#this story should not exist and yet

[lrithill]

Nightmare on Clown Street (Pt. 3: Happily Settled)

Hi everyone!

This is the third and final installment of Nightmare on Clown Street.

I want to thank everyone who’s followed the story, left likes or comments — it makes me really happy to know that, at the very least, I managed to make someone smile with this paranoid little fever dream.

This shit gets really wild. It’s definitely been an emotional ride, and I’m super proud of how it all ends.

(Though... a bonus track might be coming, considering how the episode wraps up — wink wink — it’s way too juicy to just leave it there. Hehehe.)

Hope you enjoy the chapter — and requests are always open for me!

Word count: 11,000 words (but it reads fast — it's pure action)

Warnings: Violence, mentions of sexual assault and rape, blood, fights, mild sexual content, sexual humor, butt slapping, involuntary boner, humiliation, religious symbolism, weapons, unconventional weapons, zombies, mutilation, distress, despair, funny food.

Here you got the 2 other chapters.

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/777377407333171200/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt2-the-real-state?source=share (Part 2)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Inside the Church, before the disaster*

A bandaged-handed James, a barefoot Trujilda, and a serene Marian speak with the nun who was on duty at the church that fateful day.

—Sister Beatrice, please… You have to help us! —James pleads, hands clasped together as if hoping for a miracle—. By divine power, we are lost!

James lamented, utterly at the mercy of evil, and really, at the mercy of everything. Powerlessness had been his loyal companion all day long.

Trujilda was holding Marian in her arms, still with her face painted—neither Marian nor James had dared to touch her for fear of angering the demon, or whatever that dark entity was.

—Sister Beatrice. —Trujilda insists—. What can we do? Or what can you do? No one is better than you at handling this kind of calamity… no one but you can exorcise our daughter!!! —she is just short of pulling her own hair—. You have the divine power, the gift that God granted you… NO INFERNAL CREATURE IS STRONGER THAN THAT!!!

CLANG

The sister silences them with her bell, not even sparing them a glance.

—Shhh—she finally breaks her silence.

She was deeply serious, her wise eyes moving over the miserable souls in front of her.

Her perfectly pristine black habit fluttered solemnly in the breeze.

A long, heavy, and voluminous rosary adorned her waist like a belt.

She decides to ignore James and Trujilda’s desperate pleas and walks straight toward Marian—the bearer of the curse.

Trujilda lets her down so the nun can attend to her.

Sister Beatrice looms over the child, gazing at her with an almost sorrowful expression.

—Oh… Daughter… —she said with compassion.

—WHAT—Trujilda shouts.

CLANG

Sister Beatrice silences her again with a strike of her bell.

—Child… —she continues—. You had the dream, didn’t you? —she explains—. You carried the power of fire. And you emerged from the frozen waters.

“James, are you understanding a damn thing this woman is saying? The only thing I want to burn is myself,” Trujilda whispers in his ear.

“Seems like there’s not a single normal person in this place, damn it” he mutters back.

—Listen, Sister—James gets serious—. The coldest bath my daughter’s ever taken is at the beach. —he chuckles at his own joke—. We’re here because just a few hours ago, a man… well, a sorcerer of the dark arts, marked her as part of his cult.

—Exactly—Trujilda confirms—. So if you could do us the favor of helping, we’d be VERY grateful, and we’d be VERY happy to leave as soon as possible. —Trujilda smiles like the Cheshire cat from Alice and nods.

—A man did this to her? —She pulls away, Sister Beatrice’s expression softens.

She studies Marian’s face, grabs her chin, and drags her finger across her cheek, smearing the paint in the process.

—Well, would you look at that? The paint job turned out pretty nice, kid —she says like a granny.

—See, Dad? She likes it too! —Marian sticks out her tongue, mocking him.

James slaps a hand over his face in frustration.

—Alright, I’ve had enough of being mocked for today… Are you messing with us, Sister?! —he glares at her, defiant.

In response, the nun rolls up the sleeves of her habit, revealing some impressively toned arms. 

Her expression, serious as an inquisitor.

James doesn’t even want to imagine what it would feel like to take a bell strike to the head from this woman—she looks more than capable. He immediately backs down.

—Y-you’re v-very strong, Sister… —he stammers, attempting to flatter the horseman of the apocalypse.

—It’s all from prayer: 3x15 reps of Hail Marys in the morning; and, Our Father, to failure. —she finishes with a bicep flex.

“If my hand wasn’t bandaged, I swear…” James grumbles under his breath.

—Do you think I’m deaf, you insolent? —inhales deeply.

—No… no… Sorry Sister… —James excuses himself pathetically. 

She raises the bell aggressively above her head in a movement that surpasses the speed of light.

James clenches his teeth, closing his eyes… The worst part? He doesn’t even try to dodge the fake blow. It’s like he’s already accepted his fate.

Sister Beatrice chuckles.

—Even Jesus would bully with this misguided soul. —the nun laughs confidently.

Then, she takes a deep breath, regaining her composure.

—Your daughter was not chosen, fortunately. —she explains.

—Thank God… Wait, what does that mean? —Trujilda asks, nervous.

—The devil painted in white likes to play, yes… but he wouldn’t have let you escape so easily if she were an angel.

—THE DEVIL PAINTED IN WHITE?! —James and Trujilda scream in unison.

They cling to each other, and Trujilda blows her nose into James’ shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

—What have we done to deserve this? —James cries—. Our poor daughter…

—I’m fine, Dad.

—NO!

Trujilda now turns to Sister Beatrice.

—Do you think I might be cursed too, Sister? —Trujilda blurts out, showing her fingers—. He licked my fingers, I still feel like my body’s been violated… he even held me in his arms. Do I have leprosy? LOOK! —her eye twitches… both eyes, actually.

—Pfff, child, worse things happened to me at the abbey’s summer camp. And here I am, almost 90 years old. —she dismisses it.

—Sister, for someone who’s almost 90, you’re as well-preserved as a can of tomato soup. —Trujilda remarks, astonished.

—That’s what going to mass does to you. Stand - kneel - amen - stand - kneel - amen... 1,2,3…1,2,3…1,2,3…

Trujilda crosses herself —Amen—.

—Oh please, you’re the one complaining? —James snaps back—. The white-painted devil dug his claws into my hand, I even had to bandage it, for God’s sake!!! —he shows his wrapped hand to Sister Beatrice—. It feels like the bones in my fingers are turning into knives, cutting me from the inside out. —his expression is one of sheer terror.

The Sister examines him.

—Mmmmm… That’s arthritis, son. —she rolls her eyes so hard they almost reach Christ himself.

CLANG

—Now I’m the painted devil girl, Daddy, hahaha— Marian grins.

—You have to do something, Sister Beatrice— James drops to his knees.

—The truth is… I feel his presence within you. In fact… I feel it drawing near and near.—her voice echoes through the church walls—. It’s almost upon us… —she finishes.

—-------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, Bruna, Art, and you on the road:

—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

HONK HONK HONK HONK —Art's mouth puffed up like dogs hanging out the car window.

—-------------------------------------------

—HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! —Trujilda nearly faints. James catches her in his arms.

—You will protect us, don’t you, Sister Beatrice? —James begs, while holding his wife.

—The devil was once God’s greatest angel... If the fallen angel rises, who am I to stand on his way? I AM NOTHING BUT THE BELL THAT RINGS IN HIS NAME…

CLANG

—If you wish to be saved—she announces—. Then God must test your worth.

CLANG

Sister Beatrice walks steadily toward the church doors with the confidence of someone who’s personally headbutted the devil. She gestures for the miserable family to follow.

They do—barely able to keep up.

—God gave me these legs to defeat evil, and I’ll run up the damn walls if I have to. MOVE, THE BEAST IS RIGHT BEHIND US!

James and Trujilda whisper to each other, breathless.

—Holy crap, this lady’s on turbo! —James pants—. She’s got the divine power stored in her calves!

—I don’t know if I should join a gym or a convent— Trujilda wheezes, trying to keep up.

Sister Beatrice comes to an abrupt halt at the church entrance. She looks over her shoulder with a confident smile, then blows a kiss to the sky dramatically, like claiming the very gods.

The sky darkens instantly. The sun is swallowed by clouds.

For a moment, it even looks like the moon tries to eclipse the sun—moved by nothing but Sister Beatrice’s unshakeable faith.

—At the convent, we pray hard… and hit harder. —She cracked her knuckles into a fist.

CLANG

Without another word, the nun slams the doors open.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Judgment has begun.

Right beside the entrance, sitting on the ground, there’s a homeless man.

Wrapped in rags, with silver hair so long it looks like a pigeon condo, his sun-worn skin and glassy eyes tell a thousand stories of life on the street.

In his lap rests a cardboard sign that reads: “Help me.”

—Feed the man— Sister Beatrice commands.

CLANG

—Let’s get to it. —the vagabond spits, not even pretending to care.

James, Trujilda, and Marian exchange glances.

Sister Beatrice slams her bell against the ground like a monkey.

CLANG.

—God is testing you. —she declares firmly.

Silence.

James rummages through his pockets and pulls out... an empty gum wrapper.

—Does this count? —he asks and wrinkles his nose

CLANG.

—Are you seriously trying to bribe God with trash? —Sister Beatrice glares at him.

—For God's sake, James! —Trujilda shoves him—. Don’t you have anything else?

James digs deeper quickly.

—I’ve got… a penny, an expired movie ticket, and… half a broken ibuprofen. —His mouth curls sideways, revealing his lower teeth…awkward.

—Why don’t you just hand me your toupee while you’re at it, genius? —the vagabond raises an eyebrow—. Brother, this is an insult even to a stray dog…

Trujilda, panicking, looks inside her purse and pulls out… her broken high heels, a used lipstick, and a half-bitten stocking (she chews them to relieve stress).

—TAKE THIS OFFERING. —she offers it like a sacrifice.

The vagabong dumps her offering onto the ground.

—The alley cats will be forever grateful to you, sister. —he smiles sarcastically.

Sister Beatrice covers her eyes with one hand, in absolute disappointment, as if she had just witnessed Christ himself stumble under the weight of the cross.

—But mom… —Marian tugs on her blouse—. You’ve got some chocolate bars back there.

—WHAT? NO, NO, NO. —Trujilda backs up against the wall, trying to cover her butt—. These kids… always clowning around, hahaha… —laughs nervously.

—You’re not fooling anyone, woman. Just a bite, come on… —the vagabond says with scorn.

—Those bars were bought for you, Marian! —she says, indignant—. And with our own money! —Trujilda nods frantically—. If they’d been a gift, that’d be different!

—Even Judas wasn’t this stingy. —the vagabond rolls his eyes.

—You’re beyond salvation— Sister Beatrice looks at them like she’s staring at Pontius Pilate himself.

—And you, child? —the vagabond asks Marian, without expectations.

Marian pulls a notebook out of her backpack.

—I can make you a paper plane… —she says sweetly, and folds one—. Look.

She throws it. It crashes immediately onto the floor.

—It flies like a pigeon throwing itself off a third-floor balcony, dear. —the vagabond mutters, deadpan.

Sister Beatrice sighs with the weight of a thousand disappointments.

—I expected nothing… and I’m still disappointed. —he says, rolling his eyes.

James crosses his arms.

—Look, sir… we’ve just moved houses, fled for our lives, I don’t even know if I’m gonna make it… I need a doctor —he shows his poorly bandaged hand to his face—. When exactly do you think we had time to stop and buy a sandwich?

Then James remembers… there’s a sandwich in his pocket (he saved it for later). Slowly, he slips his hand into his jacket and feels it.

“Maybe just a tiny bite…” he thinks.

But then he notices the bread’s already a bit stale… and instead of giving it to the poor man, he decides not to share it because “he’s not going to enjoy it enough”

—We are literally being chased by the white-painted demon! —James blurts out before his intrusive thoughts win, and he unconsciously pulls out the sandwich.

The vagabond raises his eyebrows in surprise.

—Oh!! So you’ve met my boy—he says with genuine joy—. How’s he doing? Still not brushing his teeth? We’ve got a bet going on who can last the longest without brushing. —He grins, revealing a set of teeth that look like he just devoured three packs of Oreos and a bowl of lentils.

Trujilda bends over, gagging into his ripped stocking before throwing up. She throws it near a trash pile, and a cat nearby also vomits.

—Is he your friend? —Marian’s eyes light up.

—IS HE HIS FRIEND?! —James whips around to Sister Beatrice, demanding answers.

—I simply tolerate him… unlike you. —the vagabond scoffed, with disdain.

Sister Beatrice massaged his forehead with her fingers, on the verge of snapping

—If none of you have anything to offer God’s servant… I will be forced to pass judgment. —Sister Beatrice declares.

The vagabond nods, supporting Sister Beatrice’s words.

—SIR! OUR DAUGHTER IS POSSESSED! —Trujilda shrieks. 

—The only one possessed here is you, lady. —and then he looks at James—. Are you sure you're running from the right demon? —he sideyes his wife.

Trujilda is so offended that, if she could, her head would be doing full 360º head spins.

—Look, I get it… —he continues—. The demon, the possession, blah blah blah… but damn, you people are miserable. —He drops his head in his fist, radiating apathy.

Sister Beatrice sighs and shakes her head.

CLANG

—You have failed the test.

James and Trujilda stare at each other, utterly dumbfounded.

—WHAT DO YOU MEAN WE FAILED?!

The nun turns away indignantly.

—Didn’t you just beg for God’s mercy a few minutes ago? How do you expect mercy if you don’t even have a shred of compassion? —she points to the lying homeless man.

—Unforgivable. —the vagabond says, shaking his head in disapproval.

James stammers, unable to come up with a response.

He turns to his wife, desperate.

—Honey, how do we fix this?!

—I mean… maybe we can get him something later… —she replies.

The vagabond lets out a laugh of sheer disbelief.

—Oh, sure. Either you pay for my retirement, or don’t bother. —He brushed the words away with a flick of his hand

Sister Beatrice sighs, rubbing her temple.

—There’s nothing more to say. You are condemned.

—WHAT!?

—I said, you are condemned.

—Isn’t there, like… a Plan B? —James tries to negotiate.

—Plan B was feeding the man.

Trujilda presses her hands against her face.

—God, I want to set myself on fire RIGHT NOW.

James inflates his chest like a pigeon.

—Trujilda, listen to me… This is bullshit! —James shouts, completely furious—. There is no God, there is no Devil, and these two scammers are just messing with us. You enjoy our suffering, huh? —he says, referring to them—.  Well, guess what? You’re both gonna burn in hell! —James lets out a deranged laugh—. Trujilda, Marian, we’re getting in the car and we’re leaving. YES, YES, YES… AND IF THE DEVIL REALLY EXISTS, LET HIM STOP ME FROM GETTING INTO THAT CAR!

BOOOOOOMM

He doesn’t get to finish before James' beloved vanilla-colored Beetle, suddenly, bursts into a massive fireball.

A towering tongue of fire rose into the cloudy sky—just like the tongues of flame that hovered over the apostles’ heads on Pentecost.

A blazing, red-hot flare –like a dying poenix–, that, to the family’s terrified eyes, definitely had a clown face.

James dropped to his knees—so hard—that he probably ripped his pants… in the back.

Prrrrrrc…

He clutched his head with both hands.

—MY CAAAAAAR!!! —he screamed to the heavens, just in case God was listening.

He stood up and ran, Trujilda and Marian following close behind toward their fiery destiny.

The vagabond watched them run off. Then, with a shrug, he reached under his mane of hair and pulled out… a sandwich bigger than his own head.

He bit into it with pure satisfaction.

—Bunch of idiots.

He proceeded to pull a bottle of wine from his coat and raised it in a toast to the empty air.

—God bless these morons.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chaos reigned.

A thick cloud of smoke and dust blanketed the landscape, making it nearly impossible to see anything. Glowing embers floated in the air—beautifully and deadly—burning the lungs and skin on contact.

James, Trujilda, and Marian held hands to avoid getting separated, slowly pushing forward through the choking haze, waiting for it to clear.

—I see something! —Trujilda announced—. A figure!

—Careful, it could be anything —James replied, fearing the worst.

The silhouette comes running toward them.

James assumes a defensive stance—the majestic “bald eagle with hippo on crack variation” pose.

The smoke clears just enough to reveal the mysterious figure and it’s…

—Bruna?! —Trujilda can’t believe her eyes—. What are you doing here?!

—Guys, for the love of God, you have no idea what I’ve been through… —she says, panting.

—Oh please, tell us? —James laughs—. I guarantee whatever happened to you doesn’t beat our nightmare.

—I literally almost died. —she begins—. I have driven downhill at over 180 km/h—

—I’m the hero of this story. —James cuts her off, silencing her mouth with his finger—. Stop trying to steal the spotlight.

—YOU?! Allow me to list all the heroic things I’ve done that you haven’t: I tried to rescue a hostage… I drove with a psychopath hanging off my car, I—

—A PSYCHOPATH HANGIN OFF YOUR CAR?! —James and Trujilda shout in unison, horrified.

—The clown you told me about over the phone. —she replies—. I only got here because you told me about him.

—Is he here? —Marian asks, a little too excited, a smile creeping onto her face.

—TELL ME YOU KILLED HIM! TELL ME YOU BLEW HIM TO HELL! —James screams.

—Blew him up? Yeah. But that bastard landed just fine. —she clenches her fist in frustration—. That dude’s good… way better than me.

—NO… NO… NO… NOOOOOOO— James cries out—. THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING.

—HE’S THE DEVIL—Trujilda grabs Bruna by the shoulders—. Sister Beatrice told us so at the church…

—I don’t know that who that Beatrice is, but honestly? I don’t  want to meet any more new people today… —she sighs, tired.

—She’s good, she’s gonna help us when that freak shows up —James starts hyping himself up—. There’s six of us now, against two of them… they won’t stand a chance.

—Six? Who’s the sixth? —Bruna asks.

—The homeless guy, he’s with us too… WHETHER HE LIKES IT OR NOT. —fist clenched in fury.

HONK HONK

Everyone jumps.

The fog finally clears completely, revealing the silhouettes of the really main characters in this story.

You’re leaning against his chest, safe in the shelter of his presence.

Art removes his sunglasses and pulls down his hoodie, revealing his blood-streaked face—his own blood, to everyone's surprise–. He grins from ear to ear –his three new friends have returned.

He greets them with his signature wave, fingers fluttering. Bruna had delivered him exactly where he wanted to be.

“Should I tip her for the ride?” he wondered.

You’re terrified. You don’t know how this is going to play out, you don’t know what Art’s plan is—but you do know he loves intrigue. And best of all, you know he’s going to win.

—STAY BACK —James orders.

Art pulls an exaggerated “scared” face, lifting both fists to his cheeks like a little girl. As if James had actually intimidated him.

—Oh, so you’re still laughing at me, huh… Well, just so you know, now we’ve got the cornerstone… the one who, with the power of God, is going to destroy you. —James says confidently, a smug half-smile on his face.

To this, Art raises a hand to his brow, pretending to scan the horizon like he’s looking for this so-called Goliath they’re referring to.

Then he glances at you, frowning. He strokes his chin, fingers tapping dramatically as if deep in thought.

“Who the hell is this Messiah they’re talking about?”

—Art… I really don’t like this… What if… What if it’s Sienna? What if it’s a warrior angel? —you grip his hand tightly, knowing how serious that would be.

Art feels the way you squeeze his hand, and brings it to his lips, kissing it gently. Trying to calm you down, telling you without words: “it’s going to be okay”..

He looks at you with one eyebrow raised, then flicks his eyes toward the family, and back at you —with a condescending air— as if saying:

“Do you seriously think these people are a threat?”

CLANG

Art goes on alert, waiting for the mist to reveal the source of the bell.

—HA HA HA! THERE SHE IS! —James tastes victory on his tongue—. LONG LIVE CHRIST THE KING!

CLANG

Art scans the fog, his eyes darting rapidly from side to side.

CLANG

Finally, she appears. That unmistakable cloak, that face carved from stone, those cold, her all-knowing  eyes locking onto Art.

Art meets her gaze. His smile spreads, revealing bloody teeth. His pupils dilate like a predator’s.

You glance at Art with uncertainty—when suddenly… he dashes away from you at full speed.

Sister Beatrice also charges toward Art, her veil whipping behind her in the wind, the burning ashes scorching her clothes.

Bell in hand.

Everyone holds their breath.

James lowers his thumb like a Roman emperor demanding death in the coliseum.

“Something has to happen. He’s always one step ahead”, you think.

The collision between these two forces of nature is imminent.

Art’s hands are raised in attack position, ready to grab that old woman by the head and slam her skull into the ground, splattering her brains across the ground.

Sister Beatrice charged at full speed, her eyes shut, her feet moving so fast it looked like she was levitating.

Her right hand was clenched into a fist, with only her index and middle fingers raised—possibly casting some divine miracle to shield her during the fight. At the same time, she whispered a prayer.

James dropped to his knees, trembling with emotion.

—SHE IS GOD’S CHOSEN ONE! THIS IS THE END OF YOUR REIGN, CLOWN! —he shouts at the top of his lungs

Everything had been decided.

The immovable force was finally meeting the unstoppable force.

The trumpets of the apocalypse echoed.

Fire rained from the sky.

The serpent against the Lamb of God.

Two weapons of mass destruction about to collide in a supernova of light and devastation, obliterating everything within a 50-meter radius.

And…

And then…

Let there be light

CLAP

And there was light.

HIGH-FIVE.

Only the wind stirred the dust and embers around them.

Bruna blinked three times, trying to process what she had just witnessed. James stood there, mouth agape, his brain shutting down like an old Windows PC.

—WHAT. —James couldn’t comprehend—. Wh-what was that? —He quietly put away the sandwich he had been enjoying (because, honestly, what better moment to have a snack than while witnessing your enemy’s destruction?).

—Wait, wait, wait… WHAT?! —Trujilda is absolutely dumbfounded—. James… fix this! QUICK!

Art and Beatrice pull each other into a tight hug, loudly slapping each other’s backs multiple times.

HONK—Art greets her.

CLANG—Beatrice responds.

Art claps his hands together, excited.

He gestures for you to come closer. Without hesitation, you do.

—Oh! So now you’ve got a girlfriend, huh, you rascal? —Sister Beatrice pokes him playfully in the chest.

Art grins and shrugs,  moving on his heels side to side—putting on his best innocent little boy face—before puckering his lips in an exaggerated kiss, as if to say: “Who could resist this face?”

You give him a kiss on the cheek.

Art immediately puts on a shocked expression, as if you’d done something inappropriate. Then, without warning, he smacks your ass.

CLAP

The sound echoes through the entire arena.

—ART!

He simply points at you with his thumb, shaking his head while rolling his eyes toward the sky.

"I can’t take her anywhere."

—What I have to deal with… —you say, though you’re obviously joking.

—I feel for you— Sister Beatrice sympathizes, but for the first time, she actually laughs.

You introduce yourselves properly.

—Art, what the hell is this?! —you ask, still shocked.

To which Art responds by raising a hand to his ear in the shape of a phone —thumb and pinky out— and wiggling it, as if saying:

“I’ve got my contacts.” He winks at you.

He then starts mimicking a phone call while staring at James, mouthing the words like he’s talking to him through an imaginary line:

“Yes, yes, hello, yep, the alliance is confirmed. Uh-huh, everything’s in order. Kisses, bye.”

And ends it with a comical hang-up gesture.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dust cloud finally clears completely, and now everyone can see each other’s faces.

The sun has been completely swallowed by the cluster of clouds summoned by Sister Beatrice. Streaks of lightning—like glowing arteries—are visible in the sky, followed by deafening thunder.

A thunderstorm is approaching.

And storms? They're good friends with black magic—harbingers of the supernatural.

The only light illuminating the combat arena now is the fire from James’ car explosion, which—unlike Bruna’s car—is still burning and only growing more monstrous by the minute.

—I’M CALLING THE POLICE! —Bruna yells, phone in hand.

—YOU SHOULD CALL THE POLICE ON YOURSELF, YOU NEARLY KIDNAPPED ME! —you shout from a distance.

Bruna starts dialing the police.

Just as she’s about to press the green call button—

WHAM

James slaps the phone out of her hand and immediately stomps on it.

—If you’re gonna call the cops, do it to report me… ‘CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO KILL THESE BASTARDS! —James beats his chest like a gorilla—. YOU CAN WALK OUT OF JAIL, BUT NOT OUT OF THE CEMETERY. —He rips off his suit jacket and cracks his neck.

Bruna is speechless, staring at her shattered phone on the ground… and the gorilla-man standing in front of her.

Art is absolutely losing it, cracking up at James’ declaration.

He starts posing like he’s Mr. Olympia, showing off his “big and mighty” muscles to James (which he absolutely does not have). He flexes his spaghetti arms with such intensity that his face looks like he’s suffering from a severe case of constipation—but hey, it’s the effort that counts.

But when it comes to muscles? Sister Beatrice’s got the real deal.

She unleashes the massive rosary wrapped around her waist and wields it like a nunchaku with the skill of a seasoned ninja.

—ORAAAAA —she yells like she was just pulled straight out of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure.

She launches into a flying kick, and the momentum carries her into two more spinning air kicks.

She soars through the air like a peregrine falcon.

She lands on the ground at the same moment a lightning bolt strikes her, electrifying her rosary and infusing it with the power of the storm veil.

You and Art watch her from behind��”thank God she’s on our side”, you both thought.

Art is powerful too. But you? Not so much. He glances at you, thoughtful. Then he looks around… and gets an idea.

In an attempt to help you not look totally underleveled, Art picks up his "CIRCUS" sign that somehow survived the chaos, and hands it to you.

It has powers. (Good luck figuring out how to use them.)

Trujilda ties up her hair and removes the stiletto heels from her shoes, brandishing them like dual daggers—slay queen mode: activated.

Bruna enters her “main character energy” phase.

Marian hides behind a bush, as if she’s watching a live episode of Power Rangers.

Both sides stare each other down from opposite ends of the arena.

In one corner of the ring:

James, bare-knuckled and burning with righteous rage.

Bruna, with her iron will forged in fire.

Trujilda, wielding stilettos like dual vampire-slaying stakes–ready to taste blood.

In the other corner of the ring:

Art, with his raw, innate power. (He doesn’t need description)

Sister Beatrice, armed with her electric rosary and unshakable faith.

You, holding the “circus” sign –at least it’s 1 meter long, for the record–, but you look more like you’re headed to a flat-earther rally, to be honest. (That stupid “circus” message making you feel like a real clown).

(Art still has that absurd butcher knife in his back pocket from this morning, but seeing that James wants to go bare-fist, he decides to level the playing field—for dramatic tension, obviously.)

And the fight begins:

Sister Beatrice charges in first, moving like a ninja, flipping through the air like a holy hurricane.

She’s moving at the speed of light—doesn’t matter. Bruna has already mapped out her trajectory down to the last millimeter… even before she moved.

Intercepts her mid-air with a powerful leap. A brutal kick lands directly on Beatrice’s face.

Any normal human would have their jaw unhinged by a hit like that—but Sister Beatrice keeps her composure, face dead serious—even as Bruna’s foot presses into her cheek like a soccer player winding up for a kick straight out of Inazuma Eleven.

Without breaking expression, Sister Beatrice twists her neck like a ragdoll.

Bruna’s foot slides forward from the remaining momentum—

And with her electrified rosary, Beatrice whips it like a cowboy lasso, snaring Bruna’s leg with the speed of Jesus turning water into wine.

She spins Bruna mid-air and slams her into the ground, hard enough to make the pavement quake.

Bruna is flung into a pile of trash bins, pinned there.

Sister Beatrice dives after her like a bald eagle from heaven, arms stretched wide like the wings of a fallen angel, bare feet aimed squarely at Bruna’s skull…

—MOSES SPLITTED THE SEAS! AND I’M GONNA SPLIT YOUR HEAD IN TWO!

Just as she was about to deliver the final blow, Bruna smiles.

She turns.

And…

MEOW

A cat.

Bruna grabs it without hesitation off the ground and hurls it into Sister Beatrice’s face. Claws sink in. The nun screams. Her eagle vision—blinded.

Bruna spins out of the way just in time, watching as her opponent writhes on the ground, struggling to pry the beast off her face.

She shows no mercy—unleashing punches worthy of Mike Tyson. If it weren’t for the rabid cat tangled in Beatrice’s hair, she might’ve bitten an ear off too.

—Try peeling that cat off, mother Teressa—she spits.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the arena—there you are.

You see Art closing in on James. You’re not sure if you should help him…

When suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you spot Trujilda coming at you.

BAM!

She slams into your side, throwing you off balance.

Her hands—gripping her stiletto heels—swing toward you. She’s trying to stab you in a frenzied combo, an endless flurry of strikes, like she’s got infinite stamina.

She moves like an assassin, those sharp daggers aiming to pierce your flesh and kill you through sheer blood loss.

—THAT HOUSE IS GONNA BE OURS! —she screams, her teeth showing.

You stumble backward, dodging clumsily.

Her face isn’t even human anymore—it’s the face of a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth, like a starving, diseased vermin.

—I’M GONNA KILL YOU HA HA HA —she cackles—. I’M GONNA DESTROY YOU.

She raises both heels high above her head, preparing a fully charged overhead strike straight for your skull.

Now it’s clear.

The moment she lifts her arms, she leaves her chest completely exposed and—

BAM!

You slam the edge of the wooden sign into her ribs.

Trujilda spits blood and folds over, clutching her gut.

You seize the opportunity and strike her in the skull with the sign, dropping her to her knees.

You’re about to land another blow to keep her down, when she drives a stiletto heel straight into your foot with all her strength.

You scream in pain, trying to lift your foot—but it’s pinned to the floor, completely stuck.

With the other heel, she stabs you in the side of your thigh, making you bleed down your leg.

Trujilda stands up and goes right back on the attack—a hook from the right, followed by another from the left, over and over.

Several of those punches land—your blood spilling fast. . You stumble backward, and she stalks after you like a beast cornering its prey.

But then—you gather yourself.

You raise the sign and use it as a shield.

An attack comes from below—you deflect it.

Another from the left—you block it cleanly.

—I’M GONNA DESTROY YOUR STUPID SIGN! —she screams and spits blood in your face.

Her heels hit so hard they start puncturing the wood, splintering sharp fragments into the air.

The splinters dig into your fingers, pricking you, making them bleed—you won’t be able to hold this position much longer…

You need to attack.

Then, without warning, you shift the sign sideways, taking advantage of its aerodynamics in this position.

You smash the jagged edge right into Trujilda’s face.

You watch as splinters and her tears fly out of her eyes upon impact.

You don’t stop. With a swift backhand motion, you swing the sign again, striking her from the opposite side—another perfect blow, full of raw power.

This time, it’s not just tears flying—it’s teeth.

She spits blood but… for a brief moment… She smiles —that artificial smile, like a poorly made doll, with eyes nearly bulging out of her skull. Defiant. Still hungry for a fight.

You sense the advantage and push forward, winding up for a third strike—

But this time, Trujilda is ready.

Before you can land the next hit, she lunges at the sign, biting down on it like a velociraptor.

Her teeth sink into the wood, and with a violent shake of her head, she tears it from your hands, flinging it meters away.

Leaving you completely exposed.

She pounces on you.

You try to escape.

You run toward the sign, but you’re too late—she’s already leapt onto you like a wild snow leopard.

You crash to the ground in a whirlwind of heels, kicks, and fists.

You grab a handful of sand from the ground and hurl it into her face.

She inhales the sand, choking violently, as her eyes fill with grit, blinding her frenzied gaze.

She claws at her own face, screaming, scraping her skin raw with the sand, like an animal

Maybe that buys you some time.

But elsewhere in the arena—

The final battle is unfolding.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art vs James

—NOTHING IS GOING TO SAVE YOU FROM THIS— James laughs, full of arrogance.

Art slowly turns around, raising an eyebrow, as if he seriously can’t believe this guy is talking to him. He points to himself, expression dripping with sarcasm:

"Mmmm… you talking to me? That was a good joke." 

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, like he just heard the dumbest thing in the universe.

—When I knock your teeth out, we’ll see if you’re still laughing, asshole… —James grits his teeth—. You humiliated me in front of my wife and—

James stops mid-sentence.

His brain short-circuits at what he’s witnessing.

Art has turned around. His own arms are wrapped around his torso, mimicking someone making out with him—mocking the way he kissed Trujilda before.

Finally, he spins back around with a smirk, points at James with a single finger, and sticks his tongue out — mocking how pathetic he sounds.

—I’M GONNA TAKE YOU APART PIECE BY PIECE! SLOW ENOUGH FOR YOU TO FEEL EVERY SECOND, YOU PIECE OF SHIT… —James growls.

Art slaps his thigh in silent laughter dramatically —clearly amused.

James unwinds the bandage from his injured hand. His bones crack as he stretches it out, a dry, unsettling noise.

Art’s mouth forms a dramatically exaggerated 'O',  then stretches into a mischievous grin.

And then—

RRRAAAHH

James rips open his shirt, revealing his bare chest (beer belly included), like some kind of tribal warrior preparing for battle. If he had a knife, he’d probably carve up his own pecs just to paint himself in his own blood.

Art’s pupils dart around, looking side to side, scanning for a hidden camera.

"Really, dude?"

—I’M RIGHT HERE! —James spreads his arms—. I WANT A REAL FIGHT! FIGHT ME LIKE A REAL MAN!

Art swallows hard.

He pretends to take off his pants, acting like he misunderstood James—as if to fight like a "real man" you have to strip down completely.

—OH! NO, NO —James covers his eyes with his hands—Just the upper body, god…

Art pulls a face like “ahh, of course,” and calmly buttons his pants back up.

It’s not that he has a problem stripping down, but the situation is so ridiculous he can’t help but laugh. Besides, he’s so pale that if he takes off his hoodie, he might blind everyone around him… this guy looks practically fluorescent.

He chuckles to himself, gestures to James with his finger as if to say “hold on a sec,” and starts undressing.

Out of habit, he glances at you—intending to turn this into an improvised striptease just for fun—

But then he notices you’re busy fighting for your life against Trujilda.

That concerns him a little bit.

He decides to get serious and wrap this up quickly.

Art pulls off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing his lean but moderately defined body.

For a brief second, he covers his nipples with his fingers, feigning shame—then immediately regains his battle composure.

He honks at James.

Honk? = "Fine?"

James gets cocky at the sight of Art’s slim figure—he doesn’t exactly look like a threat in a hand-to-hand fight.

*(Author’s note: Between you and me, Art is criminally hot and we would absolutely devour him head to toe. You know it. I know it.)*

James narrows his eyes.

—I’m not stupid… I know you have a knife. I saw it this morning. —points at his jeans.

Art rolls his eyes and mimics talking with his hand, opening and closing his fingers like a puppet—mocking James for running his mouth.

Slowly, he reaches into the back pocket of his pants…

And pulls out an absurdly large butcher knife.

(How the hell did that even fit in there!?)

He lets it drop to the ground with a loud—

CLANK

Art raises both palms, arching an eyebrow at James.

"Anything else, princess?"

—That’s it…— James grins, malice spreading across his face.

Art motions with his index finger.

"Come here."

James doesn’t need to be told twice. He lunges forward.

Art watches him approach, but he remains completely calm.

After all, he’s practically immortal—sure, he can feel pain, but at most, James might leave him with a couple of bruises before he knocks him out.

James throws a punch with everything he’s got, aiming straight for Art’s face.

But—Art moves with insulting speed.

PLAF!

His hand catches James’ fist mid-air, as effortlessly as a pro baseball player snatching a slow-pitched ball from a child.

James hears a crack.

—Shit…

Art twists his wrist —James’ immediate reaction is pure agony.

He doubles over, overwhelmed by the unexpected strength of Art, who’s now manhandling him like a ragdoll.

With his free hand, Art mimics a yawning gesture, as if this fight is boring him to death.

"Too easy."

James’ blood boils—if this guy wants to take a nap so badly, he’ll make sure to put him to sleep himself.

With his free hand, James swings a hook toward Art’s side, aiming below the ribs, straight at his organs.

But Art was already expecting it.

WHAM!

With his other hand, Art catches James’ second fist mid-air.

Art grins, watching him struggle completely immobilized—and without a second thought—

CRACK

Art slams his forehead into James’ skull with a dry, sickening thud.

A burst of pain explodes inside James’ head, and his vision flashes white.

If there’s one thing Art’s got, it’s a massive head (both, indeed)—that shit is like a bowling ball.

The bleeding is instant—blood gushes from James’ forehead, dripping down his nose and chin.

Art laughs—loud and unhinged—still holding James’ now completely useless fists.

—Oh, so that’s how we’re playing, huh? —he muttered under his breath.

James seizes the moment—he wraps his leg around Art’s knee, trapping him.

(Showing off those two Jiu-Jitsu classes he took.)

He pushes with his arms, trying to throw Art off balance—forcing him to let go, or risk falling to the ground.

And—

PAOW!

James headbutts Art right in the mouth.

Art is taller, so the impact smashes directly into his lips, splitting them open. Blood spurts.

—Who’s laughing now, dumbass? —James sneers.

But Art— Instead of spitting out the blood—

He licks it off his lips.

His pupils dilate—blood threads blooming in his eyes like shattered glass.

His sharp-toothed grin, now smeared with crimson, shows something more than just mockery and amusement.

Killer instinct.

The taste of blood awakens something feral inside him.

His gaze shifts, darkness spreads across his irises —fueled by the demon that lives within.

Art charges at James like a predator.

James doesn’t even have time to react before he’s slammed to the ground.

Art’s hands instantly reach for his neck, crushing his windpipe.

Choke—it’s the only thought in his mind.

James flails, throwing punches in every direction—desperate—writhing beneath Art.

But the force above him is inhuman — too strong, too ruthless, draining every ounce of his strength.

His lungs burn.

Art’s blood drips onto his face, thick streams sliding into James’ mouth, making him gag and making it even harder to breathe.

Art is determined — he’ll choke and crush until James’ neck looks like a vulture’s, until his nails puncture the trachea and shatter the cervical spine down to the bone.

His eyes no longer look human.

Not now.

He watches James’ face turn blue with satisfaction—and smiles.

But then…

Out of the corner of his vision—

He sees you, still fighting Trujilda.

And he remembers.

He remembers that you don’t want anyone to die.

The demonic glow in his pupils fades.

His hands release their grip.

Art’s eyes return to their usual color—green.

James is unconscious, breathing shallowly, but —he’s stable.

Art moves off of him, but remains seated on his body, exhaling deeply.

He finally relaxes, realizing James is still alive.

PLAP

He slaps him—maybe a little too hard…

PLAP

Another one, this time with the back of his hand—definitely too hard.

Art laughs, playing with his new toy.

—AGH!

With a violent jolt, James comes back to life— dragging in a desperate breath of oxygen.

Art gives him a thumbs-up and raises an eyebrow.

“You good?”

James barely nods, gasping for air.

Art gets up and turns around, admiring the chaos in front of him:

Bruna beating the crap out of an old lady who’s got a rabid cat tangled in her hair…

You, fending off Trujilda’s stilettos with a giant wooden sign…

He wipes a hand down his face, staring at the fucking daycare center unfolding before him.

“All this… just because I didn’t want to sleep on the couch.”

Art turns back around, giving James a soft, sarcastic clap, like “Well done, buddy. Not bad. You even made me sweat a little. Now go take care of your goddamn family and get the fuck out.”

Art turns around, and his eyes come face to face with a blade.

It flies straight for his neck.

Art turns just in time to dodge it—but not fast enough.

The blade slices his skin.

His jugular.

A jet of dark blood sprays out.

Art clutches his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

His bare body gets immediately  drenched in blood—the wound impossible to close.

His vision blurred.

—If you play dirty, then I’ll play dirty too... —James murmured, twirling Art’s butcher knife in his hand.

Art bared his teeth.

He should’ve seen this coming… He spared his life, and this is how James repays him—

With a knife to the throat, in cold blood.

“Bastard…” he thought.

Art staggered backward, retreating from the blade, feeling the flood of blood filling his lungs.

James walked toward Art, slow and deliberate.

—You are not gonna rest in peace, you are gonna rest in pieces… and then I’m gonna burn your body in the flames of my car. —He aims the knife at Art, already picturing where each cut will land, thirteen cuts exactly. No more. No less.

And then—

The ground trembled.

Cracks tore through the scorched battlefield, branching out like lightning beneath the burning wreckage of James’ car.

Deep fissures yawned open, splitting the earth with a thunderous groan — the world itself seemed to scream.

The fractures widened. A blinding, golden light surged from the abyss, as if heaven and hell had merged in molten brilliance.

Crimson and gold dust swirled upward in spirals, dancing like the ashes of forgotten gods.

James’ beloved car began to sink, slowly at first — then with sudden violence — swallowed by the earth's insatiable hunger, its maw opening like the jaws of some long-forgotten mythological beast.

The ground gave way beneath their feet, snapping the arena in two — twin islands adrift in chaos.

The roar of the earth echoed across the battlefield —

And somehow… It sounded like music.

A strange, sweet scent wafts up from the glowing chasm below.

“Gobble up your order, quick!

Before it runs away!

’Cause food's a little funny

At the Clown Café!”

Everyone stares downward, frozen in wide-eyed horror.

The ground is gone. Only nightmare remains.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the arena, Bruna’s luck runs out.

The ground collapses right under her, sending her plummeting straight into the void.

She lands on a tiny tea table.

—Mind your manners... Don’t forget the pinky... —whispers an old lady, who’s stirring her tea with a severed pinky finger—. HA HA HA.

Bruna jumps up instantly, totally disoriented. 

She throws the tea in the old woman’s face, who just keeps laughing as it scalds her skin —bubbles rising across her flesh.

Bruna tries to climb the rocky wall, scrambling up. But just as she reaches the top...

MEOW

Sister Beatrice throws the same cat Bruna threw at her earlier.

(Revenge. Feline edition.)

Bruna screams in pain and falls with a thud.

Sister Beatrice dives into the pit after her, landing with flawless form.

She whips her electric rosary around Bruna’s neck like a lasso.

—Bad dog—Beatrice hisses—. That’s what you get for misbehaving,

She leaves Bruna chained to a pole like she’s a pet.

—AARRRGGGHHH!

Bruna growls and squirms, trying in vain to break free from the power of faith.

—God bless this disaster—she mutters.

CLANG

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marian rushes across the twisted arena, desperately trying to find her parents.

She watches as each of them runs off in opposite directions, unsure where to go—She starts to cry.

—Have you opened your present yet, sweetheart? —a woman’s voice drifts up from the pit—

Every child gets one. There is no telling what you may find! —her tone is warm and sweet.

—A present? —Marian asks.

—You never know what surprises are waiting... —the woman giggles— Art will be so happy to have you come play with the other children.

—Art?

—And, speaking of surprises, he might even let you ride his tricycle... He only shares it with his favorites—Her voice is pure sunshine—. And judging by your makeup, I can tell you must be very special.

The cloud of red dust clears, revealing the woman behind the sweet voice.

She’s dressed like a clown, wearing a blue dress, a matching hat, and purple striped tights. Her makeup is also blue, with a wide, painted smile.

She begins strumming a banjo and dances cheerfully to the music.

Marian doesn’t hesitate—she jumps.

She lands on a couch shaped like a mouth, complete with teeth and a tongue.

A little boy with balloons for eyeballs hands her the black makeup pencil her mother had taken away earlier.

—Thank you —she says.

The boy smiles and floats away, inflating his colored balloon-eyes as he rises.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the other side of the arena…

Trujilda pulls away from you in terror at the sudden “earthquake,” jumping onto a platform that breaks off without warning.

She tries to leap to solid ground but ends up dangling from the edge.

—JAMEEEEESSS! —she screams.

Trujilda dares a first glance into the hole.

And what she sees… gives her all the strength she needs to pull herself up.

Something was approaching her foot…

A writhing mass of corpses—or is it a single creature?—twisting together in a tangled mess of charred children. Arms, legs, heads everywhere, like puzzle pieces forced to fit together.

—AAAAAAAAAAAAH! —she screams, a shriek so high-pitched it could shatter glass.

She finally scrambles up on her own, frantic, searching for James and Marian, terrified they might’ve fallen into this cursed pit.

But her eyes land on something else.

She now finds herself on Art’s side. His body covered in blood from the hemorrhage James caused—and the sight almost makes her vomit.

—Looks like my coward of a husband isn’t such a coward after all—she chuckles—.

Gave you what you deserved, you freak.

But Art isn’t listening.

The ground has split open between him and James, leaving a deep abyss between them.

Which, thankfully, saved him from more machete attacks.

But…

Who’s going to save you now?

Because James has just landed safely on your side of the battlefield.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James staggers, but regains his balance just in time to turn toward you.

You take a step back as you see the shirtless man wielding a machete.

—Well, well, well… —he mutters, wiping the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand—. Look what we have here... Miss Clown herself. —he says, twirling the machete—

Nothing personal, but if your boyfriend wants to play with my stuff… I’ll play with his.---His eyes darken.

He licks his lips. That predator grin spreads across his face.

Art, still on the other side of the fissure, keeps pressure on his neck with both hands—blood slipping between his fingers.

He’s helpless…

But not helpless enough not to react when he sees James approaching you with obvious intent.

Art’s eyes blaze with fury.

—Well, well… from Arthur the Charmer to Arthur the Nearly Headless—Trujilda mocks Art, walking toward him with cocky steps— What trick are you gonna pull now?

Art  doesn’t let her finish the sentence—

ZAS

He grabs her by the hair.

He shoves her face into his armpit, pressing hard, muffling her irritating voice into silence.

—jhafdoisnhd—she mumbles into his skin.

She tries to hit Art’s chest, but her arms go limp. Her screams fade. She collapses at his feet.

(Chloroform. The best deodorant. Approved by Art.)

Art turns his attention back to James—and you.

His brain calculating like a computer.

James steps toward you, crushing the wooden sign you were using as a shield.

You're standing dangerously close to the edge of the abyss.

—And you know what the best part is? —he says, looking at you— That when this is over, that clown will have to live knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. —He smiles, remembering how James himself couldn’t stop Art with Trujilda. —HOW IRONIC, RIGHT?! —he shouts over to Art.

You take a step back, your stomach turning from the way he looks at you.

The danger is thick in the air, like a knife pressing against your skin.

You know you can’t beat him in strength.

You know Art is too far away to save you...

—No… don’t come any closer —your voice comes out weak.

James laughs.

His shadow swallows you as he takes another step forward.

—Is that all you’ve got? Fear? —he tilts his head, pretending to pity you—. Don’t look at me like that… I just want Artie to know how it feels. And if I remember right… that true love kiss? That was your idea, you bitch. —he spits, and charges toward you.

Your hands shake, sweat making your clothes cling to your skin.

A chill runs down your spine as James lifts his hand, like he’s about to touch you.

On the other side of the abyss, Art stands frozen, out of options.

The gap is several meters wide—

He has no way to reach you��

Wait.

No way?

His eyes flash. 

“What if…”

He could reach you… in part?

Without hesitation, he drives his fingers into the wound on his neck in one brutal motion, tearing the flesh apart—widening it, more and more.

He grits his teeth in pain—

But it’s the only way.

With most of the tissue now separated, he grabs his own head with both hands—

And starts to pull upward...

Pull...

Pull…

And then…

SHRUAAACK

He rips his own head off.

The flesh tears completely apart, and a fountain of dark blood bursts from Art’s neck like an oil geyser.

Art’s body holds his severed head above his shoulders.

His long, muscular esophagus, still attached to the head, drips blood like a cursed tentacle.

With one hand, Art’s body lifts his own head—. And with the strength of a professional pitcher, he hurls it in your direction.

Art’s head soars through the air, tongue flapping out like a dog sticking its head out of a car window.

HONK!

Art’s body calls for your attention.

You turn instinctively.

You see something flying toward you—strange, fast, impossible to process—until it lands in your arms with a solid, wet THUD.

Art looks at you.

You look at him.

He gives you his best smile and winks.

—WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! —James freezes in place.

Still holding the head, you notice Art wiggle his esophagus, swinging like a handle.

And you understand perfectly.

—Don’t worry... I’ll aim for the squishy parts—you tell Art, analyzing James’ body—So, basically... all of it. —you laugh.

Art’s eyes light up—he loves seeing you so ready to beat the living hell out of James.

—You gave me your head... I’ll give you some head after this. —you whisper to him with a wicked smile—.A fair trade.

Art’s mouth drops open in shock—then he grins devilishly, his esophagus wagging like a happy puppy’s tail.

You grip the esophagus tight, wielding Art’s head like a medieval mace.

James can’t believe what he’s seeing—Is that woman seriously swinging her boyfriend’s severed head as a weapon?

(That’s relationship goals).

James steps back, but it’s too late.

—WHAT THE FU—

BAM!

You slam Art’s head into his face with all your strength. James yells in pain and stumbles backward.

—Our relationship is as solid as my boyfriend’s skull —you laugh.

BAM!

Another hit—this time to the gut. James doubles over, gasping for air.

Art’s skull is shockingly heavy. Hard as a rock. It’s like swinging a wrecking ball—one that won’t stop staring at you with that shit-eating grin.

James lifts his head, nose broken, eyes swelling.

He weakly raises the machete, trying to aim it at your body.

But you’re faster.

—Catch! —you call out to your boyfriend / weapon.

Art opens his mouth—And you swing him forward, never letting go of his esophagus.

His teeth sink into the blade of the machete—like a pit bull—just before James can swing it.

You yank the esophagus—And Art brings the machete back to you.

You catch it with your free hand, consider using it… but it’s not worth it. So you casually toss it aside, far away.

—This can't be real…THIS CAN’T BE HAPP—

BAM!

You shut him up with another skull-slam to the temple.

James drops to his knees, spitting blood, his nose broken. He has no time to react.

—We’re the perfect couple, James —you say triumphantly—The dream team. The dynamic duo.

Art smiles — then immediately makes a skeptical face, like—

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s gonna be living on aspirin tomorrow.”

But whatever—this is way too fun for him.

You lift Art’s head and plant a passionate kiss on his lips, tongues dancing, right in front of James’ horrified, disgusted face.

Art’s esophagus coils around your leg, which might be a sign of affection—maybe even sexy—

but, well… it’s still an esophagus.

(You don’t care. You love it. You’d swallow his entire digestive system if he asked—deeper, wetter, messier).

—HOW THE HELL DOES A SEVERED HEAD HAVE A BETTER SEX LIFE THAN ME?! —James pulls at his hair. —I HAVE ALL MY LIMBS AND LOW STANDARDS!

—–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Meanwhile, on the other side of the arena—Art’s body wobbles a little, arms hanging loose by his sides, awaiting commands from a brain that’s… not there. It stays upright, only reacts and moves through sheer muscle memory—Basically functioning like a zombie.

A puppet of nerves and instinct.

Until he detects movement.

Specifically—Trujilda, stirring at his feet. Still loopy from the chloroform, groggy and mumbling nonsense.

She grabs onto Art’s legs clumsily, trying to find something to help her stand. Her small hands, with long nails scraping against Art’s skin… similar to yours…

Instantly, his body associates this with one thing.

"Woman."

And, naturally, he does exactly what any brainless man does the moment he registers the presence of “woman”. 

He sits down.

Grabs Trujilda.

And puts her across his lap, in the classic “old-school dad punishment” position.

CLAP

The sound of a spanking echoes through the air.

—Aaahh—Trujilda moans, still high as a kite.

CLAP… CLAP

Art’s body keeps spanking her, completely unbothered. He moves like a machine, showing no reaction. Just following his natural impulse, spanking with mindless dedication.

His body moves on instinct—muscle memory at its finest. He’s far too used to your rhythm.

Trujilda keeps moaning, babbling, drooling, her body flopping around like a ragdoll over Art’s lap.

And, obviously, let’s not pretend—He has an erection.

—–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Trujilda’s moans and the sound of spanking reach your ears.

—Oh! Oops… Did you see that, James? —you tease, pointing at them—Looks like your wife is finally finishing what she started. —you laugh—. All it took was a little alone time with Artie, and she threw herself at him. Guess she really wanted it all along, huh? —you love messing with him.

Art and you burst out laughing.

—I’m jealous now, I want a turn too… —you whisper into Art’s ear.

Art wiggles his eyebrows —twice— already picturing all the filthy things he’s going to do to your ass later.

—TRUJILDA, STOP MOANING LIKE A DOG IN HEAT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! —James yells, his face so red it looks like he’s about to explode, the vein on his forehead bulging like a damn river—. STOP HIM! —he orders you.

Art and you exchange looks. 

Both of you raising a single eyebrow, completely baffled by James’ request.

—HIM?! —you reply sarcastically— She’s the one throwing her ass in his face… —you glance down at Art’s head in your hands— Uh… well, technically, in his neck.

Art bursts out laughing.

You’ve had your fun.---It’s time to end James’ suffering.

You take control of the situation.

You walk toward James, smiling, swinging Art’s head like a weapon at your side onze more.

—No… No… No… —James pleads—. We’ll leave, I swear!

—And where exactly do you think you’re going? —you ask.

—We’ll move far, far away from here… —he laughs nervously, still backing away, trembling.

—That’s what I like to hear… —you continue walking.

—We won’t tell a soul. We’ll leave you alone forever; just let as go, please… this stays between us. —he lifts his pinky in a pinky promise.

—That’s what I want to hear. —You nod—. Now, you’re gonna grab your family… and you’re gonna get the hell out of here.

—YES! YES! Absolutely! —he clutches his chest, dramatically—.Thank you… Oh, thank you!

Art sticks out his tongue mocking how pathetic he sounds.

—See how soft he gets when he’s put in his place, babe? He’s basically a chihuahua. —you say to Art.

You both laugh.

James, taking advantage of your momentary distraction—

Runs.

But oh… James.

God has other plans.

In the blink of an eye, James finds himself falling off the cliff.

PLAF

He plummets into the cursed abyss, as if he had tripped over something invisible.

—AAAAAAHHHHH—he falls like a cartoon character.

He tumbles down dramatically.

—AAAAAHHHHH—he keeps screaming, even though he’s already on the ground...

Well… more like inside a pot.

—SPECIAL DISH! —a sausage-faced chef spins around, multiple arms holding different kitchen utensils (Knives, a blender, salt, a frying pan with boiling oil).

—You can’t make an omelet…—his egg-faced assistant mutters—, without BREAKING a few eggs. —crushes two eggs in his fist, yolk and shell dripping between his fingers.

—Ugh… Another one? — says an obese clown in the kitchen—. Well, at least this one looks juicy.

—TRUJILDAAAAA! —James wails like a little bitch, realizing his fate.

Meanwhile, back on solid ground— the most effortlessly cool man in the universe lies calm.

—Idiot... —the vagabond mutters.

He was perfectly camouflaged with his ragged coat and wild hair—If not for the smell of food and wine, he’d be completely undetectable.

He had been hiding in the bushes, tripping James at the perfect moment.

—Hey, Art… You still going through with our bet of not brushing teeth? —he says.

Art stares at him in silence, then smiles—very, very slowly. His smile shines… but for all the wrong reasons.

—That’s my boy. —He pops a mint into his mouth and…—Ha ha ha! You fell for it! —He spits the mint out—.YEEEAH!

You have no idea who this guy is. And frankly, you don’t care.

Art and you exchange looks.

Art blows a raspberry at James in the pit, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the situation.

"What a way to go."

You glance at Art’s body on the other side of the abyss.

Trujilda has gotten up and is now fleeing from the headless body, which is desperately trying to hug her and grind up against her like a needy dog.

Eventually, it gets tired of chasing her— So it just kicks her in the ass, sending her flying face-first into the Clown Café.

—JAMEEESSS! —she screams.

She lands in a swimming pool full of cereal.

A child with pure white eyes emerges, grinning.

—Look! I found a balloon shaped like a snake! —he says.

Trujilda forces a disgusted smile.

The balloon immediately morphs into a real snake and lunges at her.

—JAAAAMEEESGLUGLUGLU— she gurgles, sinking into the milk mid-scream.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You turn to Art’s body, which is standing there, literally like a headless chicken. Just existing. He's standing there, not knowing what to do, staring into nothing, thinking about… nothing, of course.

Art gestures with his pupils toward the "CIRCUS" sign on the ground. Somehow, it looks brand new.

You crouch down to pick it up and hold it in your arms.

—Should I throw it at him? —you ask.

Art nods, moving his pupils up and down.

You throw the sign at Art’s body—like a boomerang. The body senses the movement and catches it automatically when it hits the ground.

It disappears…

—Wait… what? —you mutter, wondering where it went.

And then—it appears right next to you.

—Ooooh! So that’s what it was for.—you laugh… but you still have no idea how he did it.

Art rolls his eyes: 

“Of course, girl…”

The hole suddenly closes— just as fast as it had opened.

For a moment, it almost sounds like it burps. It seems to have accepted its sacrifice. And now, it’s satisfied.

You approach Art’s body, about to reattach his head, but you realize—yeah, you’re gonna need duct tape for this one.

You hand his own head back to him. He holds it at belly level, like he’s cradling a bag of potatoes.

—Mmmmmm, hey Art— you ask your boyfriend’s severed head— What do you think is gonna happen to them down there?

Art furrows his brows.

He rests a hand on his chin and makes a deep thinking face—as if to say:

"I’ll think about it later."

—Guess you could say they’re finally… happily settled? —you laugh at your own joke.

Art’s body does a little happy hop, clearly approving.

It enthusiastically nods Art’s head up and down—let’s be real, if his stomach were still connected, he would’ve thrown up at least three times tonight.

His pupils swirl around in their sockets like a cartoon character.

You decide to take his head back into your arms, cradling it like a baby.

You kiss him on the lips.

Instantly, his body reacts.

A —very prominent bulge—, forms in his pants.

—Oh! He felt the kiss! —Art never ceases to amaze you.

You can’t help but glance at his decapitated body–which, let’s not forget, is still shirtless.

—Damn, you look sexy like this —you murmur, licking your lips.

Your hand trails down his abs, appreciating every inch of his lean muscles—but you stop right before reaching his very obvious boner —it twitches.

Art blushes.

He definitely felt that.

“There’s clearly a connection between you two,” you think, smirking.

—Time to go home, guys, —you announce—. It’s late, and we deserve some rest. This has been one hell of a ride.

And with that, you, and both halves of your boyfriend, walk back home to your sweet little haven.

One hand holding Art’s body’s hand, the other hand holding his head.

—I love you so much, Art. —you sigh, full of affection.

His body lifts your hand to his lips to kiss your hand, just like he always does when you tell him you love him.

Of course, this time… there is no head above his shoulders. No lips to kiss your hand.

—I get it, —you tell his head, chuckling—.This is proof that you love me with your heart, mind, and body.

Art flutters his lashes, smiling. 

"You make me lose my head," he thinks, laughing to himself.

Without a doubt, no one would ever set foot on Clown Street again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you liked it.

And yes — Sister Beatrice and the vagabond are the Clown Café characters from Terrifier 2.

If Damien’s not gonna develop his characters… then I will.

If I ever end up making Chapter 4 (wink wink), I apologize in advance, because that's gonna be so deliciously nasty, in the best way possible.

Here you got the 2 other chapters:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/777377407333171200/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt2-the-real-state?source=share (Part 2)

[chill4234]

Things that I know.

1. Yaoi is the opposite of yuri

2. According to tumblr, yuri seems to be just about anything, but I have most commonly seen it take the form of two inanimate objects in close proximity to one another. Eg minecraft furnace and crafting table, trains crashing into each other, etc.

Therefore, we can conclude that Yaoi is two inanimate objects that are very far apart from each other. The sun and the earth are yaoi.

[pandamonyum]

I think one of the new arcanists in 2.6 should be a penguin. Who's a scientist. And has references to The Thing.

[quatregats]

I love going on the TTTE Wiki, you learn something new every day <3

[hero-of-the-wolf]

people who put spoiler warnings on decades old games I appreciate you so much

[autisticrosewilson]

First of all, you have given me so much to work with, thank you so much. Second of all, I’m really glad you could see where I was going with Grant’s real test not actually being about killing Slade. Third of all, I absolutely love what you’ve suggested with the powers and I am currently designing met gala esque outfits for the trio and Tara’s specifically is really fun to play around with. I’ve been thinking to show they’re becoming more divine I’ll change their hair and eye colours but not their faces for the most part. I was drawing robin Jason with Natalia and decided he should have brown eyes and a crooked nose from breaking it as a kid but once he returns his eyes get weird (eg go blue and occasionally other colours), a patch of his hair went white and he lost all of his scars. Also, I think the closer they get to divinity I’m gonna draw cracks on their body that glow with their specific colours just to hammer home how they’re shedding their mortal forms.

With Tara being able to see the strings of fate, I though it’d be fun to give her a harp and then with Jason having the see no evil trait I thought it’d be fun to give him weighing scales since lady justice wears a blindfold. Idk what to give Grant though. I mean probably a weapon of some sort or maybe a Shepard’s crook that he can turn into a scythe to play into the sheep, wolf, Hunter thing.

With Jason and Tara’s splintering, I love the idea of them making fun of Grant for being the baby god. He hasn’t even had a cult yet, gosh he’s so young. Also them being besties just holds a special place in my heart.

And I just came up with this, of course they have parallels to the trinity but in universe rumours of their existence have been around much longer than Bruce, Clark and Diana. They’re the big three of the justice league but these guys are justice gods. So they start calling themselves the justice trinity but then people get confused about which trinity is which because the justice leagues’ trinity sounds awfully close to the justice gods’ trinity. The new all caste is certainly more distinctive branding but the point isn’t to be distinctive, it’s to be petty.

I'm so glad my unmedicated rambling helped!!! And I'm so excited for the outfits!!! I love when characters start becoming less and less human, when they're stuck in that uncanny valley spot of not quite human but not entirely Other, when they lose control and the cracks start to show...um I should probably give a warning for slight body horror elements. Not in the gore sense, in the "this body is not made of flesh and there is something divine clawing it's way out". Uh also there are teeth. Just. Teeth. I dipped into a little bit of cosmic horror at the end there because I wanted to cover my bases with mixed mythologies

Jason, with his defined splinters, is usually depicted with three faces in ancient texts. The Child, gaunt and dark colored, is said to appear before the downtrodden and impoverished. The few stories remaining tell of kindly people who give him an offering, and in exchange he reveals his true form, with his crown of golden ivy and beautiful strong wings to gift them bounties of food and water and riches. Other stories tell of not so kind encounters, where The Child witnesses an injustice - typically against women or children - and again reveals his true form, one with clawed hands and a mouth dripping with blood. Scholars argue what the wings looked like, but whichever All-Caste member annotated it before has compared their likeness to either a Robin or a Shrike.

There's also The Ghost, He appears young at first glance, but his hair is wirey and gray, his eyes milky and unseeing, in bloodied armor he greets the souls of the damned as they're delivered to him, and with scarred hands he wipes the tears of children taken too soon. Accounts of this face are few and far between, but all of them are entrenched in sorrow.

Finally there is The Soldier, scarred and still smoking from the ruins of battle he emerges, giving voice to the weak and resources to the needy. He champions revolutionaries and philosophers first, a strategist who delights in the liberation of the people from corrupt systems. Accounts of him usually come from times of famine and war, and he was particularly popular with poor villages, who would mark the graves of their dead with the symbol of his sword as offerings. For some reason or other, he got particularly popular with the youth, girls and boys both seemed to pray for him and leave him offerings.

The way these manifest on Jason is subtle at first. I could go the body horror route, but I won't. Yet. Instead I think his splinters show up as reflections, shadows, imprints. The faint echo of bell-like laughter when Jason does a move he learned as Robin, the image of a younger him with longer hair and unblinking eyes staring at him in the mirror. It gets worse when he gets the blades, the white streaks his hair, the swirling mark covers more of his skin every time he uses them, he trails the scent of smoke and blood behind him like a signature. His scars...they should disappear. They have for everyone else who used the pit, but instead his skin starts cracking. Any place he's ever been scarred glowing cracks break up his skin. He can't feel them, but he's always aware of them, the meaning behind them, the divinity literally leaking through his body. His eyes aren't brown anymore. They aren't even green. He looks in the mirror and they are copper, molten and burning. He tries his best to keep his mask on.

What do you think of when you imagine the word divinity? Probably something like Tara. Something with skin carved from stone, with moss and fungus crawling up her legs and snow laden shoulders. They say her hair is made of swirling clouds and the sun and moon are her eyes.

Some say she's a nymph although no one knows what kind. You're just as likely to see her name among the naiads as the dryads. Whether flowers bloom where she dances or waves crash when she sings, she's known to be more vicious towards suitors than her sisters.

Others have said she's a faerie, who takes the faces of lost daughters and lovers, slipping into their places seamlessly, forcing unruly men to pay their dues. Others say she's a shifter of a different sort, with a shawl of feathers and a crown of twine and gems. Stories range from men trying to steal her coat (and paying dearly) to lost children returned safely home on the back of a swan.

Tara doesn't think about it at first, the way gravity tends to cede to her, she doesn't notice how sunflowers turn their faces towards her instead of the sun. She doesn't notice the way her face...shifts. it's imperceptible really, and it's not like she looks in the mirror all that often. But everyone around her notices it, on some level, the way her expressions are off. A little too exaggerated. The way her limbs bend just a little too oddly. The way she never looks quite the same as she did the day before, the way she picks up features from the people around her the way she picks up rocks from ground to add to her collection. Clay molded subtly into the image of those she loves, a museum of everyone she's ever met. She does notice when her hair starts going white at the ends, the strange way her hair starts to curl unnaturally, almost floating. She's not so upset about her eyes, the deep blue of her father that has glared down at her day after day, she has changed her hair, her face, her language but she could not change her eyes. It seems she didn't have to, when she wakes up with one a little too silver to be gray and one a little too gold to be brown. And then her skin starts splitting, a cavern made from a broken rib and ravines made by the slashing of knives. She doesn't even bleed anymore, they never scab over. They crystallize, amber like ambrosia, like ichor. Her body a geode waiting to be cracked open to let the thing within finally break free.

They know the least about Grant, whatever he used to be. Half written scrolls, torn or burnt or simply stopped abruptly, illegible journal entries with symbols never recorded in any known language, half finished sketches where the details are never quite clear. A few things are usually consistent though, signs that he's been there, usually from hunters down on their luck or the particularly old and sickly. First, the howling. Like a wolf or a storm, although later accounts would add that it occasionally sounds like a mechanical whirring. Then the rabbits, dead and gutted, but not a trace of blood. Piles of them left in heaps on doorsteps or windowsills. Some have reported knocking at strange hours or finding teeth in their homes, a mix of human and animal. There is one photo on record, the most recent thing in the archive most likely, of claw marks on the side of a barn, too big and oddly serrated, certainly not from anything native to the area. Elderly that report these phenomena typically pass from heart problems within the week, according to some of the old medical files.

Grant came back wrong. Physically, at least. He knows that he's still himself for the most part, dying didn't make him a selfish asshole he did that all on his own, but...but something is wrong with him. It's the way lightbulbs flicker when he's mad and how cameras, no matter the quality, never quite get a clear shot of him. The way Joey can't ever grasp his features, not fully, the details slipping from his mind like water. The way eyes on his face slide right past, unable to look directly at him. It's in the gray spreading from his roots and his eyes too wide and dark to belong to something human. It's the way death clings to him like a second skin, sickly and pallid turning the tips of his fingers gray. His teeth are starting to feel too sharp for his mouth, and he hears things no one else does, whispers of voices that Are Not and Can't Be. The worst part is the orange, liquid candlelight under his skin, lighting up all of his veins and scars, webbing together like the world's worst game of connect the dots. No, there is no mistaking him for something human, so there is no reason to try. If this is his fate then he will take it, because he is not a sheep and he will not be a wolf, he is a hunter, and he is hungry.

[euclydya]

sjsjxjajdhxjajfxjxncf

[smoshidiot]

Just wanted to check in. How are you and the other smoshcord mods doing?

we're doing alright, i think. i probably took the news the worst and had a bit of an embarrassing mental breakdown yesterday, but i'm trying to rethink things and be a lil more optimistic

[tricoufamily]

i wanted to make sims w a new cas lighting but i didn't like the cas lighting so. former gen 2 heir you never got to see. then the game crashed

[acaciapines]

every day im like “once i get through arc one of the owl house daemon au editing is going to be so easy.” and then i remember the countless small things that add up and up and up. yall i need to make the bat queen relevant.

[anti-dazai-blog]

Got the most baffling ask from [redacted] about an hour ago saying that I should “stop judging Dazai for past actions” and I’m still thinking about it.

What. what does that mean.

[jacksintention]

I can't with the previous post. It's just so good applied to Levi, Lacie, Oswald and even Jack.

Levi has his hands tied by the Baskerville system that is a sort of scam by the Jurors‚ like every Glen. But he says "let's just create a change" and gives a will to the Core. And he does so with the full intention of changing the narrative, if just to avoid the boredom of spending eternity watching the same thing happen over and over again from a sit in someone else's mind.

Lacie goes along with it because of her desire to ease the Core's loneliness, but in her idea of the children of misfortune being a consequence of this loneliness and her feelings of doubt or reservations, perhaps, revealed even before the tree scene in the scene in which she talks about this with Oswald, we could interpret this as her desire to end the existence of the children of misfortune and thus the cycle.

Jack plays into this in his attempt to take the "real" world to the "Abyss" world, but when he most consciously twists the narrative the Jurors had settled was when he intently made the decision to take the power from the Baskervilles. And I do think it has to do with ending the very system that doomed Lacie and Oswald and he deemed cruel and like torture, but mainly it is so that no one would interfere with him in the future.

Oswald tries to destroy the new narrative Jack has or is creating first by trying to stop him, but later on by trying to stop Levi's schemes before everything happened, resettling the narrative he was controlled and doomed by, serving still as their tool. And then he literally faces the truth, in the most explicitly way no one ever has been told this in that "real" world before, and threatens to kill the instigators of that narrative. And then just renounces, in a lack of action that is him at his most active ("not with a bang but a whimper", how fitting is that?!!!).

Ultimately there is a middle ground but the narrative is changed for good. For better or worse. With uncertain future consequences. But it is changed, and it feels kinder. And as a thank you the source of every narrative, the ink and paper of the narrative, lulls someone who shouldn't have existed but changed the world to sleep by telling him a different story. Because that's it. They're stories, and Oz deserved to go with a kinder one, because the ink and paper of the narrative loves him. And it's so interesting how that works metanarratively too. The author tells the story, but the author tells the reader a story about the stroy telling a softer version of the story, so that the reader too will get it alongside Oz. That works on several levels and it's so so interesting.

[katyspersonal]

Movies should return to looking like cheap theatre plays

I feel like the biggest problem with the decline of quality of the movies is capitalism. I mean, obviously, but I just want to talk about it a bit. The huge problem with the movies is that they cannot be treated like a usual job; a company that creates them HAS to show the positive dynamics in profiting - more money with every next year. So they can convince their investors to stay and still pay them. Because otherwise they might not have enough money to MAKE more movies!

That’s why the quality of the products is dropping - to lessen the production costs. That’s why you often can see the case of ‘but this is a completely original story, it did not NEED the name of [popular brand] to be attached to it’ - to sell more tickets, because investors decided that original concept would not bring as much money (the recent animated movie about Buzz Lightyear off the top of my head. Same with endless reboots that are so tone-deaf to the original it’d be more honest to just make new universe and characters entirely.

Like... in a way, making movies is just a job like others. It is entertainment at least, education at most. Except it isn’t because people that make the movies cannot simply earn stable amount of money every year or god forbid earn less than the previous year. Studies just have to violate beloved and classic franchises and violate the art as a concept just to keep existing- I mean, Disney is the quickest examples of severe decline in quality I can recall. And like, I still think nerfing Strange World with a complete absence of advertising had to be a planned sabotage. Like a somewhat expensive way to gaslight people that ‘hey, you see, new and original universes do not sell well, we constantly make reboots or force [brand] into irrelevant stories not because we want to, but because people ONLY buy that :)))))))’

And like? The alternative is if government was to fund the movies (kind of the case in my country). And that, of course, means heavy censorship and involving propaganda of the ideas that the government wants to spread, so yet again, movies cannot be a truly free form of art.

I do not really see any legit way to escape the loop of movies being very troubled as art, because people need money to make them. If investors pay for them - they’ll be garbage and constantly torment popular brands with whatever they think is cool these days instead of telling original and interesting stories, if government pays for them - they’ll be infected with propaganda and only “approved” ideas and stories will make it through.

The only at least somewhat optimistic way out I personally see is to drop the visual quality bar very low. Like... to come back to shitty cameras, environments made out of tinfoil and wallpaper (seeing this in Star Trek TOS), very shitty low polygon CGI... all that. Because it will cut the production costs a LOT but crappy visual quality will NOT be able to ruin the good story, interesting concepts and well-written characters that’s what. The worst crappy visuals will do is to create a lot of memes in the internet - and that is even GOOD because it can draw a lot of attention. Investment of simple rich guys that want to be even richer feels like lesser evil when it comes to the movies than government funding because of lacking censorship and propaganda; companies and individual studios can do whatever they want as long as it will bring STONKS! Art must be free in expression and what it wants to tell.

But the visuals at this rate feel like a useless leech because people need to justify before the investors that the astronomical money they’ll give will pay off. And why they’re astronomical? Right, because they need the most realistic CGI and the coolest assets.

I just... I think most people can agree that ‘pretty picture’ is not only not everything there is, but also the lowest priority. People would, in fact, look at awful animation or crappy effects as long as they are being told exciting, meaningful, or simply fun story. Basically, what is making movies worse is the same shit that puts even us, simple visual artists and writers, into lasting creative block; once a masterpiece is created, it raises the bar to this level, so now everything else has to be not worse, preferably better, but it is not EVERY time a masterpiece can be created. If anything, it might be once in a lifetime deal.

TLDR; I think movies should return to looking crappy so the original, interesting, eccentric ideas do not scare the investors away with demanding too much money, because at least this way new stories will more likely see the light. And won’t have to cheat by just slapping names of a previously known brand over completely unique and new story that we’re all sick of. Visual quality is just the lowest priority, so if something to cut production costs it can only be this.

[catcatb0y]

I ran out of tag... (It's mostly like two things that end up becoming annoyingly intertwined the more the series goes on). He was only powerful when it was convenient to the power scaling, which led to him being constantly put in otherwise intensely traumatizing victim situations solely to spur the main character into saving him no matter the cost. Which normally would have only furthered his unrealistic inferiority complex (and also his fear of weakness as well as distaste for weak people given how many people VICTIM BLAMED HIM, which you'd think would only confirm his fucking bias??) which OOPS was made into a... realistic inferiority complex?? Somehow solely to show that the MC somehow managed to grow past the underdog he never fucking was, and since the fans adored this, that became his only character! Yeah, somehow THAT was his big character growth...

He went from a complex, morally grey character to UwU empty ship fodder, and the fans of the series ate it up SO much that one of the main villains (one of the only people who genuinely acknowledged the strength and horrible treatment of my silly guy) telling him 'You're useless actually, I just want to kill you to make that other kid sad lol-' is seen as his PEAK. That. That's his peak. That's the "good ol days" the shipdom romantacizes. A villain poking at his weakness and deepest insecurity is somehow the canonizing moment of the ship (and it doesn't even happen, MC gets mad at his best friend's death for three seconds and then effortlessly kicks the villain's ass, as like the shittiest cherry on top) < it only gets worse from there!

I was also a shipper back in the day, and, in hindsight, I really should have seen the whole shitshow coming, but unfortunately I went on to dedicate six years to this hyperfixation that continues to haunt me three years after I attempted to quit the fandom cold turkey. It didn't even work.

reblog this with one canon thing you dislike / think is flawed about your blorbo and/or the way they were written

[drchucktingle]

the curve

somehow ive found myself in a position where folks come to chuck in times of strife for encouragement. lets get the big part of this conversation out of the way LOVE IS STILL REAL and that is the thing to remember. that north star remains. today there is more to talk about though

existence pushes towards love community and freedom, because CREATION is what we were built to do and creation thrives with these things as fuel. IT GETS BETTER. LOVE IS REAL. however this change comes in up and down waves. its not a straight line and should not be expected to be

some of these waves are short and small, and some of the slopes are years or decades long. there is no mincing words here, we are entering a massive downward wave. the implications are huge and it is okay to mourn that. FEEL THOSE FEELINGS. it is an important part of the ride

the most telling sign post on our slope is this: tromp won the popular vote (or likely will when the votes are done). we can talk POLITICAL STRATEGY all day about electoral college or who should court the center or the left and on and on but ultimately THIS is the real story

to me it signals a TRUE cultural shift. likely conservatives will have presidency, senate, house, and supreme court. WHAT A GIANT SLOPE. HOLD THE HECK ON because we will be riding it for a while, deep into the pit of the void. hold your buds tight, prove love at the local level

but heres the thing, MASSIVE waves have happened before. theyll happen again. mind numbing slopes into the abyss and great soaring leaps into the sky. in fact the inertia almost ALWAYS causes them to happen right after each other. hippies or punks back in the day, buckaroos now

politically we were trapped in a basically fifty fifty trot for a long time, but it was not always like this (just look at old election maps what the heck). to be honest, tromps map looks like one of those old maps right now. and DANG did COUNTER MOVEMENTS blooms from those times

in other words, THERE WILL BE A COUNTER CULTURE MOVEMENT THAT WE HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IN OUR LIFETIMES. you are now a rebel for the resistance and the wave that will swing back towards love will awe us in ways we cannot even imagine yet.

but for now, feel those feelings, mourn, prove love, stay safe. do not let the hope i am espousing feel like a distraction from the very real, even deadly consequences of the terrible pit we are plummeting into. it is a horrible day, and FUTURE HOPE does not diminish that, BUT

get ready because that counter culture wave is coming and YOU are a part of it. if you want to shout HECK OFF DEVILS then shout it LOUD, if you want to cry then cry HARD, if you want to love then love with your WHOLE HEART. thats the start of the movement that we dont know yet

when that movement takes shape we will feel the inertia of the curve and it may make us sick from the rollercoaster turn, and that pressure will be uncomfortable and scary, but THEN buckaroo, we will soar, and ill be so dang glad to be holding on tight with you when we do

[amtrak12]

Trying to make a list of all the exciting reveals/plot points still to come in my Lucifer fic so people won't be too disappointed when I tell them I'm moving to one chapter/month for the summer -- and instead I'm just getting grumpy that I can't click a menu in my brain and export the ideas into a fully written story 😑