craig had so much balled up energy he easily clambered over his opponents, throwing his arms and legs everywhere in the most offensive fighting style I’ve ever seen. Monster Man raced at Craig, tripping over a magazine and knocking himself out in the process. Cam, to his credit, didn’t dive into the fight, but contributed by chucking empty beer bottles into the fray and screaming “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!”

~~~

Officer Todd arched an eyebrow.

I coughed. Cam scratched his crotch.

“So that’s it, then?” she asked.

“Yes mam,” I said.

“A hysterical woman arrived to shoot Tyler three times, and during the ensuing fight between four Latino men and a man by the name of Craig, his body was further damaged, thus sustaining the stab wound and the blunt force trauma?”

“Yes mam.”

“That,” she said, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose, “is the most ridiculous story I’ve heard in…well, quite a while.”

“I know mam.”

She leaned back in her chair, resigned. “While that was a fascinating account of tonight’s events, you both should know that the official cause of Tyler’s death was alcohol poisoning. If your story matches up with further investigation, he likely died immediately after you arrived at the apartment.”

I blinked. “What.”

“Mr. Jackson and Mr. Adams, you’re free to go. Thank you for your cooperation. We will be contacting you again in the near future.”

Cam looked at me and shrugged, unfazed by Officer Todd’s blunt admission. His capacity to give any shits had finally run out, and the dark circles under his eyes gave away his exhaustion. It was like looking at a reflection of myself on a regular basis.

Leaving the interrogation room, Cam leaned toward me and muttered, “I don’t know about you, but I’m really feeling me some McDonalds right now.”

And just like that, I stopped questioning my friendship with Camelot.

#MANDA #thekingisdeadlonglivetheking #man-selves #tired #so very tired #story

9 notes · View notes